Billionaire Boy. David WalliamsЧитать онлайн книгу.

      “What’s what, Joe?” replied Mr Spud with mock innocence, as he adjusted the contraption to cover his bald dome.

      “That thing on your head.”

      “Ooh, this. It’s a toupee, boy! Only ten grand each. I bought a blonde one, a brown one, a ginger one, and an afro for special occasions. It makes me look twenty years younger, don’t you think?”

      Joe didn’t like to lie. The toupee didn’t make his dad look younger – instead, it made him look like a man who was trying to balance a dead rodent on his head. Therefore, Joe chose a noncommittal, “Mmm.”

      “Right. Well, have a good night,” Joe added, picking up the remote. It looked like it would be just him and the 100-inch TV again.

      “There’s some caviar in the fridge for your tea, son,” said Mr Spud as he headed for the door.

      “What’s caviar?”

      “It’s fish eggs, son.”

      “Eurgh…” Joe didn’t even like normal eggs much. Eggs laid by a fish sounded really revolting.

      “Yeah, I had some on toast for me breakfast. It’s absolutely disgusting, but it is very expensive so we should start eating it.”

      “Can’t we just have bangers and mash or fish and chips or shepherd’s pie or something, Dad?”

      “Mmm, I used to love shepherd’s pie, son…” Mr Spud drooled a little, as if imagining the taste of shepherd’s pie.

      “Well then…?”

      Mr Spud shook his head impatiently. “No no no, we are rich, son! We have to eat all this posh stuff now like proper rich people do. See you later!” The door slammed behind him and moments later Joe heard the deafening roar of his father’s lime-green Lamborghini speeding off into the night.

      Joe was disappointed to be on his own again, but he still couldn’t suppress a small smile as he turned on the TV. He was going to go to an ordinary school again and be an ordinary boy. And maybe, just maybe, make a friend.

      The question was, how long could Joe keep the fact that he was a billionaire a secret…?

       Chapter 3 Who’s the Fattiest?

      Finally, the big day came. Joe took off his diamond-encrusted watch and put his gold pen in the drawer. He looked at the designer black snakeskin bag his dad had bought him for his first day at his new school and put it back in his cupboard. Even the bag that bag had come in was too posh, but he found an old plastic one in the kitchen and put his school books in that. Joe was determined not to stand out.

      From the back seat of his chauffeur-driven Rolls Royce he had passed the local comprehensive many times on his way to St Cuthbert’s, and seen the kids pouring out of the school. A rushing river of swinging bags and swear words and hair gel. Today, he was going to enter the gates for the first time. But he didn’t want to arrive by Rolls Royce – that would be a pretty good hint to the other kids that he was rich. He instructed the chauffeur to drop him off at a nearby bus stop. It had been quite a few years since he had travelled by public transport, and as he waited at the bus stop Joe tingled with excitement.

      “I can’t change that!” said the bus driver.

      Joe hadn’t realised that a £50 note was not going to be welcome to pay for a two-pound fare, and had to get off the bus. Sighing, he began to walk the two miles to school, his flabby thighs rubbing together as he took each step.

      Finally, Joe reached the school gates. For a moment he loitered nervously outside. He had spent so long living a life of wealth and privilege – how on earth was he going to fit in with these kids? Joe took a deep breath and marched across the playground.

      At registration, there was only one other kid sitting on his own. Joe looked over at him. He was fat, just like Joe, with a mop of curly hair. When he saw Joe looking over, he smiled. And when registration was over, he came over.

      “I’m Bob,” said the fat boy.

      “Hi Bob,” replied Joe. The bell had just rung and they waddled along the corridor to the first lesson of the day. “I’m Joe,” he added. It was weird to be in a school where no one knew who he was. Where he wasn’t Bum Boy, or Billionaire Bum, or the Bum-fresh Kid.

      “I am so glad you’re here, Joe. In the class, I mean.”

      “Why’s that?” asked Joe. He was excited. It looked like he might have found his first friend already!

      “Because I’m not the fattest boy in the school any more,” Bob said confidently, as if stating an independently verified fact.

      Joe scowled, then stopped for a second and studied Bob. It looked to him like he and the other boy were about the same level of fattiness.

      “How much do you weigh then?” demanded Joe grumpily.

      “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.