Billionaire Boy

“Well, how much do you weigh?” said Bob.

“Well, I asked you first.”

Bob paused for a second. “About eight stone.”

“I’m seven stone,” said Joe, lying.

“No way are you seven stone!” said Bob angrily. “I’m twelve stone and you are much fatter than me!”

“You just said you were eight stone!” said Joe accusingly.

“I was eight stone…” replied Bob, “when I was a baby.”

That afternoon it was cross-country running. What a dreadful ordeal for any day at school, not least your first day. It was a yearly torture that seemed designed solely to humiliate those kids who weren’t sporty. A category Bob and Joe could definitely be squeezed into.

“Where is your running kit, Bob?” shouted Mr Bruise, the sadistic PE teacher, as Bob made his way onto the playing field. Bob was wearing his Y-fronts and vest, and his appearance was greeted by a huge wave of laughter from the other kids.

“S-s-s-someone m-m-must have hidden it S-s-s-sir,” answered a shivering Bob.

“Likely story!” scoffed Mr Bruise. Like most PE teachers, it was difficult to imagine him wearing anything other than a tracksuit.

“D-d-do I still have to do the r-r-r-r-run S-s-s-s-s-s-s-sir….?” asked a hopeful Bob.

“Oh yes, boy! You don’t get off that easily. Right everyone, on your marks, get set… wait for it! GO!”

At first, Joe and Bob sprinted away like all the other kids, but after about three seconds they were both out of breath and were forced to walk. Soon everyone else had disappeared into the distance and the two fat boys were left alone.

“I come last every year,” said Bob, unwrapping a Snickers and taking a large bite. “All the other kids always laugh at me. They get showered and dressed and wait at the finish line. They could all go home, but instead they wait just to jeer at me.”

Joe frowned. That didn’t sound like fun. He decided he didn’t want to be last, and quickened his pace a little, making sure he was at least half a step ahead of Bob.

Bob glared at him, and piled on the speed, going up to at least half a mile an hour. From the determined expression on his face, Joe knew that Bob was hoping that this year was his golden chance not to finish last.

Joe sped up a little more. They were now almost jogging. The race was on. For the ultimate prize: who was going to finish… second to last! Joe really didn’t want to be beaten at cross-country running by a fat boy in his vest and pants on his first day at school.

After what seemed like an eternity the finish line hazed into sight. Both boys were out of breath with all this power-waddling.

Suddenly, disaster struck Joe. A painful stitch burst in his side.

“Ooww!” cried Joe.

“What’s the matter?” asked Bob, now quite a few centimetres in the lead.

“I’ve got a stitch… I’ve got to stop. Owww…”

“You’re bluffing. A fifteen-stone girl pulled that on me last year and ended up beating me by a fraction of a second.”

“Oww. It’s true,” said Joe, holding his side tightly.

“I ain’t falling for it, Joe. You are going to be last, and this year all the kids in the year are gonna be laughing at you!” said Bob triumphantly, as he edged ahead still further.

Being laughed at on his first day at school was the last thing Joe wanted. He’d had enough of being laughed at when he was at St Cuthbert’s. However, the stitch was becoming more and more painful with every step. It was as if it was burning a hole in his side. “How about I give you a fiver to come last?” he said.

“No way,” replied Bob, through heaving breaths.

“A tenner?”

“No.”

“Twenty quid?”

“Try harder.”

“Fifty quid.”

Bob stopped, and looked around at Joe.

“Fifty quid…” he said. “That’s a lot of chocolate.”

“Yeah,” said Joe. “Tons.”

“You’ve got yourself a deal. But I want the wonga now.”

Joe searched through his shorts and pulled out a fifty-pound note.

“What’s that?” asked Bob.

“It’s a fifty-pound note.”

“I’ve never seen one before. Where did you get it?”

“Oh, erm, it was my birthday last week you see…” said Joe, stumbling over his words a little. “And my dad gave me that as a present.”

The marginally fatter boy studied it for a moment, holding it up to the light as if it was a priceless artefact. “Wow. Your dad must be loaded,” he said.

The truth would have blown Bob’s fat mind. That Mr Spud had given his son two million pounds as a birthday present. So Joe kept schtum.

“Nah, not really,” he said.

“Go on then,” said Bob. “I’ll come last again. For fifty quid I would finish tomorrow if you like.”

“Just a few paces behind me will be fine,” said Joe. “Then it will look real.”

Joe edged ahead, still gripping his side in pain. Hundreds of little cruelly smiling faces were coming into focus now. The new boy crossed the finish line with only a hum of mocking laughter. Trailing behind was Bob, clutching his fifty-pound note, since there were no pockets in his Y-fronts. As he neared the finish line the kids started chanting.

“BLOB! BLOB! BLOB! BLOB!

BLOB! BLOB! BLOB! BLOB!