ladies debated important issues of the day–like diets and leggings.
But just as the signature tune was starting there was a knock at the door. Dennis got up grumpily. It was Darvesh, Dennis’s best friend at school.
“Dennis, we desperately need you to play today,” pleaded Darvesh.
“I’m sorry, Darvesh, I’m just not feeling well. I can’t stop sneezing or coughing. Aaachoooo! See?” replied Dennis.
“But it’s the quarter finals today. We’ve always got knocked out at the quarter-finals before. Please?”
Dennis sneezed again.
It was such a strong sneeze he thought he was going to turn inside out.
“Pleeeaaassseee,” said Darvesh hopefully as he discreetly wiped some of Dennis’s stray snot from his tie.
“OK, I’ll try,” coughed Dennis.
“Yeeeessss!” exclaimed Darvesh, as if victory was already theirs.
Dennis gulped down a couple of mouthfuls of soup, grabbed his kit and ran out of the house.
Darvesh’s mum was sitting in her little red Ford Fiesta outside, with the engine running. She worked on the tills at Sainsbury’s, but lived to see her son play football. She was the proudest mum in the world, which always made her son squirm a little.
“Thank goodness you have come, Dennis!” she said as Dennis clambered onto the back seat. “The team needs you today, it’s a very important match. Without doubt the most important match of the season!”
“Just drive please, Mum!” said Darvesh.
“All right! All right! We’re going! Don’t talk to your mother like that Darvesh!” she shouted, pretending to be angrier than she really was. She put her foot on the accelerator and the car lurched uncertainly off towards the school playing fields.
“Oh, you’ve decided to come have you?” growled Gareth as they pulled up. Not only was he bigger than everyone else, he had a deeper voice, and was disturbingly hairy for a boy his age.
When he showered he looked like a big monkey.
“Sorry, Gareth I just wasn’t feeling well. I have a pretty bad…”
Before Dennis could say “cold,” he sneezed again even more violently than before.
“Oh sorry, Gareth,” said Dennis, wiping a small gloop of snot from Gareth’s ear with a tissue.
“Let’s just do this,” said Gareth.
Feeling weak with illness, Dennis ran onto the school pitch with his team, coughing and spluttering all the way.
“Good luck boys! Especially my son Darvesh, and of course his friend Dennis! Let’s win this for the school!” shouted Darvesh’s mum from the side of the pitch.
“My mum is like so embarrassing,” rumbled Darvesh.
“I think it’s cool she comes,” said Dennis. “My dad’s never seen me playing in a match.”
“Let’s see a nice goal from you today please, Darvesh my son!”
“Mmm, maybe she is a bit embarrassing,” agreed Dennis.
That afternoon they were playing St Kenneth’s School for Boys, one of those schools where the pupils felt a little superior just because their parents had to pay for them to go there. They were a very good team though, and within the first ten minutes had scored. The pressure was immediately on, and Darvesh stole the ball off a boy who looked twice his size and passed it to Dennis.
“Lovely tackle, Darvesh my son!” shouted Darvesh’s mum.
The thrill of possessing the ball made Dennis forget his cold for a moment, and he weaved his way through the defence and approached the goal-keeper, a luxuriant-haired boy sporting brand new kit, who was probably called Oscar or Tobias or something. All of a sudden they were face to face, and Dennis sneezed again uncontrollably.
The snot exploded onto the goalie’s face, blinding him for a moment, and all Dennis needed to do was tap the ball past the line.
“Foul!” shouted the goal-keeper, but the referee allowed it. It was foul, but not technically a foul.
“I’m sorry about that,” said Dennis. He really hadn’t meant to do it.
“Don’t worry, I have a tissue!” exclaimed Darvesh’s mum. “I always carry a packet with me.” She hurtled onto the pitch, hitching up her sari to avoid the mud and ran up to the goalie. “There you go, posh boy,” she said, handing him the tissue. Darvesh rolled his eyes at his mother’s one-woman pitch invasion. The goalie tearfully wiped Dennis’s mucous from his floppy hair. “Personally I think St Kenneth’s doesn’t stand a chance,” she added.
“Mummmm!” shouted Darvesh.
“Sorry! Sorry! Play on!”
Four goals later, one from Dennis, one from Gareth, one from Darvesh, and one ‘accidental’ deflection from Darvesh’s mum and the game was won.
“You are through to the semi-final boys! I can’t wait!” exclaimed Darvesh’s mum as she drove the boys home, beeping out tunes on the Ford Fiesta’s horn in celebration. For her it was as if England had won the world cup.
“Oh please don’t come Mum, I beg you. Not if you’re gonna do that again!”
“How dare you, Darvesh! You know I wouldn’t miss the next game for the world. Oh you make me so proud!”
Darvesh and Dennis looked at each other and smiled. For a moment their victory on the pitch made them feel like they owned the Universe.
Even Dad raised a smile when Dennis told him that his team were through to the semifinals.
But Dad wasn’t going to stay happy for long…
“What the hell is this?” said Dad. His eyes were popping out, he was so angry.
“It’s a magazine,” replied Dennis.
“I can see it’s a magazine.”
Dennis wondered why his dad was asking, if he already knew what it was, but he kept that thought to himself.
“It’s Vogue magazine, Dad.”
“I can see it’s Vogue magazine.”
Dennis fell silent. He had bought the magazine from the newsagent’s a few days before. Dennis liked the picture on the cover. It was of a very pretty girl in an even prettier yellow dress with what looked like roses sewn on the front, and it really reminded him of the dress his mum was wearing in the photograph he’d kept. He just had to buy it, even though the magazine was £3.80, and he only got £5 a week pocket money.
ONLY 17 SCHOOLCHILDREN ALLOWED IN AT ONE TIME read the sign in the newsagent’s shop window. The shop was run by a very jolly man called Raj, who laughed even when nothing funny was happening. He laughed when he said your name as you walked through the door—and that was just what he did when Dennis went into the shop.