Googol Boy and the peculiar incident of the Great Quiz Trophy, John Michael [white hot kiss txt] 📗

“Oh you’re such a good boy Howie,” crooned Mum.

“Mummm!” I protested as I tried to prise myself free from her grip.

“Have some more pancakes honey.” Mum then turned to Dad and Deb. “See I told you I had a great story!”

Well, in this instance I was hoping that Miss Crawford would spread her gossip far and wide and that indeed the townsfolk were looking for some mohawked tattooed thugs -one thing was for sure, Barney and I would be giving the orphanage a wide berth for some time to come.

Chapter thirteen

crapaudine

Finally the first day of spring had arrived, the daffodils and bluebells were already in the bees were and the birds were but, to be honest, we didn’t really care about the silly flowers, the irritating bees and the noisy birds. No... there was something much more important going on today − the first day of spring meant that it was (drumroll please) Quockingpoll Flats Day!

Although Barney and I liked to sleep in on Sundays, we made sure that we got up before all the crowds started to arrive. We certainly didn’t want to miss out on our fill of all the brabbensack goodies on offer.

We rode our bikes into town and found that the entire landscape was adorned in a panoply of coloured banners and fluttering flags. People were already streaming in and moving up and down the main walkway trying to find the best vantage points and picnic spots. The peaks of striped marquees were jutting out amongst the poplars, oaks and birches. Along the Anonymous Chicken River, multi-coloured tents dotted the rolling meadows, which stretched all the way back to the old city wall. These tents contained every assortment of food and drink imaginable. There were also stalls and booths which housed jewellery, antiques, pottery, fortune tellers, quilts and doilies, and even tattoo parlours. There were also numerous souvenirs on offer, such as snow domes, lucky brabbensack foot keyrings, piggy banks, and of course t-shirts, with the slogan of still an old time favourite. The Quockingpoll Flats Festival pretty much had it all, there was even a designated section for the butcher, the baker and the candlestick maker.

On the school oval, the organisers were preparing the finishing touches for the mock historical battle of Ezekiel Quockingpoll’s famous stand against an army of ferocious brabbensacks. Primary school kids, dressed up in their homemade brabbensack costumes, would gallop up and down the field, attacking Ezekiel with all their might while he would hurl turnips at them. This battle usually went according to script but last year some overzealous kids knocked Ezekiel over and he ended up with a broken ankle. It all ended in tears as they had to take Ezekiel away in an ambulance. I guess history doesn’t always repeat itself as the brabbensacks were victorious that day.

On the opposite side of the field the organisers were setting up the turnip juggling and hog wrestling competitions. The turnip contest involved a hard fought clash to see who could juggle the most amount of turnips − the male and female victors were then crowned Mr and Mrs Turnip and became the face of the Quockingpoll Flats farming community for the entire year. The hog wrestling, on the other hand, involved team members attempting to catch a greased pig in a mud pit and then hog-tying the animal and putting it in an oversized oak barrel − the winners got to keep the pig and also got to represent Quockingpoll Flats in the county finals.

Barney, watching the organisers grease the hog, started to smack his lips.

“I’m getting hungry Howie... what should we eat?”

“I think I’ll have a brabbensack pretzel and what about you Barney?”

“Well let’s see... I think I’ll have the same... and a couple of brabbensack dogs, some deep fried brabbensack rings, some brabbensack custard tart and a brabbensack popsicle for dessert! And perhaps I might splurge and get the crapaudine shish kebab as well!”

“Wow! Crapaudine is made from the most tender and expensive cuts of brabbensack! You’ve really been saving up your allowance, huh?”

Barney winked at me and rubbed his stomach. “Sure have! The Founding Festival doesn’t come around every year, does it?”

“Doesn’t come around every day!”

“Yeah... every day, that’s what I meant!” laughed Barney as he skipped down the path towards the food stalls.

“You’re absolutely right Barney! In fact, get me a crapaudine shish kebab as well!” I yelled after him.

Crapaudine was an alternative name for brabbensack. Just as ‘cow’ becomes ‘beef’ when it is served on a plate, ‘sheep’ becomes ‘lamb’, and ‘pig’ becomes ‘pork’, so it was with crapaudine. Interestingly enough, beef, lamb, pork and crapaudine were all French terms. Kudos to Barney for trying to sound all sophisticated and cultured. However, there was a reason that the term never really caught on, there were two main explanations − firstly, the unfortunate similarity to an English word which doesn’t sound appetising at all. I’ll give you a clue − it starts with ‘C’ and ends in ‘rap’. The other reason being that ‘crapaudine,’ in its original French, means ‘a festering ulcer on a horse.’ Now of course, there was no need to let Barney know all this and rain on his ‘Quockingpoll Flats Day’ parade.

Barney was back in no time with an assortment of containers crammed with mouth-watering delights − his arms were full and it would have been impossible for him to carry even an additional french fry. For any other person, you could have criticised them for having eyes bigger than their stomach, but this rule certainly didn’t apply to Barney. In all my years of knowing him, I never found that he could not step up to the plate when it came to food.

We found a grassy knoll and plonked our butts on the ground and then spread out all the containers and dipping sauces and started to enjoy our scrumptious feast. I took a