How to Train Your Parents Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Arriving in Swotsville

  Mum Behaving Oddly

  The Nightmare Begins

  Enter Maddy

  My Big Chance

  How to Train Your Parents

  My Date with Destiny

  The Worst Day of My Life

  The Parent-training Course

  Running Away to Fame and Fortune

  A Surprise Re-appearance

  When Parents Are Overtrained

  An Amazing Phone Call

  About the Author

  Also by Pete Johnson

  Some things you may not know about Pete Johnson

  Pete’s Favourite Jokes

  Copyright

  About the Book

  They think I’M a big problem. Wrong. THEY are!

  Louis can’t handle it any more. His new school is Swotsville and his mum and dad have fallen into some very bad ways. All they seem to care about now is how well he’s doing at school (answer: not well) and what after-school clubs he wants to join (answer: none!). They’re no longer interested in his jokes (his dream is to be a comedian) and have even nicked the telly out of his bedroom!

  What’s going on? And can new friend Maddy help? For Maddy tells him her parents used to behave equally badly until she trained them. All parents have to be trained – and she knows a foolproof way . . .

  Dedicated with thanks to Jan, Linda,

  Rubin, Adam, Harry, Bill Bloomfield and

  Allison Beynon.

  Arriving in Swotsville

  MONDAY JANUARY 7TH

  I think I’ve arrived somewhere weird.

  Started at my new school today. I was met by this moth-eaten old geezer who said he was the headmaster. He’s about a hundred and eight, has one huge eyebrow and spits a lot. Had to wipe my face down after he’d gone. I was soaked through.

  He told me four times how lucky I was to come to his school and he kept getting my name wrong. It’s Louis, pronounced Lou-ee, not as he said it, Lewis. But I didn’t say anything. I was a bit scared of that eyebrow.

  Next I met my form teacher, Mr Wormold, a helmet-fringed weasel who said he hoped I’d be a credit to the school, but was already looking distinctly doubtful about this.

  Then he introduced me to the class. They all stared at this diddy boy with an onion-shaped head and brown, spiky hair. I got all nervous. Now, whenever I’m nervous I start talking in an Australian accent. So I said to them, ‘G’day to you possums.’ They just gaped at me in silence.

  I sat down next to this boy called Theo. I’d met him briefly the day we moved here. He lives in a massive house at the top of my road.

  He asked me if I was really Australian. ‘Only in the mornings,’ I replied. Not a flicker of a smile crossed his face.

  Looking around the classroom I quickly spotted there weren’t any girls here (I’m observant like that) and although most girls annoy me I do sort of miss seeing them around the place. Also, there were only twenty pupils in the class and that’s not nearly enough. (At my old school there was practically double that number.)

  My first lesson was English. The teacher was giving back some projects from last term and the tension was just incredible. You’d have thought they were all waiting for their lottery results.

  Then at break-time, Theo’s mobile went off. It was, of all people, his dad. He was ringing to see how Theo had got on with his project. Theo had actually got the best grade in the class, A minus.

  ‘Hearing that will put a smile on my dad’s face,’ he said proudly.

  If my dad rang me at school he wouldn’t be smiling for long, I can tell you.

  After school Theo had to rush off because of his French horn lesson. Just about everyone else in my class was beetling off for an extra lesson in something gruesome.

  Have I landed in Swotsville, dear diary?

  TUESDAY JANUARY 8TH

  Advantages of moving here:

  1) My bedroom hasn’t got that funny cheesy smell which my old one had. This is because I don’t have to share with a loathsome, whiny midget called Elliot any more.

  2) That’s it.

  Disadvantages of moving here:

  1) I wasn’t consulted. Last November my relics just announced we’re moving closer to London, as Dad had been offered this new job right out of the blue. ‘It’s the chance of a lifetime,’ he announced. ‘And at my advanced age too,’ he added, as a sort of joke. And that was it. He didn’t even bother to ask if I’d mind moving hundreds of miles away.

  2) I’d lived at my old house all my life (twelve whole years) and really didn’t want to leave.

  3) I hated leaving all my old mates behind.

  4) Every day at my new school lasts for three centuries.

  5) Laughing is against the law there.

  6) I’m only at that school because Dad’s new boss is very chummy with one of the governors. My parents don’t know that I overheard them saying all this.

  7) I feel dead lonely.

  8) Too depressing to list any more.

  WEDNESDAY JANUARY 9TH

  The neighbours here are a right misery. After school this afternoon I was playing a game of footie by myself in the back garden, when the woman next door rang up to complain about all the noise I was making. She said I was stopping Olympia from concentrating on her work.

  Olympia’s five years old!

  THURSDAY JANUARY 10TH

  Theo’s a wet weed.

  He always looks as if his parents have just washed and ironed him. And I know he can’t help that. But he talks all the time in this quiet, whispery voice, is dead serious about everything and has no sense of humour at all (in other words, he doesn’t laugh at any of my jokes).

  Some of the other pupils are OK. But everyone here seems so anxious and nervous and kind of damped down all the time. It’s as if this school’s sucked all the fun out of them. Well, it’d better not try to do the same to me.

  FRIDAY JANUARY 11TH

  I had my first homework back today in science. And straight away, Theo was buzzing in my ear, ‘So what did you get then?’ as if it really mattered.

  I got 10/20 and it’s no big deal, so I told him. And he couldn’t stop himself from giving this little smile.

  Later I spotted him writing down my mark at the back of his exercise book. ‘What are you doing that for?’ I asked.

  He went very red and said, ‘My mum really wanted to know.’

  I think his mum needs to get out more.

  Actually, I’m pretty content with 10/20. I never got massively high marks at my old school either. I’d say I’m average at most things. Maybe a bit above average in public speaking and English (though my spelling is rubbish) and a bit below it in the really evil subjects like French and maths. Up to now, my parents have been fairly happy with my school reports. Teachers usually said I was too gobby but they sort of liked me just the same.

  And anyway, I’m not really bothered because school’s got absolutely nothing to do with my career. You see, I’m going to be a comedian. Don’t laugh. Well, you can if you like. But there’s only one thing in the world I can really do well and that’s make people grin.

  Even when I was about two years old I was making my nan and my aunties laugh. I’d sing silly songs and then, when I was a bit older, tell silly jokes too and do impressions of people off the telly. And my nan would be wiping her eyes saying I was a ‘little imp’. And my mum would be declaring she didn’t know where I got it from, while I just felt so happy and proud.

  At school, too, I was always the one who’d liven up the lessons by saying something daft. In fact, if a lesson was e
specially boring people would start looking at me to lift their spirits.

  Then last year there was this talent show for children. Twenty-three contestants, and the winner was . . . ME. Got the certificate on my bedroom wall to prove it.

  Actually, I was dead nervous when I first went out on that stage. My old heart was pumping away and I was sweating buckets . . . and I started burbling away in an Australian accent.

  Still not sure if the audience were laughing at my jokes or my terrible accent. But anyway, they were laughing and I felt something click inside me and I wasn’t scared any more. In fact, I could have stayed on that stage for much longer. Can’t tell you how intoxicating it was. Best moment of my entire life.

  SATURDAY JANUARY 12TH

  Tonight my family was invited to walk up to the top of the road and hang out at Theo’s mansion.

  Theo’s dad opened the door. ‘Welcome aboard,’ he bellowed at us. He’s as bald as a snooker ball and absolutely massive. He grabbed my hand, crushed it for about two years and when I squeaked, ‘Hello, Mr Guerney,’ shook his head vigorously and boomed, ‘We don’t stand on ceremony here! I’m Mike and that’s Prue.’

  Prue (Theo’s mum) was slinking about in these black flowery trousers and jangling like crazy because she was wearing so many bracelets. She said there was masses of food and we must all ‘really tuck in’, then handed us plates the size of contact lenses.

  After the meal came an unexpected cabaret. Theo played the piano (he looked at me and blushed a bit before he started) and then Mike and Prue told us about Theo’s many musical accomplishments. Then they went on to recount Theo’s many other achievements. But by now I was yawning too loudly to hear properly.

  Next it was Theo’s sister Libby’s turn to entertain. She’s only six, the same age as Elliot (as Mum observed in a hushed voice to Dad afterwards), yet she could recite the names of all the kings and queens from 1066 to the present day.

  At the end Mum asked, ‘But how have they managed to achieve all this so young?’

  ‘Well, they’ve both got brains like sponges,’ cried Mike, ‘and are soaking up knowledge all the time, but also . . .’ He looked at Prue.

  Prue beckoned to us to follow her into the kitchen. On the wall was a chart showing all Theo and Libby’s out-of-school activities: music, art appreciation, chess and other equally grisly things were all up there.

  ‘It’s hard work keeping up with it all,’ said Prue, ‘and knowing where I need to be and with what equipment. But we’re determined that our two won’t squander a second of their time.’

  Mum and Dad stared at the chart, goggle-eyed with amazement. Then Elliot piped up that he’d written a story today.

  ‘Oh, do tell us about it, dear,’ cooed Prue.

  ‘It’s all about this person who eats bogies,’ he began.

  I caught Mum’s eye and saw she was trying very hard not to smile. Shortly afterwards we all tottered out of there. Never to return, I hope.

  SUNDAY JANUARY 13TH

  The worst thing about my dad:

  He has absolutely no sense of rhythm. That wouldn’t matter if he didn’t insist, even at his advanced age, on dancing at parties and weddings. Worse than this, he once started playing an imaginary guitar in an HMV store. The store was playing a track from the hit parade of the seventeenth century which Dad recognized. So he started prancing about like a madman, not caring I was standing right beside him. Later he told me that when he was a teenager he’d been in a band for a few weeks. The mind boggles . . . and boggles some more.

  The worst thing about my mum:

  She has moments when she totally loses it. You never know when one of these outbursts will occur. The most recent was when I was just innocently watching TV, and she suddenly lurched in front of the telly, ranting, ‘You’re not watching this rubbish, are you? You must have something better to do with your time than that.’

  She went on like this for several minutes. But I was calm and patient with her and after a bit she quietened down again, leaving me to settle down undisturbed in front of the telly once more.

  Conclusion:

  After an evening exposed to the barmy behaviour of Mike and Prue, I am forced to admit my parents aren’t actually that bad.

  I mean, Mike and Prue are in their children’s faces all the time. And can you imagine spending every day with them? No, dear diary, don’t even try and imagine that. You’ll only give yourself nightmares.

  MONDAY JANUARY 14TH

  I shoot my mum the odd bar of fruit and nut chocolate (her favourite). There’s a special offer on them at the moment so I bought her one today. She was dead chuffed and before I knew what was happening she was planting a big slurpy kiss on my face. Just this once I let her carry on and even gave her a little hug in return.

  When Dad came home this evening he asked me if I’d learned the dates of all the kings and queens of England from 1066 yet. He said this in a completely serious voice; it was only when I saw that little twinkle in his eye that I knew he was joking.

  ‘You scared me for a moment there,’ I said. Dad burst out laughing then.

  TUESDAY JANUARY 15TH

  Mr Wormold made me stay behind after registration today. He said my appearance was a ‘total disgrace’, and then began criticizing me in more detail, starting with the knot in my tie (too small, apparently). I thought to myself: here I am taking fashion advice from a man who wears his trousers up to his nipples. It’s just lucky that I can see the funny side of things.

  When he’d finished I said, ‘Thanks a lot, your wizardry.’

  Now, most of my old teachers would have smiled at that. But not Wormold. He just swelled up like a balloon and said, ‘We’ve been very patient with you, but our patience is now exhausted’ (and he really rolled that last word around in his mouth).

  Somehow, I get the feeling he doesn’t like me very much!

  WEDNESDAY JANUARY 16TH

  That woman next door, Mrs Reece, has been round to complain about me again. This time it’s because when I was in the garden I cleared my throat too loudly or something daft like that. I tell you, where we live now is just crammed with moaners – and most of the moans seem to be about me.

  But Mum tried to be nice to her and made her a cup of tea. Mrs Reece sat in the kitchen sighing about how her life is so busy these days, chauffeuring Olympia back and forth to music lessons and the art club and swimming. ‘Still, however much you do you always feel you could do more, don’t you?’ she said. Then she went into her sighing routine again.

  I escaped upstairs and worked on my impressions of Wormold – you might call this my little act of revenge. It’s taken me a while to get his voice but now I’ve got it all right. If I say so myself, it’s a perfect impression.

  THURSDAY JANUARY 17TH

  Finished decorating my room tonight. Every wall is now sprinkled with pictures of genius comedy characters like Ali G, Basil Fawlty and my all-time favourite, Fletcher from Porridge. These personal touches make a bedroom a home, don’t they? Now, the moment I come through the door I’m in my own private world of humour.

  FRIDAY JANUARY 18TH

  Bit of a disaster in assembly today.

  The headmaster was giving us this long lecture about the amount of noise we make in the corridors when we’re changing lessons! He wittered on and on about decibel levels until finally I whispered to Theo, ‘My foot’s gone to sleep and I’d like to catch it up.’

  To my complete amazement Theo let out a laugh. Only it was more like a yelp really. Theo looked pretty astonished too and turned bright red.

  At last, I’d made Theo laugh. I’d have been pretty happy if the headmaster hadn’t suddenly stopped his nattering and started eyeballing me. Then he pointed a long, wrinkly finger at me and I realized he thought I was the person who’d let out that strange cry. Well, I couldn’t exactly tell him the truth, could I? So I was sent out to wait outside his chamber of horrors.

  After assembly he gave me this long lecture about what a b
ad start I’d made and how this was a school with the highest standards. While he was talking he put his ugly mug right up to mine and gave me a thorough watering. And his breath was just awful. In a second, I thought, I’m going to have to ask him to move away before he starts melting my face. He really shouldn’t be a headmaster with breath like that. I’m sure it’s against the health and safety rules.

  As I was finally staggering out he croaked, ‘I shall be keeping my eye on you.’ Just so long as he doesn’t breathe on me again I really don’t care.

  SATURDAY JANUARY 19TH

  6.30 p.m.

  The undead walk . . . into our house. Or they’re just about to. Mike and Prue (plus Libby and Theo) are due any minute now. Mum said she had no choice as it would look very rude if we didn’t invite them back.

  She and Dad have spent practically all day preparing for this visit. Mum’s just changed into this new, spangly, blue top which Dad bought her. I said, ‘Hey, Mum, you’re looking sleek.’

  I can be dead charming when I want to be.

  Now the doorbell’s rung. The gruesome twosome have arrived. Full report later.

  10.15 p.m.

  Do you know what Mike and Prue spent the first half hour doing – prowling round our house. Can you believe that? Then Prue asked if she could ‘take a peep upstairs’ and Mike lumbered up after her.

  After which they very kindly brought us up to speed with Theo and Libby’s latest accomplishments, such as Theo getting three A minuses in one week. After telling us this Mike punched the air and shouted, ‘Yes!’

  ‘We’re very proud of those A minuses,’ he went on, ‘but we don’t want Theo to stop there. We’re demanding nothing less than straight As from him, aren’t we?’ Prue jangled in agreement.