hillwalker
05-05-2011, 11:55 AM
HOMEWORK
Harry flamin’ Potter! He’s got a lot to answer for.
To begin with, everybody thinks that kids who study Magic in school are the same as him and his swotty pals. Well, listen up. We don’t all go to some posh boarding school, eat banquets every night and wear those poncey black cloaks all the time. And Quidditch? I mean, who plays Quidditch in Wolverhampton? There’s more chance of catching us playing Croquet. You’d get your head kicked in if anybody saw you carrying a broomstick on our estate anyway. And my dad says the nearest I’ll get to floating up in the air is working one of them hover-mowers for the council like him.
So no. Forget Hogwarts. The real world is nothing like that.
The “Stan Cullis Comprehensive” is the same as every other secondary school in Britain in the 21st century I should think. Boring, grey concrete buildings with huge, aluminium-framed windows. Baking hot in summer. Freezing cold in winter. Corridors scuff-marked and smelling of disinfectant. Classrooms crammed with rickety desks and crappy chairs. I always end up with one that’s got half of its back slats missing. And don’t even mention the state of the loos.
Our football pitch isn’t much better. It’s got more bald patches than Steve McClaren. It’s a wonder our team manages to play on it at all.
I’ll be honest with you. I hate the place. Like most of the kids here do. But I wouldn’t want to be stuck inside somewhere like Hogwarts. There’d be no excuse for not doing my homework with all them snooty teachers lurking around all hours of day and night.
I’m going to be a professional footballer when I leave school so I don’t really need to study that much. I got a D minus on my last report for Magical Sciences but an A plus for Sports. Top marks at what I enjoy doing most, so everything’s going to turn out fine.
Except that our new headmistress, Ms Rowling, announced last December that she won’t be giving references to anyone who doesn’t put a proper effort into their schoolwork.
No reference = no football apprenticeship.
Dad said I could always end up working for the Council like him – sweeping the streets (with a brush of course – no broomsticks, remember) or cutting the grass at the park. But who wants to do that for the rest of their life?
So I decided to make a special effort since I’ve only got two terms left before my 13th birthday. My English and Maths are already good enough for me to get by once I escape into the outside world – reading the sports pages and counting my wages. And I’m ok at Alchemistry and Physick. It’s just Spellology I’m not so hot on – and to get my Magical Sciences Diploma I need a pass in all three.
So that’s why I’m sitting here in my bedroom now trying to conjure up a Beeble.
One of Mrs Greerson’s pet projects. She’s very much into freedom of expression. Doesn’t agree with most of the stuff you find in the text books. She’d rather let everybody be creative – and in this case we were expected to create our own Moonster. Just pocket-sized, obviously. Otherwise Health and Safety would be calling round at the school yet again. Like they did when Mr Morris changed an entire class of first formers into frogs and couldn’t get them to transmute back again.
He was suspended for six months and the Education Committee got sued for thousands of pounds.
Anyway – back to this week’s homework. I’d been struggling with it for ages on Sunday afternoon – almost missed the Chelsea-Luton kick off at four o’clock because I couldn’t get the colour of the mixture quite right. It’s supposed to be bright yellow but mine was more greenish. Then last night I didn’t manage to finish it because I’d promised mum I’d take Tash to the park for a walk after school. It’s my sister’s dog but she’s away at the moment. Six months for shop-lifting. Daft really because she’s got a Diploma in Legerdemain. Why the hell she didn’t use that, God knows.
So it’s Tuesday evening, six fifteen, and we’ve got double Spellology after morning break tomorrow. We’re always expected to hand our homework in as soon as we walk into class. There’s a cage by the door. Static-proof obviously.
Billy Shaw had let me copy part of his formula for Groogers – because Ellie FitzHarold reckons all you have to do is use chilli powder instead of table salt and you’ve got yourself a Beeble.
The trouble is I’m not very good at practical things like measuring liquids and weighing condiments. So I was stood there with mum’s mixing bowl on top of my bed, a wooden spatula and a pair of oven gloves. I was wearing goggles as well just to be on the safe side because sometimes Beebles can spit when they’re transforming. But I’d only used half the amount of chilli powder you’re supposed to, and I’d not given the mixture much of a stir. There was no need because it was bubbling away quite merrily anyway.
It smelled bad. Not like rotten eggs. More a combination of sweaty feet and curry.
Dad said I should be doing stuff like that out in the garden shed rather than indoors. He said if anything went wrong, like a fire or an explosion, the house insurance wouldn’t cover it. He was more concerned about losing his precious QVD collection than losing his one and only son.
I know that some of the books say DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME. But where else are we supposed to do our homework? And what’s the point of learning Spellology unless you can put it into practice?
My uncle Fred’s garden centre is making a bomb from his own home-grown garden gnomes. He found the instructions on the back of an old packet of fertilizer about 60 years past its sell by date. Of course, they curse a bit because he forgot to give them beards. And they don’t like frost. Get really nasty and abusive, I tell you. One of them bit the rep who called round trying to sell dragon repellent. Left him with a huge banana-shaped scar on his right buttock.
But Beebles are fairly placid. Normally.
Except, of course, for this one. I should have remembered that thing about there being an S in the month. Moonsters are at their most volatile in the summer apparently. And since nothing much seemed to be happening I added a load more methylated spirit. About a quarter of a squig.
I know. It should have been mentholated spirit. But how was I to know? Billy Shaw’s writing is worse than my scrawl.
When it was time to go downstairs for my tea I decided to leave the bowl there on my bed – sizzling away gently. If I spilt any of it on mum’s stair carpet I’d get a leathering. I thought it would be fine for another hour. Beebles are no different to any other Moonsters – they’re lazy slobs that lie about all the time belching and farting so this one would be happy enough to just vegetate if it arrived before I uttered the magic words. ‘Algorithms’.
But this one had other ideas. So it was a bit of a shock when I finally went back upstairs to get ready for bed and found my bed had disappeared. My bed, duvet, pillows, mattress and blankets. All gone. There was even a gap where my bedside cupboard had been, and something had chewed a hole in the carpet.
I slipped on my goggles and looked inside the mixing bowl. Sh1t. It was empty apart from a horrible, green skid-mark.
As for the Beeble, I couldn’t see it anywhere. They’re not much bigger than squirrels – with a snout like a fox, ears like a rabbit and four eyes instead of two. Some of them can turn themselves inside out at will, apparently. That’s what they do when they over-feed. But, hell. The entire contents of a guy’s bedroom. How could something that small eat so much? And where was it now?
Then I heard the hangers clattering inside my wardrobe. One of the doors was open because it never shuts properly. I reached for my trusty baseball bat and tried to open the door gently. I needn’t have bothered.
Whoosh.
Whatever was hiding in there took a chunk out of it as if it was a stick of French bread.
I couldn’t handle this on my own. I dashed back downstairs and told mum and dad we had a problem.
Dad was never much good at anything to do with magic, but mum had all sorts of medals. She had a Grade 5 in Necromancy apparently. Used to perform in the school Christmas concert. So she put on her heavy-duty apron and grabbed an old saucepan.
“Right. Come on, Darren. Show me what you’ve gone and done now.”
Dad had enough sense to keep out of the way. The two of us went upstairs; Tash following mum like a shadow.
“Are you sure it’s a Beeble you’ve got and not a Jubbler? I mean there’s not that much difference.”
No. Except, of course, Jubblers feed all through the night and will eat virtually anything. They don’t call them multivores for nothing.
Was it a Jubbler I’d created by mistake? She opened the door and gasped at the mess. The entire contents of my wardrobe had been shredded and there was a hole in the ceiling.
“Ruddy hell. It’s got up inside the loft. What the hell did you use?”
I muttered something about catmint and castor sugar.
“Mentholated spirit?”
I showed her the bottle.
Slap! My cheek stung with surprise.
“You’re worse than your ruddy dad. Get him up here. Now.”
Of course, by the time dad found the courage to come upstairs mum was no longer there. All that were left were her bedroom slippers. Most of the ceiling was missing as well and you could even see through the loft to a hole in the roof where the creature must have got out. There was rain dripping down one of the walls where all my Wanderers posters were pinned up. I was devastated.
Dad took out his mobile and dialled 666. It took about half an hour for the Dire Brigade to turn up. They stuck a tarpaulin over the roof then started a house to house search for my creation. It didn’t take them long.
Somehow I’d managed to make a Zoxalottle. The first one found in Britain since the Dark Ages according to ‘Midlands Today’. It was all over the News the next morning.
“Local council offices consumed by rampant gerbil.”
Gerbils are the closest species to a Zoxalottle. Imagine a gerbil crossed with an industrial crusher and a Tazmanian Devil. Multiply that by 1000 then shrink it down to the size of a domestic cat.
They had to use tranquilizer rays in the end. As well as some Ferrero Rocher as bait. A bit drastic I know They ended up accidentally knocking out half the residents of Bellside Avenue as well. But they caught it and took it away in a bio-hazard cage. Something to do with reverse electrical charge and negative polarity. That and hazelnut centres seem to keep them under control.
But I was in a mess. Nowhere to sleep and still no homework assignment. Dad was fuming as well. He’d missed ‘Match of the Day Special’ and there was no chance of mum putting in an appearance in time to make him his supper. But it wasn’t until first thing in the morning that I realised the dog was missing as well. I checked the back yard but there was no sign of Tash. But at least I managed to get dad to write me a note for Mrs Greerson.
To who it may concern
Sorry Darren as not done is spells but is homework ate our dog
signed yours truely
Brian Gardenside
H
Harry flamin’ Potter! He’s got a lot to answer for.
To begin with, everybody thinks that kids who study Magic in school are the same as him and his swotty pals. Well, listen up. We don’t all go to some posh boarding school, eat banquets every night and wear those poncey black cloaks all the time. And Quidditch? I mean, who plays Quidditch in Wolverhampton? There’s more chance of catching us playing Croquet. You’d get your head kicked in if anybody saw you carrying a broomstick on our estate anyway. And my dad says the nearest I’ll get to floating up in the air is working one of them hover-mowers for the council like him.
So no. Forget Hogwarts. The real world is nothing like that.
The “Stan Cullis Comprehensive” is the same as every other secondary school in Britain in the 21st century I should think. Boring, grey concrete buildings with huge, aluminium-framed windows. Baking hot in summer. Freezing cold in winter. Corridors scuff-marked and smelling of disinfectant. Classrooms crammed with rickety desks and crappy chairs. I always end up with one that’s got half of its back slats missing. And don’t even mention the state of the loos.
Our football pitch isn’t much better. It’s got more bald patches than Steve McClaren. It’s a wonder our team manages to play on it at all.
I’ll be honest with you. I hate the place. Like most of the kids here do. But I wouldn’t want to be stuck inside somewhere like Hogwarts. There’d be no excuse for not doing my homework with all them snooty teachers lurking around all hours of day and night.
I’m going to be a professional footballer when I leave school so I don’t really need to study that much. I got a D minus on my last report for Magical Sciences but an A plus for Sports. Top marks at what I enjoy doing most, so everything’s going to turn out fine.
Except that our new headmistress, Ms Rowling, announced last December that she won’t be giving references to anyone who doesn’t put a proper effort into their schoolwork.
No reference = no football apprenticeship.
Dad said I could always end up working for the Council like him – sweeping the streets (with a brush of course – no broomsticks, remember) or cutting the grass at the park. But who wants to do that for the rest of their life?
So I decided to make a special effort since I’ve only got two terms left before my 13th birthday. My English and Maths are already good enough for me to get by once I escape into the outside world – reading the sports pages and counting my wages. And I’m ok at Alchemistry and Physick. It’s just Spellology I’m not so hot on – and to get my Magical Sciences Diploma I need a pass in all three.
So that’s why I’m sitting here in my bedroom now trying to conjure up a Beeble.
One of Mrs Greerson’s pet projects. She’s very much into freedom of expression. Doesn’t agree with most of the stuff you find in the text books. She’d rather let everybody be creative – and in this case we were expected to create our own Moonster. Just pocket-sized, obviously. Otherwise Health and Safety would be calling round at the school yet again. Like they did when Mr Morris changed an entire class of first formers into frogs and couldn’t get them to transmute back again.
He was suspended for six months and the Education Committee got sued for thousands of pounds.
Anyway – back to this week’s homework. I’d been struggling with it for ages on Sunday afternoon – almost missed the Chelsea-Luton kick off at four o’clock because I couldn’t get the colour of the mixture quite right. It’s supposed to be bright yellow but mine was more greenish. Then last night I didn’t manage to finish it because I’d promised mum I’d take Tash to the park for a walk after school. It’s my sister’s dog but she’s away at the moment. Six months for shop-lifting. Daft really because she’s got a Diploma in Legerdemain. Why the hell she didn’t use that, God knows.
So it’s Tuesday evening, six fifteen, and we’ve got double Spellology after morning break tomorrow. We’re always expected to hand our homework in as soon as we walk into class. There’s a cage by the door. Static-proof obviously.
Billy Shaw had let me copy part of his formula for Groogers – because Ellie FitzHarold reckons all you have to do is use chilli powder instead of table salt and you’ve got yourself a Beeble.
The trouble is I’m not very good at practical things like measuring liquids and weighing condiments. So I was stood there with mum’s mixing bowl on top of my bed, a wooden spatula and a pair of oven gloves. I was wearing goggles as well just to be on the safe side because sometimes Beebles can spit when they’re transforming. But I’d only used half the amount of chilli powder you’re supposed to, and I’d not given the mixture much of a stir. There was no need because it was bubbling away quite merrily anyway.
It smelled bad. Not like rotten eggs. More a combination of sweaty feet and curry.
Dad said I should be doing stuff like that out in the garden shed rather than indoors. He said if anything went wrong, like a fire or an explosion, the house insurance wouldn’t cover it. He was more concerned about losing his precious QVD collection than losing his one and only son.
I know that some of the books say DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME. But where else are we supposed to do our homework? And what’s the point of learning Spellology unless you can put it into practice?
My uncle Fred’s garden centre is making a bomb from his own home-grown garden gnomes. He found the instructions on the back of an old packet of fertilizer about 60 years past its sell by date. Of course, they curse a bit because he forgot to give them beards. And they don’t like frost. Get really nasty and abusive, I tell you. One of them bit the rep who called round trying to sell dragon repellent. Left him with a huge banana-shaped scar on his right buttock.
But Beebles are fairly placid. Normally.
Except, of course, for this one. I should have remembered that thing about there being an S in the month. Moonsters are at their most volatile in the summer apparently. And since nothing much seemed to be happening I added a load more methylated spirit. About a quarter of a squig.
I know. It should have been mentholated spirit. But how was I to know? Billy Shaw’s writing is worse than my scrawl.
When it was time to go downstairs for my tea I decided to leave the bowl there on my bed – sizzling away gently. If I spilt any of it on mum’s stair carpet I’d get a leathering. I thought it would be fine for another hour. Beebles are no different to any other Moonsters – they’re lazy slobs that lie about all the time belching and farting so this one would be happy enough to just vegetate if it arrived before I uttered the magic words. ‘Algorithms’.
But this one had other ideas. So it was a bit of a shock when I finally went back upstairs to get ready for bed and found my bed had disappeared. My bed, duvet, pillows, mattress and blankets. All gone. There was even a gap where my bedside cupboard had been, and something had chewed a hole in the carpet.
I slipped on my goggles and looked inside the mixing bowl. Sh1t. It was empty apart from a horrible, green skid-mark.
As for the Beeble, I couldn’t see it anywhere. They’re not much bigger than squirrels – with a snout like a fox, ears like a rabbit and four eyes instead of two. Some of them can turn themselves inside out at will, apparently. That’s what they do when they over-feed. But, hell. The entire contents of a guy’s bedroom. How could something that small eat so much? And where was it now?
Then I heard the hangers clattering inside my wardrobe. One of the doors was open because it never shuts properly. I reached for my trusty baseball bat and tried to open the door gently. I needn’t have bothered.
Whoosh.
Whatever was hiding in there took a chunk out of it as if it was a stick of French bread.
I couldn’t handle this on my own. I dashed back downstairs and told mum and dad we had a problem.
Dad was never much good at anything to do with magic, but mum had all sorts of medals. She had a Grade 5 in Necromancy apparently. Used to perform in the school Christmas concert. So she put on her heavy-duty apron and grabbed an old saucepan.
“Right. Come on, Darren. Show me what you’ve gone and done now.”
Dad had enough sense to keep out of the way. The two of us went upstairs; Tash following mum like a shadow.
“Are you sure it’s a Beeble you’ve got and not a Jubbler? I mean there’s not that much difference.”
No. Except, of course, Jubblers feed all through the night and will eat virtually anything. They don’t call them multivores for nothing.
Was it a Jubbler I’d created by mistake? She opened the door and gasped at the mess. The entire contents of my wardrobe had been shredded and there was a hole in the ceiling.
“Ruddy hell. It’s got up inside the loft. What the hell did you use?”
I muttered something about catmint and castor sugar.
“Mentholated spirit?”
I showed her the bottle.
Slap! My cheek stung with surprise.
“You’re worse than your ruddy dad. Get him up here. Now.”
Of course, by the time dad found the courage to come upstairs mum was no longer there. All that were left were her bedroom slippers. Most of the ceiling was missing as well and you could even see through the loft to a hole in the roof where the creature must have got out. There was rain dripping down one of the walls where all my Wanderers posters were pinned up. I was devastated.
Dad took out his mobile and dialled 666. It took about half an hour for the Dire Brigade to turn up. They stuck a tarpaulin over the roof then started a house to house search for my creation. It didn’t take them long.
Somehow I’d managed to make a Zoxalottle. The first one found in Britain since the Dark Ages according to ‘Midlands Today’. It was all over the News the next morning.
“Local council offices consumed by rampant gerbil.”
Gerbils are the closest species to a Zoxalottle. Imagine a gerbil crossed with an industrial crusher and a Tazmanian Devil. Multiply that by 1000 then shrink it down to the size of a domestic cat.
They had to use tranquilizer rays in the end. As well as some Ferrero Rocher as bait. A bit drastic I know They ended up accidentally knocking out half the residents of Bellside Avenue as well. But they caught it and took it away in a bio-hazard cage. Something to do with reverse electrical charge and negative polarity. That and hazelnut centres seem to keep them under control.
But I was in a mess. Nowhere to sleep and still no homework assignment. Dad was fuming as well. He’d missed ‘Match of the Day Special’ and there was no chance of mum putting in an appearance in time to make him his supper. But it wasn’t until first thing in the morning that I realised the dog was missing as well. I checked the back yard but there was no sign of Tash. But at least I managed to get dad to write me a note for Mrs Greerson.
To who it may concern
Sorry Darren as not done is spells but is homework ate our dog
signed yours truely
Brian Gardenside
H