The multi-million-pound Formula One car careered off the track, span around, and hit a tree.
The tree was unharmed. But the car was a write-off. Joe squeezed himself out of the cockpit. Luckily Joe wasn’t hurt, but he was a little dazed, and he tottered back to the house.
“Dad, I crashed the car,” said Joe as he entered the palatial living room.
Mr Spud was short and fat, just like his son. Hairier in a lot of places too, apart from his head – which was bald and shiny. Joe’s dad was sitting on a hundred-seater crocodile skin sofa and didn’t look up from reading that day’s copy of the Sun.
“Don’t worry Joe,” he said. “I’ll buy you another one.”
Joe slumped down on the sofa next to his dad.
“Oh, happy birthday, by the way, Joe.” Mr Spud handed an envelope to his son, without taking his eyes off the girl on Page 3.
Joe opened the envelope eagerly. How much money was he going to receive this year? The card, which read ‘Happy 12th Birthday Son’, was quickly discarded in favour of the cheque inside.
Joe could barely disguise his disappointment. “One million pounds?” he scoffed. “Is that all?”
“What’s the matter, son?” Mr Spud put down his newspaper for a moment.
“You gave me a million last year,” whined Joe. “When I turned eleven. Surely I should get more now I’m twelve?”
Mr Spud reached into the pocket of his shiny grey designer suit and pulled out his chequebook. His suit was horrible, and horribly expensive. “I’m so sorry son,” he said. “Let’s make it two million.”
Now, it’s important you realise that Mr Spud had not always been this rich.
Not so long ago the Spud family had lived a very humble life. From the age of sixteen, Mr Spud worked in a vast loo-roll factory on the outskirts of town. Mr Spud’s job at the factory was sooooo boring. He had to roll the paper around the cardboard inner tube.
Roll after roll.
Day after day.
Year after year.
Decade after decade.
This he did, over and over again, until nearly all his hope had gone. He would stand all day by the conveyor belt with hundreds of other bored workers, repeating the same mind-numbing task. Every time the paper was rolled onto one cardboard tube, the whole thing started again. And every loo roll was the same. Because the family was so poor, Mr Spud used to make birthday and Christmas presents for his son from the loo-roll inner tubes. Mr Spud never had enough money to buy Joe all the latest toys, but would make him something like a loo-roll racing car, or a loo-roll fort complete with dozens of loo-roll soldiers. Most of them got broken and ended up in the bin. Joe did manage to save a sad looking little loo-roll space rocket, though he wasn’t sure why.
The only good thing about working in a factory was that Mr Spud had lots of time to daydream. One day he had a daydream that was to revolutionise bottom wiping forever.
Why not invent a loo roll that is moist on one side and dry on the other? he thought, as he rolled paper around his thousandth roll of the day. Mr Spud kept his idea top-secret and toiled for hours locked in the bathroom of their little council flat getting his new double-sided loo roll exactly right.
When Mr Spud finally launched ‘Freshbum’, it was an instant phenomenon. Mr Spud sold a billion rolls around the world every day. And every time a roll was sold, he made 10p. It all added up to an awful lot of money, as this simple maths equation shows.
Joe Spud was only eight at the time ‘Freshbum’ was launched, and his life was turned upside down in a heartbeat. First, Joe’s mum and dad split up. It turned out that for many years Joe’s mum Carol had been having a torrid affair with Joe’s Cub Scout leader, Alan. She took a ten-billion-pound divorce settlement; Alan swapped his canoe for a gigantic yacht. Last anyone had heard, Carol and Alan were sailing off the coast of Dubai, pouring vintage champagne on their Crunchy Nut Cornflakes every morning. Joe’s dad seemed to get over the split quickly and began going on dates with an endless parade of Page 3 girls.
Soon father and son moved out of their poky council flat and into an enormous stately home. Mr Spud named it ‘Freshbum Towers’.
The house was so large it was visible from outer space. It took five minutes just to motor up the drive. Hundreds of newly-planted, hopeful little trees lined the mile-long gravel track. The house had seven kitchens, twelve sitting rooms, forty-seven bedrooms and eighty-nine bathrooms.
Even the bathrooms had en-suite bathrooms. And some of those en-suite bathrooms had en-en-suite bathrooms.
Despite living there for a few years, Joe had probably only ever explored around a quarter of the main house. In the endless grounds were tennis courts, a boating lake, a helipad and even a 100m ski-slope complete with mountains of fake snow. All the taps, door handles and even toilet seats were solid gold. The carpets were made from mink fur, he and his dad drank orange squash from priceless antique medieval goblets, and for a while they had a butler called Otis who was also an orangutan. But he had to be given the sack.
“Can I have a proper present as well, Dad?” said Joe, as he put the cheque in his trouser pocket. “I mean, I’ve got loads of money already.”
“Tell me what you want, son, and I’ll get one of my assistants to buy it,” said Mr Spud. “Some solid gold sunglasses? I’ve got a pair. You can’t see out of ’em but they are very expensive.”
Joe yawned.
“Your own speedboat?” ventured Mr Spud.
Joe rolled his eyes. “I’ve got two of those. Remember?”
“Sorry, son. How about a quarter of a million pounds worth of WH Smith vouchers?”
“Boring! Boring! Boring!” Joe stamped his feet in frustration. Here was a boy with high-class problems.
Mr Spud looked forlorn. He wasn’t sure there was anything left in the world that he could buy his only child. “Then what, son?”
Joe suddenly had a thought. He pictured himself going round the racetrack all on his own, racing against himself. “Well, there is something I really want…” he said, tentatively.
“Name it, son,” said Mr Spud.
“A friend.”
“Bum boy,” said Joe.
“Bum Boy?” spluttered Mr Spud. “What else do they call you at school, son?”
“The Bog Roll Kid...”
Mr Spud shook his head in disbelief. He had sent his son to the most expensive school in England: St Cuthbert’s School for Boys. The fees were £200,000 a term and all the boys had to wear Elizabethan ruffs and tights. Here is a picture of Joe in his school uniform. He looks a bit silly, doesn’t he?