Laugh Your Head Off Again and Again

  About Laugh Your Head Off Again and Again

  9 authors

  9 stories

  to make you laugh your head off again and again!

  A scary shower + three twisty little pigs + a choose your own adventure + a Halloween chicken + a demonic clown + an unexpected gift + terrible twins + a famous dancing dog + a running race like no other = one hilarious book.

  illustrations

  by

  Andrea

  Innocent

  Contents

  About Laugh Your Head Off Again and Again

  ‘In the Shower with Andy’ by Andy Griffiths

  ‘Mr Wolf Pie’ by R. A. Spratt

  ‘Choose Your Own Adventure’ by John Marsden

  ‘The Halloween Chicken’ by Alex Ratt

  ‘Death by Clown’ by Tristan Bancks

  ‘A Perfectly Normal Thursday’ by Deborah Abela

  ‘Sir Bum’ by Tony Wilson

  ‘Nutbush’ by Meredith Costain

  ‘Charlie and the Stations of the Cross-Country’ by Alan Brough

  About the authors

  About the illustrator

  Also available

  Copyright page

  IN THE

  SHOWER

  WITH ANDY

  by

  Andy

  Griffiths

  I’m in the shower. Singing. And not just because the echo makes my voice sound so cool either. I’m singing because I’m so happy.

  Ever since I’ve been old enough to have showers I’ve been trying to find a way to fill a shower cubicle up with water. If I put a face-washer over the plughole I can get the water as far up as my ankles, but it always ends up leaking out through the gaps in the door.

  But I think I’ve finally found the answer—Dad’s silicone gun.

  I’ve plugged up the plughole.

  I’ve sealed up the shower-screen doors.

  I’ve even filled in all the cracks in the tiles.

  The cubicle is completely watertight and the water is already up to my knees.

  And the best thing is that I’ve got all night to enjoy it.

  Mum and Dad have got Mr and Mrs Bainbridge over for dinner. They’ll be too busy listening to Mr Bainbridge talking about himself to have time to worry about what I’m doing.

  I hear banging on the door.

  ‘Have you almost finished, Andy?’

  It’s Jen!

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘I think I’m going to be in here a while yet.’

  ‘Can you hurry up?’ yells Jen.

  ‘But you already had your shower this morning,’ I yell.

  ‘I’m going out,’ she says. ‘I need the bathroom!’

  ‘Okay. I’ll be out in a minute,’ I call. I always say that. It’s the truth. Sort of. I will be out in a minute— I’m just not saying which minute it will be.

  The cubicle is filling with thick white steam. Just the way I like it. Dad’s always telling us how important it is to turn the fan on when we’re having a shower, but I can’t see the point. A shower without steam doesn’t make sense. You might as well go and stand outside in the rain.

  My rubber duck bumps against my legs. I pick it up.

  ‘This is it,’ I say. ‘Just you and me . . . going where no boy—or rubber duck—has ever gone before.’

  It has its bill raised in a sort of a smile. It must be as excited as I am. Let’s face it, there can’t be that much excitement in the life of a rubber duck. Except that you’d get to see everybody without their clothes on.

  Jen bangs on the door again.

  ‘Andy! Pleeeeease!’

  ‘Okay,’ I call. ‘I’ll be out in a minute.’

  ‘You said that a minute ago.’

  ‘I’m washing my hair.’

  ‘But you’ve been in there for at least half an hour. You don’t have that much hair.’

  ‘I’m using a new sort of shampoo—I have to do it strand by strand.’

  ‘Andy!’

  The water is almost up to my belly-button.

  There’s only one thing missing. Bubbles!

  I pick up the bubblebath and measure out a capful. I tip it into the water. A few bubbles, but not enough. I add another cap. And another. And another. One more for good measure. Another for good luck.

  I keep adding bubblebath until the bottle is empty. The bubbles rise over my head. Cool. It’s like I’m being eaten by this enormous white fungus. Well, not that being eaten by an enormous white fungus would be cool—it would probably be quite uncool, actually—but you know what I mean.

  Jen is yelling.

  ‘Andy, if you don’t get out right this minute, you’re going to be sorry.’

  Jen is persistent, I’ll give her that. But I’ll fix her. I’ll use my old ‘what did you say?’ routine.

  ‘Pardon?’ I yell. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said you’re going to be sorry!’

  ‘What? I can’t hear you!’

  ‘I said get out of the shower!’

  ‘Pardon?’

  No reply. I win.

  Aaaagghhh!

  The water’s gone hot! Boiling hot!

  Jen must have flushed the toilet. That’s bad news.

  I lose.

  I jump back against the shower wall.

  Hot water splatters onto my face. My chest. My arms.

  I grab the cold tap and turn it on full.

  The hot water disappears. Now it’s freezing.

  I’m going to have to turn both taps off and start all over again. I hate that. Being a pioneer is not easy.

  I turn the hot tap off. But the cold won’t budge.

  I grab the tap with both hands. I try to twist it clockwise but it’s stuck. Not even my super-strength can move it.

  The silicone gun is hanging off the shower pipe. I pick it up and start bashing the tap with it. That should loosen it.

  But the handgrip shatters.

  The pieces disappear into the soapy water. I’m staring at a thin metal rod coming out of the wall. And the water is still flowing full blast.

  I kneel down and clamp my teeth over the tap rod.

  No good. The tap feels like it’s rusted into place. My teeth will crack before it moves.

  There’s no steam left. The bubbles have been flattened. The freezing water is almost up to my chest. Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea.

  Time to bail out.

  I take a deep breath and dive to the bottom of the shower. I’m trying to find the plughole. I’ve got to get the silicone out before the shower fills up completely.

  But I can’t do it. I did the job too well. There’s nothing but a hard rubbery slab of silicone where the plug used to be. I can’t poke through it. I can’t get a fingernail underneath to lift it up. It’s times like this I wish I didn’t bite my nails. But then it’s times like this that cause me to bite my nails in the first place.

  I stand up, gasping for air. The water is up to my neck. I grab hold of the doorhandle and try to wrench it open but I laid the silicone even thicker on the doors than the plughole. If you ever want anything sealed tight I can recommend Dad’s silicone gun. This stuff stays stuck forever.

  I’m going to have to break the door down.

  I’ll use the gun. It made short work of the tap so the door shouldn’t be a problem.

  I bash the glass with the gun handle. It bounces off. I bash it again, harder this time. The gun snaps in two. Just my luck. Reinforced shower screen glass. Unbreakable.

  I’m shivering. And not just from the cold. I’m scared.

  I start bashing the door with the duck.

  ‘HELP! I’M DROWNING! HELP!’

  ‘I’m not surprised!’ Jen yells back. �
�You’ve been in there long enough.’

  ‘Jen, I’m not kidding. Help me!’

  ‘What did you say?’ she says. ‘I can’t hear you.’

  ‘Be serious,’ I yell. ‘I’ve siliconed myself in here.’

  ‘What?’

  She wins again.

  I’m treading water. My head is very close to the top of the shower.

  The only way I can save myself is to get rid of the water.

  I’m going to have to drink it.

  Dirty soapy shower water.

  I’d rather die.

  The water nudges the tip of my nose.

  Actually, on second thoughts I’d rather drink the water.

  I start swallowing.

  It’s working. I just have to drink as fast as the shower is filling up. And if I can drink even faster then I might get out of here alive yet. Actually the water doesn’t taste that bad—it’s only been three days since my last shower.

  I keep swallowing.

  And swallowing. And swallowing. And swallowing.

  Uh-oh.

  I can’t believe this.

  I need to go to the toilet.

  But I can’t.

  I’ll drink dirty shower water but I won’t drink that.

  I’ve got to hold on.

  But I can’t do that, either.

  I’m busting.

  My head is bumping against the roof of the shower.

  It’s getting harder to breathe.

  There’s more banging on the door but it sounds like it’s coming from a long way away.

  ‘I’m going to tell Dad,’ says Jen in a distant voice. ‘Is that what you want? Is it?’

  ‘Yes, Jen,’ I call. ‘Yes! Please hurry!’

  Everything becomes quiet.

  My life is flashing before my eyes.

  I see myself blowing a high-pitched whistle while Mum is trying to talk on the telephone. I see myself letting down the tyres on Dad’s car. I see myself hiding a rubber snake in Jen’s bed. Is that all I did with my life? Annoy people? Surely I did something useful . . . something good?

  Nope. I can’t think of anything. Except for solving the problem of how to fill a shower cubicle with water.

  I may be going to die, but at least it will be a hero’s death. Future generations of Australian children will thank me as they float around in their sealed-up shower cubicles.

  Ouch!

  Something is pressing into the top of my head.

  I look up.

  The fan! I forgot all about it.

  It’s not very big, but it’s better than nothing. If I can get the grille off then I can escape through the hole and up into the roof.

  I work my fingers under the edge of the grille and pull on it. It comes off easily.

  I reach into the casing and grab hold of the fan. I rock it back and forth. There is a little bit of give in it. I start giving it all I’ve got.

  Finally the bolts holding it give way. I push my arms and head into the hole, kicking like mad to get the thrust I need to make it all the way up.

  The opening is smaller than I thought. I expel every last bit of air in my lungs to make myself thin enough to fit through the hole. Not that there was much air left in them, but it seems to help.

  At last! I’m through!

  I’m lying on a yellow insulation batt in the roof of our house. The glass fibres are prickly on my skin, but I’m not complaining. It’s a lot better than where I was. I look back into the hole. It’s like one of those fishing holes that Eskimos cut in the ice. But there’s no fish. Just my rubber duck. I reach down and pick it out. We’re in this together. I can’t just leave it.

  After I get my breath back I look around.

  I know there’s a manhole in the top of the kitchen. All I have to do is locate it, climb down into the kitchen and nick down the hallway into my room. Then I can put my pyjamas on and go to bed early. It will save a lot of boring explanation—and, if I’m really lucky, Jen will get the blame.

  I have to move fast. I start crawling towards the kitchen. I’m carrying the duck in one hand and using my other hand to feel my way along the roof beam.

  Suddenly I feel a sharp pain in my thumb. I jerk my hand back and almost lose my balance. I fling the duck away so I can grab the beam with my other hand.

  I look at my thumb. A huge splinter is sticking out of it. I pull it out with my teeth. Ouch!

  I shake my hand a few times and look around for my duck. It has landed in the middle of a large unsupported section of insulation batts. I’m tempted to leave it there. But that wouldn’t be right. It’s been with me all the way. I can’t abandon it now.

  I reach towards it but it’s too far away. I’m going to have to crawl out there. I know you’re not supposed to climb on the unsupported parts of the roof, but I think it will be okay. I’m not that heavy. And it’s not as if I have any clothes on to weigh me down.

  I climb carefully onto the batts and start moving slowly to the centre. One more metre and I’m there.

  I pick up my duck and bring it up to my face. ‘Just you and me,’ I say.

  The duck creaks. That’s weird. I didn’t know rubber ducks could talk.

  Uh-oh. The creaking is not coming from the duck. It’s coming from underneath me. The ceiling is giving way.

  I try to grab the roof beam but I can’t reach it.

  The ceiling caves in.

  Next thing I know I’m lying, legs spread, in the middle of the dinner table—my fall broken by an insulation batt.

  As the dust from the ceiling plaster settles, I see Mr and Mrs Bainbridge and Mum and Dad staring down at me.

  Jen is standing next to Dad, her bath towel draped over her shoulder. Her back is turned towards me and she’s so busy complaining to Dad that she doesn’t seem to notice what has happened.

  ‘. . . I’ve asked him a million times but he just won’t get out . . . ’ she’s saying.

  ‘Oh, dear,’ says Mum.

  ‘Oh, my,’ says Mrs Bainbridge.

  For once in his life Mr Bainbridge is speechless.

  ‘Oh, no,’ says Dad, shaking his head at me. ‘No, no, no!’

  ‘Oh yes,’ says Jen. ‘And I’ll tell you what else . . . ’

  Dad nods in my direction.

  Jen stops, turns around and stares.

  I cover myself with the rubber duck, swing my legs over the edge of the table and stand up.

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ I say. ‘I was looking for the kitchen.’

  Nobody says anything. They are all just staring at me, their faces and clothes white from the plaster dust.

  I head towards the door as fast as I can.

  As I’m about to exit I turn towards Jen. She is still standing there, eyes wide.

  ‘Well, what are you waiting for?’ I say. ‘Shower’s free!’

  MR

  WOLF

  PIE

  by

  R. A.

  Spratt

  Peter, Luke and Lucy were three lovely children, and their parents were good hardworking people. But there comes a point in every school holidays when even the nicest child will start to drive even the kindest parent mad. No matter how much a parent loves their child there is a limit to how many snacks they can fix before they want to tear their hair out and scream, ‘For goodness sake, can I just have one moment of peace without someone asking me to fetch a SAO cracker?’ You have probably heard your own parents say something similar.

  It is at this point that any sensible parent takes action, and arranges for their sweet angels to spend a few days with their grandmother.

  Peter, Lucy and Luke did not mind this at all. They loved being sent to Granny’s house. Granny had no limits on the consumption of chocolate, no qualms about letting them use her power tools and she absolutely insisted that they spend hours watching reality TV with her because she thoroughly enjoyed watching regular people humiliate themselves on national television. But the best thing about Granny was her stories. Every night, before bed, t
hey would snuggle around her on the sofa and she would tell them a tale.

  ‘I want to tell you a story about three very dear friends of mine,’ began Grandmother on the first night of their visit, ‘Nathan, Gerald and Sophie.’ She dabbed a tear away from her eye.

  ‘Why are you crying, Grandmother?’ asked Peter.

  ‘I can’t tell you, it would ruin the story,’ said Grandmother.

  ‘Is it a sad story?’ asked Luke.

  ‘In parts,’ admitted Grandmother. ‘When I think of how those poor pigs suffered . . . ’ Grandmother said no more, she just sniffed.

  ‘The story is about pigs?’ asked Lucy.

  ‘That’s what I said,’ said Grandmother. ‘Nathan, Gerald and Sophie.’

  ‘You didn’t say they were pigs,’ said Peter.

  ‘I don’t know why you would assume they weren’t pigs,’ said Grandmother. ‘My story is about three young people, who just happened to be pigs, whose cruel mother forced them to go out and find their own places to live’.

  ‘She made them leave home when they were just children?!’ exclaimed Lucy.

  ‘No, they were in their early thirties,’ said Grandmother, ‘but it’s cruel to force a child to leave home when you are good at cooking. If you can make a caramel basket as delicious as the ones my friend Madge whips up, you can understand why it is cruel to expect her children to go and live anywhere else. But still, you don’t get to be that good at caramelising sugar without hardening your heart (whenever I try to do it, I find it impossible to resist eating the sugar straight out of the bag before I even get started). So one day, after being given two months’ notice and plenty of money to pay for a rental bond each, Madge forced her children heartlessly into the street.’

  ‘If they had money for a rental bond, what was the problem?’ asked Peter. ‘Why didn’t they just rent a flat?’

  ‘Because they were pigs,’ said Grandmother, as though that explained everything.

  The children looked confused.

  ‘They took the bond money straight around to the sweet shop, spent it all on lollies and sat on the gutter outside the shop eating them all afternoon,’ explained Grandmother.