Barry Loser and the Case of the Crumpled Carton. Jim Smith
First published in Great Britain 2015 by Jelly Pie an imprint of Egmont UK Ltd The Yellow Building, 1 Nicholas Road, London W11 4AN
Text and illustration copyright © Jim Smith 2015 The moral rights of the author-illustrator have been asserted.
ISBN 978 1 4052 6803 5
eISBN 978 1 7803 1377 1
barryloser.com www.jellypiecentral.co.uk www.egmont.co.uk
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library
Printed and bound in Great Britain by the CPI Group
55384/1
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My mum and dad are so busy looking after my brand new baby brother, Desmond Loser the Second, I sometimes wonder if they know I even exist.
Like the other day, when my Granny Harumpadunk and her boyfriend Mr Hodgepodge came round to visit. My mum’s favourite show, Detective Manksniff, was on TV, and I’d snuggled up to her on the comfy sofa, using her belly as a pillow.
Granny Harumpadunk and Mr Hodgepodge were squidged on the uncomfy sofa, squinting through their matching glasses at the TV.
‘Ooh, now there’s a good-looking man,’ warbled my granny as Detective Manksniff stirred his cocktail with a straw, and Mr Hodgepodge rolled his eyes.
‘SHHH!’ shushed my mum. ‘I’m trying to enjoy my show,’ she said, and I sniggled at her loserness, even though I was secretly quite enjoying it too.
‘WAAAHHH!!!’ screamed my dad from the downstairs bathroom, where he was changing Desmond Loser the Second’s nappy for the nineteenth time that morning. ‘DESMOND’S WEED IN MY FACE AGAIN!’
I heard my mum’s belly do a gurgle and imagined myself curled up inside it, the same size as my annoying little brother.
‘What was I like when I was a baby, Mum?’ I said.
‘I’m coming, Desmond!’ cried my mum, comperleeterly ignoring my question, and she leaped off the sofa, wobbling down the hallway to help.
‘Des-mond,’ murmured Mr Hodgepodge, as if he’d only just heard it for the first time. ‘What a terrific name for a little boy!’ he smiled, and I wondered why everyone in my whole entire life had to have such loserish names, me included.
‘Desmond Loser the First would’ve been proud!’ beamed Granny Harumpadunk, heaving herself off the uncomfy sofa and doddering over to the mantelpiece, and she lifted up a photo of my Great Uncle Desmond, who was the biggest Loser that ever lived.
She put the picture back on the mantelpiece and picked up a little pig made out of china.
‘Do you think your mum wants this, Barry?’ she said, and I shrugged, not listening at all, because Detective Manksniff had finished and MY favourite TV show, Future Ratboy, was on next.
‘MAUREEN, DO YOU WANT THIS PIG OR CAN I SELL IT AT THE JUMBLE SALE?’ screeched Granny Harumpadunk down the hallway to my mum, and I blew off into my sofa cushion out of shock.
That’s all Granny Harumpadunk’s been doing recently, collecting stuff for her boring old jumble sale, which is in Mogden Hall on Saturday from 10am till 3pm with a live magic show by The Great Hodgepodge and his glamorous assistant, Madame Harumpadunk, at 1pm sharp.
‘Sell it. She’s got millions of them,’ whispered my dad, tiptoeing into the lounge with Desmond Loser the Second asleep on his shoulder.
‘Barry, turn that TV down,’ he mouthed, and I was just about to press the mute button on the remote control, seeing as it was only the adverts, when I saw a carton of Tears of Granny Laughter pop up on the screen.
‘Salute the keelness!’ I shouted, leaping off the sofa and doing a quadruple- reverse-salute, which is what I do when my favourite advert comes on TV.
Tears of Granny Laughter is this keel new drink they’ve started selling at Feeko’s Supermarkets.
It comes in three granny flavours, Beryl, Irene and Gertrude, and the advert is all about how they make it.
It starts with Beryl, Irene and Gertrude queuing up to go into a cinema.
Then you see them laughing at a man in an old black-and-white film who’s hanging off a building with his legs waggling everywhere.
The three grannies are all wearing massive 3D glasses that have been specially made to catch the tears of laughter zigzagging out of their eyes, and at the end of the film all the tear-juice is poured into cartons of Tears of Granny Laughter.
‘Can I have some money for a Tears of Granny Laughter, Dad? Can I, Daddypoos? Can I? Can I Can I?’ I said, running over and tugging my dad on his elbow, and Desmond Loser the Second opened his eyes and started screaming.
My mum wobbled back into the room, swinging a see-through plastic bag full of Desmond’s poo. ‘SHUSH,