Billionaire Boy Read online

  David Walliams

  Billionaire

  Boy

  Illustrated by Tony Ross

  Voor Lara,

  Ik hou meer van je, dan ik met woorden kan zeggen

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  David Walliams introduces Billionaire Boy

  EXCLUSIVE ENHANCEMENTS AND CONTENTS

  VIDEO:

  David Walliams introduces Billionaire Boy

  School Lunch Menu

  Teachers' Catchphrases

  Sapphire's Birfday Wish-List

  Purpleness

  Character Voices

  Horrible Food

  Bumfresh

  AUDIO:

  Meet Joe Spud

  Lessons

  Blob

  Dog Spit

  Teachers' Names

  Bumfresh Scandal

  Cover

  Title Page

  Thank yous

  Chapter 1 - Meet Joe Spud

  Chapter 2 - Bum Boy

  Chapter 3 - Who’s the Fattiest?

  Chapter 4 - “Loo Rolls?”

  Chapter 5 - Out of Date Easter Eggs

  Chapter 6 - The Grubbs

  Chapter 7 - Gerbils on Toast

  Chapter 8 - The Witch

  Chapter 9 - “Finger?”

  Chapter 10 - Dog Spit

  Chapter 11 - Camping Holiday

  Chapter 12 - Page 3 Stunna

  Chapter 13 - New Girl

  Chapter 14 - The Shape of a Kiss

  Chapter 15 - Nip and Tuck

  Chapter 16 - Peter Bread

  Chapter 17 - A Knock on the Toilet Door

  Chapter 18 - The Vortex 3000

  Chapter 19 - A Baboon’s Bottom

  Chapter 20 - A Beach Ball Rolled in Hair

  Chapter 21 - A GCSE in Make-Up

  Chapter 22 - A New Chapter

  Chapter 23 - Canal Boat Weekly

  Chapter 24 - The Rajmobile

  Chapter 25 - Broken

  Chapter 26 - A Blizzard of Banknotes

  Postscript

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter 1

  Meet Joe Spud

  Meet Joe Spud

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  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 12th 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?”

  Mr Spud reached into the pocket of his shiny grey designer suit and pulled out his chequebook. His suit was horrible, and horribly expensive. “I’m so sorry son,” he said. “Let’s make it two million.”

  Now, it’s important you realise that Mr Spud had not always been this rich.

  Not so long ago the Spud family had lived a very humble life. From the age of sixteen, Mr Spud worked in a vast loo-roll factory on the outskirts of town. Mr Spud’s job at the factory was sooooo boring. He had to roll the paper around the cardboard inner tube.

  Roll after roll.

  Day after day.

  Year after year.

  Decade after decade.

  This he did, over and over again, until nearly all his hope had gone. He would stand all day by the conveyor belt with hundreds of other bored workers, repeating the same mind-numbing task. Every time the paper was rolled onto one cardboard tube, the whole thing started again. And every loo roll was the same. Because the family was so poor, Mr Spud used to make birthday and Christmas presents for his son from the loo-roll inner tubes. Mr Spud never had enough money to buy Joe all the latest toys, but would make him something like a loo-roll racing car, or a loo-roll fort complete with dozens of loo-
roll soldiers. Most of them got broken and ended up in the bin. Joe did manage to save a sad looking little loo-roll space rocket, though he wasn’t sure why.

  The only good thing about working in a factory was that Mr Spud had lots of time to daydream. One day he had a daydream that was to revolutionise bottom wiping forever.

  Why not invent a loo roll that is moist on one side and dry on the other? he thought, as he rolled paper around his thousandth roll of the day. Mr Spud kept his idea top-secret and toiled for hours locked in the bathroom of their little council flat getting his new double-sided loo roll exactly right.

  When Mr Spud finally launched ‘Freshbum’, it was an instant phenomenon. Mr Spud sold a billion rolls around the world every day. And every time a roll was sold, he made 10p. It all added up to an awful lot of money, as this simple maths equation shows.

  Joe Spud was only eight at the time ‘Freshbum’ was launched, and his life was turned upside down in a heartbeat. First, Joe’s mum and dad split up. It turned out that for many years Joe’s mum Carol had been having a torrid affair with Joe’s Cub Scout leader, Alan. She took a ten-billion-pound divorce settlement; Alan swapped his canoe for a gigantic yacht. Last anyone had heard, Carol and Alan were sailing off the coast of Dubai, pouring vintage champagne on their Crunchy Nut Cornflakes every morning. Joe’s dad seemed to get over the split quickly and began going on dates with an endless parade of Page 3 girls.

  Soon father and son moved out of their poky council flat and into an enormous stately home. Mr Spud named it ‘Freshbum Towers’.

  The house was so large it was visible from outer space. It took five minutes just to motor up the drive. Hundreds of newly-planted, hopeful little trees lined the mile-long gravel track. The house had seven kitchens, twelve sitting rooms, forty-seven bedrooms and eighty-nine bathrooms.

  Even the bathrooms had en-suite bathrooms. And some of those en-suite bathrooms had en-en-suite bathrooms.

  Despite living there for a few years, Joe had probably only ever explored around a quarter of the main house. In the endless grounds were tennis courts, a boating lake, a helipad and even a 100m ski-slope complete with mountains of fake snow. All the taps, door handles and even toilet seats were solid gold. The carpets were made from mink fur, he and his dad drank orange squash from priceless antique medieval goblets, and for a while they had a butler called Otis who was also an orang-utan. But he had to be given the sack.

  “Can I have a proper present as well, Dad?” said Joe, as he put the cheque in his trouser pocket. “I mean, I’ve got loads of money already.”

  “Tell me what you want, son, and I’ll get one of my assistants to buy it,” said Mr Spud. “Some solid gold sunglasses? I’ve got a pair. You can’t see out of ’em but they are very expensive.”

  Joe yawned.

  “Your own speedboat?” ventured Mr Spud.

  Joe rolled his eyes. “I’ve got two of those. Remember?”

  “Sorry, son. How about a quarter of a million pounds worth of WHSmith vouchers?”

  “Boring! Boring! Boring!” Joe stamped his feet in frustration. Here was a boy with high-class problems.

  Mr Spud looked forlorn. He wasn’t sure there was anything left in the world that he could buy his only child. “Then what, son?”

  Joe suddenly had a thought. He pictured himself going round the racetrack all on his own, racing against himself. “Well, there is something I really want…” he said, tentatively.

  “Name it, son,” said Mr Spud.

  “A friend.”

  Chapter 2

  Bum Boy

  “Bum boy,” said Joe.

  “Bum Boy?” spluttered Mr Spud. “What else do they call you at school, son?”

  “The Bog Roll Kid...”

  Mr Spud shook his head in disbelief. He had sent his son to the most expensive school in England: St Cuthbert’s School for Boys. The fees were £200,000 a term and all the boys had to wear Elizabethan ruffs and tights. Here is a picture of Joe in his school uniform. He looks a bit silly, doesn’t he?

  So the last thing that Mr Spud expected was that his son would get bullied. Bullying was something that happened to poor people. But the truth was that Joe had been picked on ever since he started at the school. The posh kids hated him, because his dad had made his money out of loo rolls. They said that was ‘awfully vulgar’.

  “Bottom Billionaire, The Bum-Wipe Heir, Master Plop-Paper,” continued Joe. “And that’s just the teachers.”

  Most of the boys at Joe’s school were Princes, or at least Dukes or Earls. Their families had made their fortunes from owning lots of land. That made them ‘old money’. Joe had quickly come to learn that money was only worth having if it was old. New money from selling loo rolls didn’t count.

  The posh boys at St Cuthbert’s had names like Nathaniel Septimus Ernest Bertram Lysander Tybalt Zacharias Edmund Alexander Humphrey Percy Quentin Tristan Augustus Bartholomew Tarquin Imogen Sebastian Theodore Clarence Smythe.

  That was just one boy.

  The subjects were all ridiculously posh too. This was Joe’s school timetable:

  Lessons

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  Monday

  Latin

  Straw-Hat wearing

  Royal studies

  The study of etiquette

  Show-jumping

  Ballroom dancing

  Debating Society (‘This house believes that it is vulgar to do up the bottom button on your waistcoat’)

  Scone eating

  Bow-tie tying

  Punting

  Polo (the sport with horses and sticks, not the mint)

  Tuesday

  Ancient Greek

  Croquet

  Pheasant shooting

  Being beastly to servants class

  Mandolin level 3

  History of Tweed

  Nose in the air hour

  Learning to step over the homeless person as you leave the opera

  Finding your way out of a maze

  Wednesday

  Fox-hunting

  Flower arranging

  Conversing about the weather

  History of cricket

  History of the brogue

  Playing Stately Home Top Trumps

  Reading Harper’s Bazaar

  Ballet appreciation class

  Top-hat polishing

  Fencing (the one with swords, not selling stolen goods)

  Thursday

  Antique furniture appreciation hour

  Range Rover tyre changing class

  Discussion of whose daddy is the richest

  Competition to see who is best friends with Prince Harry

  Learning to talk posh

  Rowing club

  Debating Society (‘This house believes that muffins are best toasted’)

  Chess

  The study of coats of arms

  A lecture on how to talk loudly in restaurants

  Friday

  Poetry reading (Medieval English)

  History of wearing corduroy

  Topiary class

  Classical sculpture appreciation class

  Spotting yourself in the party pages of Tatler hour

  Duck hunting

  Billiards

  Classical music appreciation afternoon

  Dinner party discussion topic class (e.g. how the working classes smell)

  However, the main reason why Joe hated going to St Cuthbert’s wasn’t the silly subjects. It was the fact that everyone at the school looked down on him. They thought that someone whose papa made their money from bog rolls was just too, too frightfully common.

  “I want to go to a different school, Dad,” said Joe.

  “No problem. I can afford to send you to the poshest schools in the world. I heard about this place in Switzerland. You ski in the morning and then—”

  “No,” said Joe. “How about I go to
the local comp?”

  “What?” said Mr Spud.

  “I might make a friend there,” said Joe. He’d seen the kids milling around the school gates when he was being chauffeured to St Cuthbert’s. They all looked like they were having such a great time – chatting, playing games, swapping cards. To Joe, it all looked so fabulously normal.

  “Yes, but the local comp...” said Mr Spud, incredulously. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes,” replied Joe, defiantly.

  “I could build you a school in the back garden if you like?” offered Mr Spud.

  “No. I want to go to a normal school. With normal kids. I want to make a friend, Dad. I don’t have a single friend at St Cuthbert’s.”

  “But you can’t go to a normal school. You are a billionaire, boy. All the kids will either bully you or want to be friends with you just because you are rich. It’ll be a nightmare for you.”

  “Well, then I won’t tell anyone who I am. I’ll just be Joe. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll make a friend, or even two…”

  Mr Spud thought for a moment, and then relented. “If that’s what you really want, Joe, then OK, you can go to a normal school.”

  Joe was so excited he bumjumped* along the sofa nearer to his dad to give him a cuddle.

  “Don’t crease the suit, boy,” said Mr Spud.

  *[Bumjumping (verb) bum-jump-ing. To move places while sitting using only your bottom to power you, thus meaning you do not have to get up. Much favoured by the overweight.]