My name is – the most boring name in the world. Dad says with a name like John Smith no one will EVER make fun of me. Mum says I’m “one in a MILLION”. My sister says it makes me the most boring person in history. But do not judge a book by its cover. My life is ANYTHING but boring!

  Contents

  Cover

  John Smith is Not Boring!

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Sneak Peek of Spaceman John the (Nearly) Bold

  About the Author

  Copyright

  To Lottie-Lou, Daisy-Doo ... and Florence too!

  Chapter One

  So I’m minding my own business, cramming liquorice gobstoppers into my mouth, when …

  “Wotcha?!”

  … a great big lump of a fist smashes into my back.

  “Well, well, if it’s not Mr Nobody!” sneers Adam Virgo, World School Bully Champion.

  Why does it always have to be me? It’s not like I go round with a sign on my back saying “Make my life a misery”. (Actually I did once go round with a sign on my back saying “Make my life a misery”, but I hadn’t put it there.)

  Well, it’s time I stood up to Adam Virgo. I’m not letting this gorilla beast me in the playground. What I need is a smart reply, something he’ll remember for ever.

  So I blow a big massive raspberry right in his face.

  BRBRBRBRBRBR!!!

  After that Virgo decides it would be a really good idea to hang me upside down on the school gates with the words “I am John Smith. If you think I’m a no body, blow a raspberry in my face” in thick black marker down the front of my shirt.

  “I’m not a nobody,” I yell.

  “Sorry,” sneers Virgo, looking around, “did someone say something?”

  I see my big sister and her bone-brained boyfriend sloping through the school gates. Hayley totally hates my guts and Rufus thinks I’m a complete non-starter. But still, family is family, they always stick by you.

  “Hayley,” I gurgle, “can you help me?”

  Hayley looks at me and giggles.

  “Nice work, Virgo,” says Rufus.

  They stare at the message on my shirt and both blow a raspberry.

  The head teacher walks across the playground with a steaming mug of tea. He sees me hanging on the gates and reads the words. ‘I am John Smith. If you think I’m a no body, blow a raspberry in my face…’

  “This is disgraceful, absolutely disgraceful,” he mutters darkly.

  At last, someone to help me. Step aside, the cavalry is here!

  “ ‘Nobody’ is spelled as one word!” says the head teacher. “Look it up in the dictionary – nobody: a person of no importance.”

  Everyone looks at me.

  “Yes, head teacher,” says Virgo. “I won’t make that mistake again…”

  “Too right you won’t,” barks the head teacher. “Give me that marker pen!” The head teacher snaps his fingers and Virgo hands him the thick black marker.

  “Now pay close attention,” says the head teacher. “It’s nobody! Nobody! Nobody!”

  He writes the words down three times on my shirt.

  “John Smith is a nobody! Got that?” says the head teacher.

  “John Smith is a nobody,” says Virgo.

  “John Smith is a nobody,” says the head teacher again. This time all the other teachers and most of the playground join in too.

  “John Smith is a nobody!” they all cheer.

  The head teacher looks me squarely in the eye. “You too, Smith, come on now…”

  “John Smith is a nobody,” I murmur.

  “Excellent,” says the head teacher. Then he blows a raspberry.

  Then EVERYONE starts blowing raspberries. The other mums and dads, my fellow pupils … even Mrs Williams, the lollipop lady!

  Then they wander off, leaving me upside down on the school gate, alone with my tormentor. Virgo leans in really close. I can feel my heart thumping, the sweat running down the back of my neck, the liquorice gobstoppers gently rolling out of my pocket.

  “I’m not finished with you, John Smith,” sneers Virgo. “It’s school sports day tomorrow and you know what that means?”

  “We’ll pair up on the same team, steer our side to victory and afterwards become best friends?” I nod hopefully.

  “Almost,” he chuckles. “It means I’m going to trample you into the mud.”

  He pops a gobstopper in his mouth and lumbers across the playground, chuckling.

  Chapter Two

  “You have to stand up to the bullies,” whispers Granddad through a corridor of cereal cartons the next morning at the kitchen table.

  Granddad lives with me and Mum and Dad and my big sister, Hayley, or as I like to call her, “mankind’s greatest threat!”

  We live in a normal little house on a normal little street in a normal little town with people and cars and offices, and under a sky that’s sometimes blue but mostly grey. You probably have something like it yourself.

  Hayley is sitting at the kitchen table doing her make-up. She’s going to a party this afternoon and needs at least ten thousand hours in front of a mirror to make herself look like a normal human being.

  “Did I ever tell you about the time I was nearly eaten by a twenty-foot ballet dancer?” says Granddad.

  Hayley rolls her eyes.

  “Or when I danced with a live alligator?” he continues.

  “Can’t say you have, Granddad,” I smile.

  “I’ve been in some tight spots in my time,” he nods. “But was I afraid? No, I certainly was not.”

  Hayley mouths the words with him, like she’s heard it all a thousand times already. She thinks he’s making it up. Only I know that Granddad is telling the truth. He really has had all these adventures.

  Because Granddad belongs to something called the John Smith Club – which means if you’re called John Smith, you can magically travel to other places and get into all kinds of scrapes. Since I joined the John Smith Club I’ve flown rockets through deepest, creepiest space and fought ferocious fiends like wild-eyed pirates and axe-wielding knights in armour! It’s been such a brilliant adventure. But back in this world everyone thinks I’m just boring old John Smith; they have no idea what a hero – correction – superhero I really am.

  Granddad puts his arm round my shoulder. “If you want to learn how to stand up for yourself, you’ve got to go to the place where men are men and sheep are sheep.”

  “Where’s that, Granddad?” I shrug.

  “Wales,” says Hayley.

  “I’m talking about the Wild West,” says Granddad. “Where the real cowboys live! They’ll teach you how to look after number one. Think you’re up to it, son?”

  “You try holding me back,” I chortle.

  Dad pokes his head out from under the kitchen sink. “Talking of the Wild West, we had a couple of cowboys in here yesterday.”

  Wow! This is exciting stuff. Real-life cowboys in my house!

  “What did they look like?” I gasp. “Did they have big hats and belts with lots of bullets? Were they called Ike or Doc or Wyatt?”

  “I think one of them was called Dave,” says Dad. “He had a big belly and a tattoo with his name on it in case he forgot what it was.” Dad slides out from under the kitchen sink and gets to his feet. “They said they were plumbers. A complete pack of lies, of course.”

  Dad rummages in his toolbox and pulls out a spanner.

  “Here you go,” he says proudly, “the kitchen sink drama is almost over. I just need to tighten up the tap and we can all get on with our day…”

  Granddad reaches towards the kitchen sink. “I’ll check the cold water’s running…”

  “NOT YET!” shouts Dad.

  Granddad twists the cold tap and a jet of water shoots across the room, sploshing Hayley clean in the chops!

  “It’s a bullseye!” I chuckle.

  Hayley’s make-up runs down her face. She looks like a drowned panda! The only party she’ll be going to is a tea party at the zoo.

  “Oopsy…” says Granddad.

  “Hello, Chin Chin, would you like some bamboo?” I laugh.

  “You’re such a child,” snarls Hayley.

  “That’s because I’m eight,” I giggle.

  Granddad looks at me and winks. “My room in five minutes.”

  “But I’ve got school in half an hour,” I protest.

  “A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do…” he grins.

  Chapter Three

  “Right,” puffs Granddad, “are you ready to go to the Wild West?”

  He drags a battered old trunk out from underneath the bed. “Think you’re up to the challenge?”

  “I love a challenge, Granddad,” I smile.

  “That’s my boy,” he chuckles. “If I know one thing, it’s this: the Wild West will make a man of you.”

  I like the sound of the Wild West. I want to learn how to buck a bronco, how to win a duel, how to herd cattle… I want to be the gre

atest cowboy of all time.

  Granddad reaches inside the trunk and brings out a cowboy hat and waistcoat. “Try this on for size.”

  I slip on my cowboy hat.

  Granddad looks at me and smiles. “It fits you like a dream,” he chuckles.

  “Granddad, why is there a hole in the middle of the hat?” I mumble.

  “That’s a bullet hole from El Bandido the horse thief,” mutters Granddad. “He pinched my ass when I wasn’t looking. I was fuming!”

  “I bet you were,” I giggle.

  “Stick your hand in your waistcoat, son,” says Granddad. “Tell me what you find…”

  I reach into the pocket and pull out a large silver coin.

  “Wow,” I gulp, “what’s this, Granddad?”

  “That,” says Granddad, “is an American silver dollar. It’s supposed to bring you good luck. Look after it – where you’re going, you’ll need it.”

  “I will, Granddad,” I beam.

  “OK, cowboy,” he chuckles. “It’s time to say the magic words.”

  I take a deep breath and say the words that will take me on my adventure.

  “Say it long, say it loud – I’m John Smith and I’m proud!”

  I hear horses’ hooves pounding into the ground, the crack of a whip and the ping of bullets.

  “Sounds pretty wild, Granddad!” I yell.

  “I know,” he replies. “I wish I was coming with you!”

  Chapter Four

  “Yeeeeeeeeee-haaaaaaaaaaaw!!!”

  I’m bouncing round in the saddle as my horse gallops flat out across the desert. The steep orange walls of the canyon rise to a clear blue sky dotted with pillowy, puffy white clouds. Tumbleweed blows across the scrub and cactus plants prick the landscape.

  Is being a cowboy just about the best thing ever? I say “yeehaw!” to that.

  “Yeeeeeeeeee-haaaaaaaaaaaw!!!”

  The horse finds a lick of pace. I lean forward and give it a big pat on the side of the neck.

  Hold on a minute – this horse looks familiar, with its straggly mane of long brown hair and soft white diamond on the bridge of its nose. It’s then I realize it’s the same mad mare I had when I was a knight in armour!

  “DAISY!!!”

  Daisy snorts and nods, digs her hooves in the soil and puts on an extra burst of speed.

  “N-O-o-O-o-O-o-O-o-O-o-O-o-O-o-O-o…”

  I grip the reins and charge across the desert until I get to a one-horse, flyblown town. This is real cowboy stuff – the sun on my back, my shadow all long and thin on the ground and a little old man playing a mouth organ leaning against a wooden stump.

  The houses up and down the street are made of timber, and they’ve got little porches at the front with rocking chairs. There’s a hardware store too, and a barbershop, a local blacksmith and even a jailhouse, probably with a sheriff with his feet kicked up on his desk, his hat pulled over his eyes, taking an afternoon snooze.

  I slow my horse to a lazy dawdle and stop outside a big house halfway up the street. Inside I hear the tinkling of a piano. I know what this place is; I’ve seen it in the movies Dad falls asleep to on a Sunday afternoon. This must be the saloon, where the real cowboy tough nuts hang out. Well, I’m going to show them that there is no grittier, meaner, tougher nut in the whole Wild West than John Smith!

  I swing my legs out from the saddle and jump into a steaming pyramid of horse poo.

  I look up and see a sign swinging on the breeze.

  Welcome to Dungville, the pooiest place in the West!

  They’re not joking. This place is a gut-wrenching, nostril-bending brew of horse doo-doo.

  Suddenly the saloon doors fly open and a barefoot boy bundles out, clutching a little cloth cap in his hands. “Follow me, mister! There’s a big fight going down.”

  A big fight in the saloon? Bring on the adventure!

  I hitch up my trousers, squelch through the horse poo and kick open the saloon doors. They bounce straight back and knock me off my feet.

  The boy lifts me up and dusts me down.

  “Are you all right, sir?” says the barefoot boy.

  “Oh, sure,” I reply. “I was just horsing around.”

  We dive through the doors together. I want a piece of the action.

  Inside, the saloon is a great big stew of arms and legs. Cowboys roll round in the sawdust wrestling each other, crashing into tables, swinging on chandeliers. There isn’t a single person who isn’t brawling with someone else. Even the little old lady sitting on the bar is cracking heads with her fancy umbrella. And everyone has a big bushy moustache – including the little old lady. All the while someone is hammering out a merry tune on a piano.

  I turn to the barefoot boy in rags and shout in his ear. “Do they always fight like this?”

  “No way,” says the barefoot boy. “Most days it’s much worse! By the way, you can call me Little Joe.”

  “Where’s the sheriff?” I gulp.

  “What do you mean?” says Little Joe. “What do you call that silver star on your waistcoat?”

  I look down at the sheriff’s badge on my chest.

  “I’m the sheriff?”

  “You crazy, sheriff…” grins the boy.

  A woman holding a wailing baby rushes up to me.

  “Sheriff, these boys are fighting like coyotes,” she yells. “It’s wrong, I tell you, wrong!” She shoves the baby into my arms and dives into the brawl. “Wait for me!”

  Wow! I’ve landed in this crazy town and I’m the sheriff! OK, I’d better start laying down the law. I sit the baby on the piano and holler:

  “Shutuupppppppp!!!”

  Everyone stops fighting and looks at me. That was much easier than I thought. My first job as sheriff: bring this rowdy bunch to order. Tick!

  I walk through the saloon with my meanest, grittiest face, get to the bar, tip up my hat and say to the barman… “One fizzy lemonade, please!”

  “One fizzy lemonade coming up,” says the barman. “You want it straight in your hand or shall I slide it down the bar?”

  “What do you think?” I reply.

  “I’ll slide it down the bar,” says the barman.

  If Adam Virgo could see me now he wouldn’t recognize this tough-looking cowboy, with his blood-red neckerchief round his throat and a big brown hat on his head. I’d say, “How ya doing, pardner?” then kick him in the pants and gallop away on my horse.

  The barman slides the fizzy lemonade down the bar. I take a long slurp and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, then let out a really small burp. I hope no one heard me. I do a little “pardon me” under my breath.

  I turn round and slowly slide my hand into my pocket.

  “He’s going for his gun,” shouts the blacksmith.

  “Don’t shoot, mister!” says the barber.

  I take my silver dollar and flick it up and down in the palm of my hand, looking really cool.

  “You the new sheriff?” says the blacksmith.

  “Sure am,” I reply. “You got a problem with that?”

  “No, no,” he mumbles. Then he turns round and hollers, “Look, boys, we got ourselves another idiot sheriff who thinks he can run the place!”

  Everyone rocks around, laughing and whooping. Honestly, I’m supposed to be the sheriff and they’re teasing me like I’m just an eight-year-old boy blown into the cowboy world for the very first time. Oh wait, that’s exactly what I am…

  “If you’re a real sheriff, you gotta deal with El Bandido,” says a whiskery old man in long johns.

  I know that name. El Bandido is the horse thief who pinched Granddad’s ass. Everyone in the room starts muttering and shaking their heads. Just one mention of El Bandido has turned them into nervous wrecks.

  “If we don’t do what El Bandido says,” wails the barber, “El Bandido will burn our town to the ground!”

  “El Bandido is bad news,” says the blacksmith. “Riding round stealing anything El Bandido wants.”

  “El Bandido even steals piñatas from children’s parties,” says Little Joe.

 

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