David Walliams - Billionaire Boy

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 WH Smith 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 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 Chapter 5 - Out of Date Easter Eggs Chapter 6 - The Grubbs Chapter 7 - Gerbils on Toast Chapter 8 - The Witch Chapter 9 - “Finger?”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 Thank yous About the Author About the Publisher

“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:

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 bum-jumped* 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.]

“Sorry Dad,” said Joe, bumjumping back a little. He cleared his throat. “Um… I love you, Dad.”

“Yes, son, ditto, ditto,” said Mr Spud, as he rose to his feet. “Well, have a good birthday, mate.”

“Aren’t we going to do something together tonight?” said Joe, trying to hide his disappointment. When he was younger, Joe’s dad would always take him to the local burger restaurant as a birthday treat. They couldn’t afford the burgers, so they would just order the chips, and eat them with some ham and pickle sandwiches that Mr Spud would smuggle in under his hat.