Billy Bramble and The Great Big Cook Off. Sally Donovan

Bramble.

      Billy Bramble.

      BILLY BRAMBLE.

      BILLY BRAMBLE.

      BILLY BRAMBLE.

      BILLY BRAMBLE IS MY NAME.

       DON’T WEAR IT OUT.

      Everyone. And I mean everyone, knows my name. I am famous in a way. It’s partly because my name is used a lot and partly because my last name isn’t Smith or Evans or Fraser, it’s Bramble.

      ‘Bramble,’ people say, ‘what an unusual name.’

      Or sometimes people say, ‘No, what’s your real name?’ and I say, ‘That is my real name,’ and they look at me as if I am trying to trick them.

      I can confirm that Billy Bramble is my real

       name, whatever ‘real’ means.

      Sometimes when I write my name I draw a

       bramble around it, like this.

      Brambles are very interesting things. They

       will grow anywhere. The bramble is a survivor.

      I have a chicken called Facebook and a cat called Hungry Bungry and a dog called Gobber, who only I can see. Gobber is the bringer of bad luck, my bad luck, and the main reason that I am very unlucky.

      I am the King, the President and the Emperor of Bad Lucksville. I am the Bad Luck Champion of the World, the Gold Medal Winner of the Bad Luck Olympics, the Guinness World Record

      holder for the most bad luck a

      boy can have. If there was a

      competition called Bad Luck

      Factor I’d win it. And it’s

      all thanks to Gobber.

      But more about him later.

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      I am nearly twelve, I am puny and I am not on Facebook. I live with my mum and dad (who are the reason I am not on Facebook) and my little sister Lucy, who is almost as big as me. Lucy is totally annoying because she is the good one and I am not. Like I told you, I’m the King of Bad Luck.

      My house is at the end of a dead end road called a cul-de-sac. I like my house. It is number thirteen, which is lucky for some. Thirteen is a prime number. I am a prime number. I am eleven and I can’t be divided by any number except myself and one. Soon I will be twelve, which will be a whole different story. My dad is interested in prime numbers and even watched a whole programme on the television about them.

      A whole programme.

      QUESTION: HOW LAME IS THAT?

       ANSWER: VERY.

      I have an alright face but my nose turns up at the end and for that reason I get called ‘ski slope’, ‘Pinocchio’ and other charming names like ‘trunky’. My mum says that I am very handsome but I know

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      that’s what mums say to try to make you feel better. It’s like when they praise things you’ve done that aren’t all that good, like a rubbish drawing or a wonky model.

      QUESTION: HOW ANNOYING IS THAT?

       ANSWER: VERY.

      Me and Carter are best friends except when we’re not which is sometimes. We’ve been best friends since I started at primary school in Year 3. Carter makes unexpected movements and noises, some of them are rude noises. He can’t help it. He has something called Tourettes, which I am very interested in. I’ve watched all the documentaries about Tourettes, which Mum lets me do as long as I don’t repeat any of the rude words. I am mostly quite successful at this.

      Sometimes I think that Carter is luckier than me because everyone knows he has Tourettes, which means he doesn’t get blamed for it. If I swear at school I get sent to the room with the drugs posters in and then Mum gets a snotty green letter home,

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      which she tries to hide from me. She is not very successful at hiding things from me. If there’s one thing I’m good at it’s finding things. It’s one of my special talents.The snotty green letter says something like this:

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      MY EPIC BAD LUCK

      Like I said, Gobber is a dog. My dog. My bringer of bad luck. My bad luck charm. Unfortunately Gobber follows me everywhere. He is a big, solid, dirty grey, hungry animal with yellow eyes that flash red when he’s angry. He gets angry a lot. He has sharp teeth with strings of drool hanging off them and a ferocious bark that shakes the ground under me. He is so real to me I often wonder why no one else can see him, or hear him, or feel him.

      Sometimes Gobber sits at my feet, sometimes he growls, sometimes he yaps and sometimes he jumps up on me in a fit of raging and barks in my face. He spits in my eyes and leaves them running wet like I’ve been crying (which I haven’t). He digs his sharp claws into my shoulders and barks, barks, barks in my ears until I am deaf and everything goes black. It is really not nice having a dog like Gobber. I think I must not be a very nice person to have deserved being

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      lumbered with him. And for that reason I have not told a single other person about him. I think it is safer that way.

      If my mum tells me off for coming home covered in mud I say to her, ‘Mum, it’s not my fault, a dog knocked me into the mud,’ because that is kind of the truth. Gobber does knock me off my feet. A lot. But she doesn’t believe me. She thinks I made up the dog and got muddy on purpose. I don’t do very much on purpose. Then my mum goes on and on but I can’t hear her, because Gobber is barking in my ears.

      Other examples of my epic bad luck:

      •If I am running along the road and there is a hole in the pavement, Gobber will shove me into it and I will fall over and scrape my knees.

      •If I am cycling to the park Gobber will suddenly bark and I will wobble over the stones by the stinging nettles and I will be wearing shorts and my legs will get stung all over.

      •If I lean over to whisper to my friend Carter in class, just once, Gobber will seize the opportunity

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       to get me into trouble, barging into my chair so it wobbles. Mrs Penfolder my English teacher will turn around at that exact moment.

      ‘Billy Bramble, settle down and focus,’ she will say in her trying to be patient but had enough voice.

      Focusing is hard when you’ve got Gobber the dog sat at your feet ruining your life.

      Gobber might also be the reason I never win anything.

      I never ever ever ever ever ever ever EVER EVER EVER win anything.

      I don’t win at cards.

      I don’t win snakes and ladders.

      I don’t win raffles. (My sister Lucy ALWAYS wins raffles and that makes me SICK.)

      I don’t win trophies.

      I don’t win quizzes.

      I