Billionaire Boy

Postscript

Thank yous

About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 1 Meet Joe Spud (#ulink_cbdf3477-d597-524d-a72a-9fdf623f068c)

Have you ever wondered what it would be like to have a million pounds?

Or a billion?

How about a trillion?

Or even a gazillion?

Meet Joe Spud.

Joe didn’t have to imagine what it would be like to have loads and loads and loads of money. He was only twelve, but he was ridiculously, preposterously rich.

Joe had everything he could ever want.

100-inch plasma widescreen flat-screen high-definition TV in every room in the house

500 pairs of Nike trainers

A grand-prix racetrack in the back garden

A robot dog from Japan

A golf buggy with the number plate ‘SPUD 2’ to drive around the grounds of his house

A waterslide which went from his bedroom into an indoor Olympic-sized swimming pool

Every computer game in the world

3-D IMAX cinema in the basement

A crocodile

24-hour personal masseuse

Underground 10-lane bowling alley

Snooker table

Popcorn dispenser

Skateboard park

Another crocodile

£100,000 a week pocket money

A rollercoaster in the back garden

A professional recording studio in the attic

Personalised football coaching from the England team

A real-life shark in a tank

In short, Joe was one horribly spoilt kid. He went to a ridiculously posh school. He flew on private planes whenever he went on holiday. Once, he even had Disneyworld closed for the day, just so he wouldn’t have to queue for any rides.

Here’s Joe. Speeding around his own private racetrack in his own Formula One racing car.

Some very rich children have miniature versions of cars specially built for them. Joe wasn’t one of those children. Joe needed his Formula One car made a bit bigger. He was quite fat, you see. Well, you would be, wouldn’t you? If you could buy all the chocolate in the world.

You will have noticed that Joe is on his own in that picture. To tell the truth, speeding around a racetrack isn’t that much fun when you are on your own, even if you do have a squillion pounds. You really need someone to race against. The problem was Joe didn’t have any friends. Not one.

Friends

Now, driving a Formula One car and unwrapping a king-size Mars Bar are two things you shouldn’t try and do at the same time. But it had been a few moments since Joe had last eaten and he was hungry. As he entered the chicane, he tore open the wrapper with his teeth and took a bite of the delicious chocolate-coated nougat and caramel. Unfortunately, Joe only had one hand on the steering wheel, and as the wheels of the car hit the verge, he lost control.

The multi-million-pound Formula One car careered off the track, span around, and hit a tree.

The tree was unharmed. But the car was a write-off. Joe squeezed himself out of the cockpit. Luckily Joe wasn’t hurt, but he was a little dazed, and he tottered back to the house.

“Dad, I crashed the car,” said Joe as he entered the palatial living room.

Mr Spud was short and fat, just like his son. Hairier in a lot of places too, apart from his head – which was bald and shiny. Joe’s dad was sitting on a hundred-seater crocodile skin sofa and didn’t look up from reading that day’s copy of the Sun.

“Don’t worry Joe,” he said. “I’ll buy you another one.”

Joe slumped down on the sofa next to his dad.

“Oh, happy birthday, by the way, Joe.” Mr Spud handed an envelope to his son, without taking his eyes off the girl on Page 3.

Joe opened the envelope eagerly. How much money was he going to receive this year? The card, which read ‘Happy 12

Birthday Son’, was quickly discarded in favour of the cheque inside.

Joe could barely disguise his disappointment. “One million pounds?” he scoffed. “Is that all?”

“What’s the matter, son?” Mr Spud put down his newspaper for a moment.

“You gave me a million last year,” whined Joe. “When I turned eleven. Surely I should get more now I’m twelve?”