The World's Loudest Armpit Fart Page 2

  On 17 October 1966 a massive thunderstorm hit Ulan Bator, with hailstones as big as tennis balls. A bolt of lightning struck the jelly tower and liquefied it instantly. The temple filled to the top with liquid jelly and drowned everyone inside. When the storm was over, the jelly cooled and solidfied, leaving Jelli Belli and his group of strange jelly-worshippers perfectly preserved in their own Jelly Heaven. They can still be seen to this day.

  I’m afraid you missed out this time, Danny, but keep trying; there are lots of jelly records to go for.

  Best wishes

  Eric Bibby

  Keeper of the Records

  Danny lay awake in bed. It was late and he couldn’t sleep. Natalie was having a sleepover in the room next to his, and she, Kaylie and Kylie were giggling and squealing like three little pigs. But there was another reason Danny couldn’t sleep: he was waiting for the moment when they finally snuggled down in their sleeping bags.

  ‘Eeyoooow!’

  ‘Aiyeeeek!’

  ‘Yeuuukkk!’

  The moment had arrived. Danny hid under his duvet and rocked with laughter.

  ‘Mum!’ yelled Natalie. ‘There’s something horrible in our sleeping bags!’

  ‘It’s sick!’ howled Kaylie.

  ‘It’s snot!’ wailed Kylie.

  ‘It’s a cowpat!’ growled Natalie.

  The girls appeared in Danny’s doorway and glared at him.

  ‘Danny!’ shouted Mum. ‘What have you been up to?’ She stomped upstairs and into Natalie’s bedroom.

  Danny tried to look innocent. ‘I haven’t done anything!’

  Mum pushed past the girls and held out a handful of jelly. ‘Then how did this get in their sleeping bags?’

  ‘It must have been the Jelly Fairy.’

  ‘Mum!’ cried Natalie. ‘Tell him!’

  ‘Danny,’ said Mum sternly, ‘I’m telling you.’

  ‘It’s only a bit of jelly,’ protested Danny. ‘I thought they’d like a midnight snack. It’s Boiled Egg and Banana flavour.’

  ‘Oh no!’ cried Kylie. ‘I’m allergic to eggs!’

  Everyone stared at her feet. Sure enough, they were swelling up nicely and turning red and blotchy. Natalie grabbed the handful of jelly from Mum and hurled it at her brother.

  She missed.

  The next morning, Danny escaped from the house before the girls woke up. He went with his dad to watch the Coalclough Sparrows play their second game of the season.

  ‘Maradona Potts is good, isn’t he?’ said Danny.

  ‘Pretty good,’ agreed Dad.

  ‘Do you think I’ll get my place back in the team when I’m fit?’

  Dad ruffled Danny’s hair. ‘Potts is a good shot-stopper, but his positioning isn’t as good as yours.’

  Maradona’s father barked instructions to his son from the line nearby.

  ‘Get those defenders sorted!’

  ‘Tell that stupid centre half to get out of your way!’

  ‘That box is your territory – be master of it!’

  ‘Attack those crosses!’

  ‘Remember, Maradona: you’re the best!’

  Dad grinned at Danny and rolled his eyes.

  The referee blew his whistle for the end of the game. The Sparrows had won two–nil, and Maradona had kept his second clean sheet.

  ‘Yessss!’ cheered Mr Potts. ‘That’s my boy! The best goalkeeper in the world ever!’

  Maradona strutted from the pitch. ‘Still think you’ll get back in the team?’ he sneered at Danny as he passed.

  ‘Nincompoop,’ whispered Danny. ‘Numpty,’ agreed Dad.

  Dear Mr Bibby

  I’m having serious jelly trouble! They wobble too much and keep spoiling my records! I tried to break the Individual Keepy-uppy Jellyball-headers record using Garlic and Gooseberry flavour, but after six headers, the jelly plopped all over my noggin! I was still picking jelly out of my nose two days later. At least I had fun flicking the picking at Natalie – she wasn’t to know it was just green jelly!

  After that, I tried to break the Jelly-trampoline Backward-somersault record using Tripe and Treacle mix. What a disaster! After just two backflips, the trampoline burst like a great big water-bomb and splattered jelly all over me, Matthew, the garden, and Nat’s knickers on the washing line.

  I got next door’s dog to eat up the stuff in the garden, but Nat's pants were ruined. She’s really had enough of my jelly pranks and was going to tell Mum, but I offered to clean out her rabbit hutch for two weeks. All the straw and lettuce and rabbit poo gave me an idea. If we add that to the mix, it might make the jelly a bit stiffer. Matthew’s also experimenting by mixing different flavours to see if he can get it right for The Big One – we’re going for the Longest Mexican Jelly-wave in s Stadium! Can you tell me how far the wave would have to go to be a world-beater?

  Best wishes

  Danny Baker

  Dear Danny

  Bad luck with your latest attempts. Jelly records are never easy and getting the mix right is vital. But I must warn you that adding anything to your jelly (even rabbit droppings!) would disqualify you from any record attempt: your jellies must be pure. Mixing different flavours is allowed, however.

  If you find that one batch is really bouncy, you could try the Long-distance Jelly Foot-springs Bouncing record. This is held by Derrick Yorick, of Warwick, who tried to bounce from Land’s End to John o’ Groats with Melon and Meringue-flavoured jellies strapped to his boots.

  His route took him through Stratford-upon-Avon, where he stopped for a few buns at the As You Lick It Pastry Shoppe. Energized by the sugary cakes, and eager to get on with his journey, Derrick began to bounce too hard and lost control of his jelly-springs. He vaulted over the wall of Falstaff’s Pork-pie Factory, through an open window and straight into the factory’s giant pork-pie jelly-vat.

  Alas! Poor Yorick was never seen again. Falstaff’s Pork Pies were unusually tasty that week, but nothing was ever proved. Derrick never knew that he had bounded to a new Long-distance Jelly Foot-springs Bouncing world record of 416.7 km.

  With regard to the Mexican Jelly-wave: no one has ever managed to get right the way round a stadium before. The longest wave rolled 288 m around Uddersfield Town’s Maryfield Stadium in July 1996, but broke down on the final corner. I’m sure you’ll do better, Danny!

  Best wishes

  Eric Bibby

  Keeper of the Records

  The boys were in the bathroom at Danny’s house, trying out a new mixture.

  ‘What happened to all the Hot-dog and Halibut jelly?’ asked Matthew.

  ‘Mum ate it all,’ answered Danny. ‘She spread it on toast for breakfast. Since she’s been pregnant, Mum’s been eating all sorts of weird stuff. She’s having jelly with everything: jelly and chips, jelly and spaghetti . . .’

  Matthew laughed. ‘Maybe if she eats enough, she’ll have a jelly-baby!’

  ‘Do you need Hot-dog and Halibut for the mix?’

  ‘No. I think I’ve got this mix just right.’ Matthew poked the jelly with his finger. It trembled frantically for a few seconds and then was still.

  ‘Ace!’ said Danny.

  Just then, Mum shouted from downstairs. ‘Danny! Matthew! There’s another Wibberley Wobberley wagon outside, and the driver says the whole delivery’s for you!’

  ‘Cool!’ said Matt as they dashed downstairs. ‘That lot’ll fill your garage!’

  ‘The garage is already full of the stuff,’ said Mum. ‘Danny, these jelly-records have got to stop.’

  ‘But we need that many for the Longest Mexican Jelly-wave in a Sports Stadium attempt,’ he explained. ‘We’ll fill the stands at Penleydale United with jellies, give them a poke at one end, and send a wave right the way round. It’ll be the last one, I promise.’

  At that moment there was a screech of disgust from upstairs.

  ‘Mum!’ yelled Natalie. ‘I’ve got to get ready for my dance competition and Danny’s filled the bath with jelly!’

&nb
sp; Danny, Matthew and Mum went upstairs and looked in through the bathroom door.

  ‘Tell him!’ wailed Natalie.

  ‘I’m telling you, Danny,’ said Mum. ‘You’re going to need a bigger bath!’

  Danny and Matthew stood outside the changing rooms at school as the Bunbury Bantams’ minibus pulled up. Danny was wearing a Walchester United scarf around his face, in case Sally Butterworth had any kissing in mind. He pulled it tighter.

  ‘Hiya, Matt,’ beamed Sally, racing from the bus and slapping him hard on the shoulder. ‘Hiya, Dan. Are you playing today?’

  ‘No, I’m not quite fit yet. Just a few more days.’

  ‘So who’s in goal?’

  Before Danny could answer, a voice snarled, ‘Butterworth!’

  Sally spun round. ‘Potts!’ she growled.

  Everyone stopped what they were doing. Footballs rolled away unkicked. Conversations stopped in mid-sentence. Parents and children craned their necks to see what was happening. Those standing between Sally and Maradona moved aside quickly, and the pair faced each other down two long lines of hushed, tense children. A gust of wind sent an empty packet of crisps skittering across the desert of tarmac that separated the two opponents.

  Sally advanced slowly and menacingly towards Maradona, looking like a volcano about to erupt.

  ‘You’re useless, Butterworth,’ sneered Maradona, jabbing his finger at her. ‘You won’t score today, because I’m in goal.’

  Sally glowered. ‘I know your weakness, Potts,’ she said. ‘You won’t stop me.’

  Maradona snorted and pushed past her towards the changing rooms.

  ‘So, have you two met before?’ grinned Matthew.

  ‘Potts used to play for us,’ replied Sally. ‘He bullied my best friend, Vicky, and forced her off the team. We all hated him. We scored an own goal against him on purpose, just to stop him breaking the record for most clean sheets.’

  ‘He’s pretty good,’ said Danny. ‘You might not score against him today.’

  ‘He’s not as good as you, Dan, and I’ve scored against you.’

  ‘That was beach football,’ said Matthew. ‘It doesn’t count.’

  Sally laughed and strode off to the changing room.

  The game kicked off and Sally was unstoppable. Matthew tried to mark her, but she ran him ragged. After only five minutes, she got the ball about fifteen metres from the Sparrows’ goal, dummied Matthew, glanced up and saw Potts still on his line. She curled a shot high past his outstretched hand, into the corner of the net.

  Danny didn’t know how to feel. Sally had scored against Potts (Ace!), but she had also scored against his team (Not Ace!).

  As Potts went to pick the ball out of the net, he began to limp. Five more times Sally beat him, and set up goals for three more of her team. With every goal scored, Maradona’s limp got worse, and on the touchline his father’s face turned more and more purple. As Potts picked the ball out of his goal for the tenth time, the final whistle blew. He staggered towards the touchline like a pirate with a wooden leg.

  ‘You were useless!’ screamed his father.

  ‘I was injured,’ complained Potts. ‘I hurt my leg at the start. She wouldn’t have scored any if I’d been OK.’

  The Sparrows’ coach shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Maradona. That girl’s obviously got you beat and we’re playing them again in the first round of the Invitation Tournament.’ He looked at Danny. ‘Make sure you’re match-fit by next week, Dan. I want you back in the team!’

  It was the day of the Mexican Jelly-wave. In the home team’s changing room at Penleydale Town, the communal jacuzzi bath was full to the brim with gently bubbling orange jelly: quick-setting Pineapple and Parsnip added to Peach and Pickled-onion flavour. The air burbling up from the bottom of the big bath stirred the jelly perfectly.

  Matthew had come up with a formula to calculate how many jellies they would need and how much jelly-mix they would have to make up:

  TSA of T ÷ ASA of BJM = TN of JN → WWW × AV of JM = TA of JN (Total Surface Area of the Terraces, divided by the Average Surface Area of the Bottom of the Jelly Moulds = Total Number of Jellies Needed to Produce the Wibbly Wobbly Wonder, times the Average Volume of the Jelly Moulds = Total Amount of Jelly Needed).

  ‘We’ll need eight thousand eight hundred and twenty-three jellies,’ Matthew explained. ‘At an average of three point four litres per mould, we’ll have to mix twenty-nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-eight point two litres of jelly, which is almost exactly one and a half big bathfuls.’

  ‘If you say so, Matt,’ said Danny.

  Mr Eckersley, the club groundsman, had cleared out a storeroom and found a pile of dusty silver cups from Penleydale Town’s Golden Years, 1923–1936, when trophies came thick and fast. They made perfect jelly moulds and now stood in rows along the edge of the jacuzzi.

  Every member of the Coalclough Sparrows football team pitched in. Some poured the liquid into the cups, while others carried the set jellies out to the terraces, where Danny and Matthew carefully placed them in rows, making sure that they all touched each other. After hours of hard work, two and a half sides of the ground were full of transparent orange trophy-shaped domes.

  A large group of spectators had gathered in the centre of the pitch, including a photographer and reporter from the Penleydale Clarion. Danny and Matthew’s parents had turned up to help the boys and to watch the wave.

  Matthew nudged Danny. ‘Look out, Sally Butterwart’s arrived,’ he whispered.

  ‘Hiya, boys!’ called Sally. ‘I’ve got something special for you, Dan.’ She presented Danny with a pink box decorated with a huge shiny pink ribbon.

  He lifted the lid and peeked inside. The box contained a big red lip-shaped jelly. Danny glanced nervously at Matthew. ‘Er . . . thanks Sally,’ he mumbled. ‘Um . . . what flavour is it?’

  Sally smiled. ‘Passion fruit.’

  Danny gulped, and quickly put the lid back on the box.

  ‘Aren’t you going to try it?’ she asked.

  ‘Er . . . yeah . . . maybe later. I know. I’ll put it in with the others. We need all the jellies we can get for the wobble-wave.’

  Sally gently placed the jelly-lips in the centre of the stand, and Danny and Matthew filled up the space around them.

  At last all four stands were full. If Danny was going to succeed, he had to get all the jellies at the beginning to wibble at the same time and pass on the wobble to the next row, and so on right around the ground. Matthew checked his Multiple Coordinated Jelly-wobble Starting Device: a contraption made of wood, springs and old slippers that would, at the pull of a lever, set the Mexican Jelly-wave in motion.

  ‘It’s ready,’ announced Matthew.

  Danny flexed his fingers, stood in front of the device, and the countdown began.

  ‘Five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one . . . GO!’

  Danny yanked the lever. All the way up the concrete steps of the Walter Widget Stand, the slippers flipped over, each one slapping simultaneously, with a wonderful wet whack, into the first jelly on each row. The wobble-wave spread with amazing speed along the terrace, around the first bend, and across the Stubbins’ Sticky Buns End behind the goal.

  ‘Ace!’ yelled Danny.

  ‘Cool!’ shouted Matthew.

  ‘Go, wobble, go!’ screamed Sally.

  The crowd roared as the ripple raced around the next corner and charged down the Donkey Lane Stand, heading towards the red jelly-lips.

  And that was when it all went horribly wrong.

  Sally’s jelly was thicker, the lips less floppy, and didn’t transmit the wobble. The rhythm was ruined and chaos spread through the jellies like an infection. Soon they were wibbling and wobbling in all directions.

  Danny spun round to face Sally. ‘Your lips have wrecked my wobble!’ he cried.

  ‘You should have eaten the jelly, like I wanted you to!’ countered Sally. ‘And when I score against you tomorrow, I’ll wreck your clean-sheet
record too.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Yeah! I’ve already scored against you, and this time it won’t be just beach football!’ Sally stomped off towards the exit. ‘Urrgh! Boys!’

  By now, the random, uncontrolled wobbling of the jellies had reached crisis point. Row by row they tumbled forward in a huge jelly cascade that went on and on until every single one had been deposited in a quivering orange pile, right around the touchline. Only Sally’s wobble-proof lips remained in place.

  Mr Eckersley stormed up to the boys. ‘Look at all this mess on my grass,’ he fumed. ‘We’ve got the tournament tomorrow. What are you going to do about this jelly?’

  Danny and Matthew gazed around the ground.

  ‘Eat it?’ suggested Danny.

  Next day, the jelly still lay around the pitch like a glistening orange moat.

  The Bunbury Bantams arrived, but their manager looked unhappy. ‘The team’s been hit by an outbreak of the Bunbury Burping Bug,’ he complained as he got off the bus. ‘We’ve had to bring a load of substitutes.’