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

Strangely enough, by this stage some of the townsfolk had acquired a taste for sackenbrab and when the meat was banned, found it hard to go cold turkey (or the equivalent saying in Quockingpoll Flats, ‘to go cold sackenbrab’). This episode eventuated in another famous riot in Quockingpoll's history − the “Gotta get me some Sackenbrab’ riot of 1837.

Incidentally, this meat substitution fiasco gave rise to another common saying in Quockingpoll Flats, ‘That’s just not brabbensack.’ The phrase was often used when referring to a statement or action that was false, unfair or incorrect. For example, last week Dad had a meltdown while he was in the bathroom. “Who left just one square of paper on the toilet roll? That’s just not brabbensack!” And then there was the time when Mum ordered Chinese takeaway. “I asked for Sweet and Sour Pork and we get Raw Squid Salad instead! That’s just not brabbensack!”

Of course, when it came to brabbensack, and I’m talking about authentic brabbensack here, Barney was something of a connoisseur. He knew his rumpside from his topside and his tenderloin from his sirloin and I could tell, as he was staring out the bus window, that he was deep in thought about food.

“So... looking forward to all that fingerlicking goodness Barney?”

“Well, I think that I might have a few snacks,” laughed Barney, “and then play a few games.

I knew that by a few snacks he meant a wheelbarrow of food and a few games meant Barney stealing the limelight at the hammer high strike.

“That sounds like a good plan... and I know you’re just gonna blitz that hammer game.”

“Aw I dunno,” answered Barney bashfully.

The hammer high strike was a unique game which originated in the alpine region of Quockingpoll Flats. It all began in the mid-1800s with the Bavarian settlers who would resolve their territorial disputes by yodelling. They would climb to the top of the highest spruce trees and let fly with their yodels so that the sound would carry across the mountains. At any one time there would be ten to twenty yodellers yodelling away in the forest, trying to outlast each other as a demonstration of strength, masculinity and endurance.

The womenfolk, however, soon got sick and tired of such posturing and while their menfolk were yodelling all the day long, they were stuck with ploughing the soil, irrigating the fields, harvesting the grain, picking the fruit and vegetables, milking the cows, collecting the eggs and shearing the sheep. So the wives invented a ‘strength tester’ game which was much more practical, simple and effective and got their menfolk back on the farms where they belonged. The challengers used an oversized wooden mallet and the aim of the game was to hit the base with enough force so that the puck would fly up through a tube and force the pressurised air through a series of organ pipes which would result in a yodelling sound. The greater the strength of the challenger the longer and louder the yodel.

Barney was a natural at the game and he’d always make an excuse to wind up near the stand and then he would act surprised. “Oh my goodness! Look! It’s the hammer high strike, can we have a go Howie?”

I would play along with the charade, even though I was terrible at the game and even primary school kids would laugh at my feeble attempts. But once Barney had a turn, the yodelling would last for a good minute and they would stare at him in admiration. It was his uncanny strength which set Barney apart, that and his knowledge of sports trivia. Barney was odd in that way; he disliked any form of exercise but he could recite all types of facts and statistics about sports. His dad was a sports journalist for the Quockingpoll Flats Gazette and always spoke about statistics, percentages and records and over the years the numbers must have rubbed off on Barney. Oh, I forgot about klonkers... Barney also loved playing klonkers!

“Well... we better make sure that we get to the festival early... you know how busy it gets,” declared Barney.

“You’re not wrong there... busier than a fistful of fleas on a pack of cats!”

The bus screeched to a halt and we pushed the upcoming Quockingpoll Flats Festival out of our minds and came crashing back to reality... we both knew that ‘speech time’ was awaiting like some black cloud on the horizon.

We gulped out loud and got off the bus.

First period was, as you could have guessed, Science.

Chapter four 

sardines

Our Science teacher, Mr Klopsberg, was sitting behind his desk and was looking even more glum than usual. Rumour had it that he had once worked for a big German pharmaceutical company but a chemical explosion had hindered his ability to blink or smell.

We marched into the classroom in single file like emotionless drones. Barney was in front of me and let out a deep sigh. “I would rather do anything than give a speech, even dissect smelly ol’ fish!”

I was about to agree with him when I had a stomach-convulsing flashback.

It was a few months back, late one Monday afternoon smack-bang in the middle of the hottest summer in a decade.

We had just entered our classroom when Mr Klopsberg informed us of the day’s activities. “Today vee vill open up zee fish.” Our collective spirit was immediately deflated; it was going to be another messy episode where we would practice our dissection skills on some slimy creature.

Unfortunately, the refrigerator in the science lab had decided to give up the ghost during the weekend and when Mr Klopsberg opened the fridge door, we were all hit with a smell fouler than the stench of Satan’s armpits.

Some students started to tear up, others started to dry retch. Although Mr Klopsberg had no sense of smell he could immediately see that the fish were passed their use-by-date. The normally glistening grey sardines had turned a darker shade of