Billionaire Boy. David Walliams

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.

      “I can’t son, sorry. I’ve got a date with this beautiful girl tonight,” said Mr Spud, indicating Page 3 of the Sun.

      Joe looked at the page. There was a photograph of a woman whose clothes seemed to have fallen off. Her hair was dyed white blonde and she had so much make-up on it was difficult to tell if she was pretty or not. Underneath the image it read, ‘Sapphire, 19, from Bradford. Likes shopping, hates thinking. ’

      “Don’t