The author in no way condones violence towards children, and assures you that no characters were harmed during the making of
The Boy who got a Good Spanking that He Rightly Deserved
Once upon the first Monday of June at 5.14am, a little boy sprang out of his bed, grabbed a pair of socks out of his drawers and managed to get one of them on before he became too impatient and sprinted to his parents' room.
His parents, hearing the dawn chorus of rapidly thumping feet, desperately huddled under their blankets and braced themselves for impact. With balletic grace akin to an elephant's, the little boy jumped at the bed, landing squarely on his father's ankle.
"It's today!"
"No, it is not. The sun isn't up yet so go back to bed."
The little boy glared at the two inert, misshapen lumps, then slowly scrambled of the stupid grown-ups leaving them to stupid sleep and went back to stupid bed, muttering darkly.
At 9.02am the little boy's mother peeked in into her son's room and found him sprawled on his bed, sleeping sweetly. He had dealt with his other sock and got on a shoe before nodding off his mother noted with an indulgent smile. It was a pity to wake him, but he had been waiting for this day for so long. She shook his shoulder. "Come on, lazy bones. Up you get."
The little boy went from horizontal to vertical in a matter of seconds, from undressed to clothed in under a minute, and was downstairs eating his breakfast with jiggly anticipation before his mother had a chance to catch her breath.
"Oi don oike paw'ige!" he informed her through a mouthful of porridge. The disliked cereal was rapidly flung in the general direction of the little boy's mouth and soon, for want of a better word, finished. The little boy was ready to leave, but to his intense disgust, his parents had settled in and turned to their inevitable past time of discussing the weather and worrying.
"But what if it rains? Roberta said her knee was playing up."
"There's not a cloud in the sky, dear, now would y–"
"He'll be late! I know it; it would be just like that man."
"Dearest, he's the emperor, if he wants to be late to his own parade we just have to humour him."
"But the wee thing's been waiting for this for months, it would be so unfair – perhaps he should wear an extra jacket just in case ..."
After many elaborate pantomimes and hints, displaying the subtlety generally only found in a large club with nails, the little boy eventually engineered his parents out the front door.
They set out through lanes thronged with people, each one wrapped up in their own bubble of spine-tingling anticipation. The people, not the lanes – they were festooned with banners and posters (the bunches of balloons already having been popped by dysfunctional youths who were too cool to be appropriately overcome by the occasion).
When the family finally arrived at one of the parade streets, the little boy's elbows made short work of finding him the best spot. The street began and ended in sharp corners so the Emperor would only be seen for the time it took him to process forty metres. The little boy leaned out as far as the cord surrounding the footpath would let him, determined not to miss a single second. A great cheer started up and he thrilled to the tips of his toes, feeling the whole city share his excitement.
The parade started at 11.00am precisely, and as time passed the roar diminished; the distant cheering from the crowds lining other streets silenced as the Emperor passed them by. The little boy was sure that this was because of the overwhelming awe they felt looking at such a magnificent personage as the Emperor.
"Here he comes, here he comes!"
The procession rounded the corner, and their reigning monarch was revealed for all to see. All of their reigning monarch was revealed for all to see.
He proceeded with stately bearing beneath a crimson canopy richly embroidered with gold thread, waving slowly with one cupped hand and occasionally giving a regal nod to his subjects. His entourage walked before and behind him in dignified silence, apart from one of the canopy bearers who was attempting to stifle giggles in his collar.
A horrified hush fell over the crowd.
In later years, the adolescent boy would suggest that it was in awe of the Emperor's magnificent ... personage.
But at the time, the little boy tipped his head to one side in confusion and said in a loud carrying voice, "That isn't the Emperor; he doesn't have any clothes on! Look, you can see his–"
The little boy's father prudently covered the little boy's mouth.
"Is that any way to address royalty? Really, lad, I thought your mother and I had raised you better. We will be having a word or two when we get home." To the contrary, his tone hinted that the consequences of rudeness would have very little to do with words at all. "I'm awfully sorry, sire. Don't know what's got into him. He's young, and when you're young ... well, you remember what it's like."
But the little boy's father's apology went unheard as first the canopy bearer, and then the entourage, followed by the rest of the crowd, collapsed into piles of spluttering laughter.
Both of the little boy's wrists were grasped by strong adult hands, and his parents hustled him away from the outburst of merriment
"I have never been so embarrassed in all my life!" exclaimed the little boy's mother, worrying her lower lip and pressing her free hand to her red hot cheeks. "You can forget about going next year, young man!"
But the little boy didn't mind. It had all been a bit of a disappointment, really.
The end.
The date is significant, as others living in the Commonwealth might be aware – though apparently the UK doesn't celebrate this Birthday, crazy. For those of you who ponder these things (and I know I would if I weren't, in fact, me), "Oi don oike paw'ige!" is "I don't like porridge!" said through a mouthful of peanut butter and jam sandwich. Extensive research was done, and the sandwich gives more easily transcribable results, porridge having a lot of wet spluttering sounds.And for bonus points see if you can guess the little boy's name.
