First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Children’s

Books in 2018

Published in this ebook edition in 2018

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Text copyright © David Baddiel 2018

Cover and interior illustrations copyright © Steven Lenton 2018

Cover design © HarperCollins Children’s Books

David Baddiel and Steven Lenton assert the moral right to be identified as the author and illustrator of the work respectively.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

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Source ISBN: 9780008200527

Ebook Edition © September 2018 ISBN: 9780008200541

Version: 2018-08-21

To Enzo, for the idea

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Part One: Old Head

Chapter 1. Inadequate

Chapter 2. A Prince Among Pranksters

Chapter 3. No Worries

Chapter 4. Empty Space

Chapter 5. What I Propose To Do

Part Two: New Head

Chapter 6. Idle Hands

Chapter 7. I’m. Not. Rubbish.

Chapter 8. The Naughtiest Boy in the School

Chapter 9. Oakcroft

Chapter 10. Benny and Bjorn(ita)

Chapter 11. What Punishment?

Chapter 12. Even More Frightening

Chapter 13. Take Your Pants Back

Part Three: Changed Head

Chapter 14. Mr Bum Bum Bummington

Chapter 15. AAAAARGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHH!!!!

Chapter 16. No, Yan!

Chapter 17. Ryan →← Mr Carter

Chapter 18. Small Amendment

Chapter 19. A Bracketwood Flashmob

Chapter 20. Naughty Bin

Chapter 21. Meowing Like a Cat

Chapter 22. Time for the Next Lesson

Chapter 23. The How to Be a Head Teacher Handbook

Chapter 24. My Name Isn’t Doreen

Chapter 25. OH! HEADMASTER CAR-TER!

Chapter 26. This is Getting Weird

Chapter 27. All Fourteen Varieties

Chapter 28. Kind of Forgot

Chapter 29. Other

Chapter 30. BRRASSSSSHHHHHHHHHHHHOOOOOO

Chapter 31. A Message For Mr Carter

Chapter 32. Really Nice

Chapter 33. That’s My Problem

Part Four: Head to Head

Chapter 34. A Hubbub

Chapter 35. All Very Well

Chapter 36. Bring It On

Chapter 37. Minor-royal-face

Chapter 38. Ps Bumbumbum

Chapter 39. That Bad

Chapter 40. A Bit of a Problem

Chapter 41. Shirley OBE

Chapter 42. You’ll Be Sorry

Chapter 43. Dregs

Chapter 44. Stupid Old Oakcroft

Chapter 45. A Job Well Done

Chapter 46. OMG

Chapter 47. A Very Strong Word

Chapter 48. When You Say Guys

Chapter 49. Not. At. All.

Chapter 50. BAH!

Part Five: Head Kid

Chapter 51. Weird Music

Chapter 52. Brother

Chapter 53. Is That All?

Chapter 54. One More Thing

Chapter 55. One More One-more Thing

Coda

Thanks to

Keep Reading …

Books by David Baddiel

About the Publisher

Bracket Wood School had never, since it was opened all the way back in 1983, received an OFFHEAD ranking of Outstanding. Nor had it received one of Good. There was a very brief golden period, in the early 90s, when it received one of Satisfactory. But then that was found to have been a mistake – the inspector had ticked the wrong box, for which he himself got marked down to Not As Good As We Thought – and it went back to its usual ranking: Inadequate.

It was, in fact, a running joke in the OFFHEAD offices – not a place where you’d have thought there’d be much joking, but at least on the subject of Bracket Wood you’d be wrong – that one day they might have to create a new ranking for this particular school: Rubbish.

This was a problem for Bracket Wood because OFFHEAD, as I’m sure you all know, is a government organisation which checks that schools aren’t rubbish. Parents, as you also might know, pay a lot of attention to their reports. Some parents, in fact, spend far too much of their time reading OFFHEAD reports, and discussing them with their friends who are also parents, and worrying all the time about which school to send their children to, based on OFFHEAD reports. Some parents worry about this so much they ruin their child’s childhood. But that’s another story.

This story begins with the staff and governors and parents and even some of the pupils at Bracket Wood in something of a panic. Because OFFHEAD was coming. In a month’s time. Which was even more worrying than usual. For two reasons:

1 Bracket Wood Council, Education Department, had announced, on hearing that OFFHEAD was coming again, that if the school got another Inadequate rating it might be time to think about closing the place down, and …

2 Ryan Ward.

“Right, Six B!” said Mr Barrington, moving the TV monitor into place on top of his desk. “It’s good news. Today we are going to watch a TV For Schools documentary.”

A groan went up from the class.

“Stop groaning!” said Mr Barrington.

Another groan went up from the class.

“I said, stop groaning. I didn’t say groan again.”

“Is it A World Without Lead?” said Barry Bennett.

“No. Although that was very good,” said Mr Barrington, putting the DVD into the player. “Especially the bit showing what a problem that would be for cable sheathing.”

“Not that one about dust! Please!” said Sam Green.

“It Gets Everywhere! you mean? I’ll have you know that won a DAFTA!”

“Do you mean a BAFTA?”

“No, it’s an award from the Dust And Filth Trackers Association.”

“Please not A Shepherd’s World …”

“Just be quiet and turn the lights off, Malcolm Bailey – and don’t tell me you didn’t love the twenty minutes in that documentary about how various types of grass taste to a sheep.”

Malcolm shook his head quite certainly – as if he really knew about that – and turned off the light. A menu appeared on the screen. It showed a large metal bucket. And the words: “How Buckets Are Made”.

“What’s this one about, sir?” said Morris Fawcett, the head teacher’s son, who frankly had little hope of following in his father’s footsteps academically.

“Well, Morris, I’m glad you asked me that. It’s about how— Hold on, are you being sarcastic?”

“I wish he was,” said his twin sister Isla wearily.

“Hmm,” said Mr Barrington, pressing Play. “Just watch. It’s very interesting.”

With that, he went and sat – as he always did after putting boring documentaries on for 6B to watch – on his chair behind the TV, pushed his enormous glasses up on his forehead and fell asleep.

At which point, Ryan Ward, who had been sitting at the back quietly, knew it was time to make his move.

“What are you writing?” whispered Ellie Stone. She was one of six pupils gathered in a circle round Mr Barrington’s right hand. The reason this circle had gathered was that Mr Barrington’s right hand was lying loosely by his side. His head was lolling on his chest and he was snoring gently into his moustache. A tiny bit of dribble, originating from the left-hand corner of 6B’s teacher’s mouth, had made its way down to the top of his chin. And crouching by his right hand was Ryan Ward, brandishing an eyeliner pencil.

“You’ll see …” said Ryan, whispering back.

“And so the sheet metal is curved round the frame of the bucket …” said the television, not whispering.

Very carefully, and making sure he did it gently enough not to wake his teacher, he began to write.

“That’s clever,” said Sam. “You’re doing mirror writing.”

“I am,” said Ryan. He carried on writing with great concentration. Because this was, of course, a prank. And Ryan, the naughtiest boy at Bracket Wood, prided himself on his pranks. He was a philosopher-prince amongst pranksters. Not for him the bucket of water on the top of the door, or the fifty pizzas delivered to your house that you haven’t ordered. He was a prankster whose motto was Make it new. Even if he was using an old trick – such as one you might play on a sleeping teacher – Ryan would have to do it in his own way. The devil, some people say, is in the detail, and certainly this particular devil always made sure he got all the details right for all his tricks.

“It’s important, at this stage, to make sure that the bottom of the bucket does not have a hole in it. Even if later – ha-ha! – you might want to sing a song about that!”

Ryan put the eyeliner pencil down.

“OK,” he said – still whispering – to his little audience. “Now for the kicker.”

He reached into his school bag and brought out a little plastic box. Inside, munching on a piece of lettuce, was an ant. He put his index finger inside the box and let the ant crawl on to it. Then, watched by the entranced circle of schoolmates, he carefully raised that finger towards Mr Barrington’s forehead, to just above his pushed-up glasses. The ant looked up, twitched its tiny antennae and began to make its way down his finger.

“Using this process, a workshop can make up to fifteen buckets a day.”

“Hang on,” said a voice. “Are you doing what I think you’re doing …?”

Ryan didn’t turn round. Focused, concentrating, he kept his finger still.

“I don’t know, Dionna,” said Ryan. “What do you think I’m doing?”

Dionna Baxter, standing right behind him, was Ryan’s best friend. She was also usually his prank assistant. But that didn’t mean she saw herself as junior to him. Not least because she was two months older.

“I think you’re doing something that means that ant is gonna die.”

“Well … possibly …” said Ryan.

“Can’t do that,” said Dionna.

“What?”

“Can’t do that, Ryan. Not fair to the ant. Little ant just strolling around your garden, building its ant stuff, carrying leaves …”

“Actually, it was carrying one of my bogies. That’s how I caught it. Couldn’t resist that salty goodness.”

“Whatevs. Point is, it doesn’t deserve what you’ve got planned. Mr B, maybe. Not the ant.”

“Dionna,” said Ryan, still looking at the ant, which by now had nearly made it to the teacher’s forehead, “if we keep arguing, Barrington will wake up!”

“So. Stop arguing.”

Finally, Ryan moved his gaze up to meet Dionna’s. Her eyes looked at him in a way that brooked no argument.

Ryan sighed. “OK. OK!” He put his finger back down into the plastic box with the lettuce in it. The ant, uncertain as to the point of its journey to and from the box, crawled off and resumed munching.

“So now what are we going to use to tickle him?” said Ryan.

“No worries,” said Dionna. She went round behind Mr Barrington’s still-sleeping form and flicked her head down, making the front tips of her hair fall on to his forehead. She moved her head from side to side, drawing the strands gently across his ingrained frown lines.

Mr Barrington twitched in his sleep. His nose wiggled. Ryan, watching, understood.

“OK, everyone! Back to your seats! Now!”

Everyone ran, and they all got there in time. In time, that is, to see – in one movement – Mr Barrington open his eyes, let his glasses fall back down on to his nose and slap the palm of his right hand hard across his forehead.

He yawned, stood up and said, “Hmm. Right, class!”

He was about to say, “That was a very interesting documentary. I hope you all enjoyed it.”

But he never got the chance as they were all pointing at him and laughing.

“Sorry, Mr Barrington,” said Mr Fawcett, “I didn’t quite follow?”

“As I was saying, Headmaster, I was showing Six B a fascinating documentary – I was paying great attention to it myself, of course – when suddenly the whole class started laughing and pointing at me. Well, obviously, I knew straight away who was behind this mockery: Ryan Ward! As usual!”

Mr Barrington was standing in the office of Mr Fawcett, the headmaster of Bracket Wood, in front of his desk. Next to him stood Ryan Ward. There is an expression: as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. I have never understood this expression. It means: looking innocent. What that has to do with the temperature of your mouth, I have no idea. And, frankly, if butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth, you should call a doctor or an appliance engineer, because either you’re very ill, or your fridge is far too cold.

But, anyway, Ryan was looking … like that. Although one giveaway that perhaps he wasn’t quite so innocent was his tie, which, as ever, was not done up properly. It hung loosely, two buttons down from his collar. Ryan liked to think of this as an act of rebellion: his way of saying, “Fine, I’m wearing the tie, but I’m not a boy in uniform.”

“Right,” said Mr Fawcett to Mr Barrington. “But what has all that got to do with what you’ve got written on your forehead?”

“Pardon, Headmaster?”

“On your forehead, Barrington, you have some words. In black capitals.”

Mr Barrington, who had been speaking and waving his arms around quite fast, stopped doing both of these things and looked very confused. He glanced angrily at Ryan before going over to the fireplace in the office, which had a mirror above it.

Mr Barrington looked at his face, confused. He took his enormous glasses off and squinted. Then he put them back on again. Eventually, he said:

“Hm. I can’t make out what it says at all. It seems to be saying … Is it Russian?”

“Barrington,” said Mr Fawcett wearily, “you’re looking at it in the mirror.”

Mr Barrington looked back at the mirror, even more confused.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Barrington,” said Mr Fawcett, coming over and standing next to him. “You fell asleep, like you always do, after putting on a dull documentary for Six B to watch. And then Ryan clearly wrote these words on your forehead while you were asleep.”

“On his hand, actually, sir,” said Ryan.

“Pardon?” said Mr Fawcett.

Ryan walked towards Mr Barrington with something of a swagger, a bit like a master criminal explaining to a not-very-clever detective the details of an ingenious bank robbery he’s recently masterminded.

“When Mr B – as you say – falls asleep, he always pushes his glasses up on his forehead. I had to find a way round that. So … I wrote it on his hand and – well, let’s cut a long story short – me and a friend found a way of making him wake up and slap his forehead at the same time.”

Mr Fawcett nodded. “I see. So for that to work … you must have written it on his hand in mirror writing?”

Ryan smiled politely, like a politician who’s being praised but doesn’t want to look too pleased about it.

“Headmaster,” said Mr Barrington, “I have no idea what this boy is talking about. I certainly was NOT asleep and—”

Mr Fawcett grabbed Mr Barrington’s right hand and held the palm up to the mirror.

“EMPTY SPACE: AVAILABLE FOR RENT. It’s written right there. And on your forehead.”

“Oh,” said Mr Barrington.

There was a short pause while both men continued to stare into the mirror, and Ryan looked on with amusement.

“Which is why Six B were laughing. It’s a joke, you see? About you not having a brai—”

“Yes, I understand that, Headmaster. Thank you.” Mr Barrington turned furiously to Ryan. “As for you, Ryan Ward, you can take that supercilious smirk off your face right now!” He moved very close to Ryan – who was, it has to be said, smirking – and waved a finger very close to his nose. “You won’t be smirking when I’m finished with you! Oh no!”

“Thank you, Mr Barrington,” said Mr Fawcett. “Don’t worry. I’ll deal with this.”

Mr Barrington’s finger froze, very near the bridge of Ryan’s nose. So close, in fact, that Ryan made his eyes go cross-eyed to look at the tip.

But Mr Barrington didn’t notice that. Because now it was his turn to smirk, knowing for certain that this meant the boy really was for it.

“So …” said Mr Fawcett, after Mr Barrington had left the room with some air of triumph, despite the fact that he still had a message on his forehead suggesting he lacked a brain, “… good one, Ryan.”

Ryan blinked. He’d been expecting a number of things to come out of Mr Fawcett’s mouth – insults, threats, punishments – but not compliments.

“No, really,” said Mr Fawcett, evidently aware of Ryan’s surprise. “Excellent prank. I mean, maybe not up there with that time you let off the fire extinguisher into the dinner lady’s pudding tray.”

“Only because the stuff that comes out of it looks so much like cream,” said Ryan.

“Yes, yes, it does. Doesn’t taste like it, though, does it? As at least five children who now will never eat puddings again could tell you. Anyway, as I say, top notch. And then there was that time you got the whole school to hum during assembly.”

“Very quietly, so you didn’t notice it at first …”

“Yes. That’s the classic method. What else? That butter you spread on the hallway outside the staff room …”

“Is Mrs Wang’s leg mended now?”

“Not yet. The plague of spiders in the laundry room …

“Letting off the fire alarm while everyone was in tears at last year’s leavers’ assembly …

“Telling every child in Reception that Miss Finch was really the Gruffalo …”

“She does look a bit like—”

“Oh, I know. That’s why it worked so well. And it took two weeks to get them all back to the school without screaming! So. Result. I assume? In your terms …”

Ryan frowned. He wasn’t quite sure how to react. Mr Fawcett – who normally just gave him a detention without even bothering to hear about whatever new naughty thing he’d done – was behaving very strangely.

But then the headmaster turned to Ryan and said, “So. Taking into account all your naughtiness so far – and adding on this latest bit, the branding of Mr Barrington’s forehead – this is what I propose to do.”

Ah, thought Ryan. Here it comes.

He considered shutting his eyes, as it felt like it was going to be a really big punishment, but then he thought that wouldn’t suit his Proud of Being Naughty brand, so he kept them open. To hear Mr Fawcett say …

“Resign.”

Ryan blinked.

“Sorry?”

“RESIGN”.

“Sorry, I’m still not—”

“RESIGN”.

Mr Fawcett said it a bit louder this time. Then he said it again. Well, he didn’t say it. He sang it. To the tune of “Football’s Coming Home”.

“Resign, resign!

Resign, resign!

I’m leaving!

Fawcett’s Going Home!”

Although Mr Fawcett was improvising, Ryan was impressed – his words fitted perfectly. He was singing very loudly, and dancing, raising each foot into the air and sticking his thumbs under his armpits, while leaping around Ryan. He continued …

“Resign, resign!

Resign, resign!

Free of here!

Far away from YOU!”

The word “you” came with a big point of the finger at Ryan’s face. Mr Fawcett stayed pointing into the chorus.

“YOU are off the chart!

Now it’s time to get rid!

Thirty years of school

Never seen a worse kid!”

Then he turned to the window, opened his arms and sang louder, more grandly, like an opera singer.

“Resign, resign!

Resign, resign!

I’m off now!

Fawcett’s … Going … Home …!”

This last note – on the word home – went on for quite some time. And as soon as it was over he skipped – yes, skipped! – across to his desk and starting packing everything on it into his brown-leather briefcase.

Ryan, who had lost some of his cool by now, and whose mouth had been hanging open in amazement, said: “But … who’s going to be in charge of the school?”

“Ha!” said Mr Fawcett, snapping the briefcase shut. “Maybe you should give it a go, Ryan!”

With that he laughed madly, like villains do in pantomimes. And then the head teacher of Bracket Wood School – or possibly the ex-head teacher – was gone, slamming the door behind him.

Well, thought Ryan. That’s never happened before.