The Day Our Teacher Went Mad and Other Naughty Stories for Good Boys and Girls by Christopher Milne Read Free Book Online Page A

great!’
    And sure enough, Bruno was let into the Bad Club. Straight away.
    So the other kids started doing even worse things, until one day, we thought poor Mr Glover might go mad.
    And he did.
    Daniel Clayton was trying to get into the Bad Club by throwing his lunch around the room. Suddenly, Mr Glover raced over to the rubbish bin, tipped the lot on the floor and shouted, ‘Go for it, gang! I just love a good mess!’
    None of us could believe it. We just sat there in shock. But that wasn’t all. Mr Glover ran over to his desk, pulled out a snake from his drawer and threw it on the floor!
    I don’t think I’ve ever seen kids move so quickly. The panic it caused made Bruno’s spider thing seem like a school picnic.
    It was a pretend snake, of course, but we weren’t to know that. It certainly looked real.
    ‘What’s going on?’ I yelled. ‘Mr Glover’s lost it! The poor guy’s lost the plot!’
    But I didn’t have time to wonder for much longer, because Mr Glover started firing lumps of cow poo at us with a massive sling-shot. SPLAT , right on my forehead! It was still warm, too.
    And so it went, one thing after another — until suddenly, he stopped. As if nothing had happened, Mr Glover quietly cleaned up the mess, packed his bag and left the room.
    Well, I thought, I have seen it all.
    Whether Mr Glover really went mad, we’ll never know. But one thing is certain. Our class went from being the worst-behaved to the best. Not because we were scared of Mr Glover. It was just that he’d beaten us at our own game.
    He’d been so crazy that day that every naughty idea we had from then on somehow seemed weak. Wussy. The fun of being naughty is shocking people. And how could we shock Mr Glover now?
    So we’re still 5B, but the rest of the school calls us something else now. B for boring.
    Kids can be so cruel.

My oldies have always cared about people who aren’t as lucky as themselves. Battlers who’ve got no money, old fogies who are lonely, kids living on the streets.
    And instead of just thinking about them, my oldies do stuff. Like having some poor street kid home for the weekend. And telling him he’s welcome to come back any time.
    Any time? What about me?!
    The street kid idea came from a program where boys and girls who’ve been kicked out of home, or who’ve left and feel they can’t go back, come to stay with a normal family.
    Normal? My younger sister’s an idiot. My mum’s so fussy she wants to keep our new lounge chairs clean by leaving them in their plastic wrapping. My dad thinks he’s funny but he’s not. My brother collects insects, hits them with a hammer, and then watches to see if they die or not. And my older sister’s into star signs and tarot cards, so she reckons she can predict the future. I can tell you her future right now. Total loser.

    So it was to this ‘normal’ family that poor Barry ‘Bazza’ Marshall was introduced one cold Saturday morning. And I’ve got to say, he sent a shiver up my spine. He looked tough, acted tough and, I’m quite certain, was tough.
    ‘So, what’s the go?’ asked Bazza. ‘What’s the action?’
    ‘Well,’ said my mum, ‘we want to welcome you into our family, so I thought —’
    ‘Yeah, yeah. I know all that rubbish,’ said Bazza. ‘What’s first? Are you lot off to the pub or the footy for a couple of cans?’
    ‘On a Saturday morning, I hardly think so,’ said my father. ‘Now, why don’t you have a kick of the football with young Nick here?’
    ‘Kick his butt, more likely,’ replied Bazza.
    Mum had warned me that Bazza might be a bit aggro. Apparently his father used to hit poor Bazza. All the time.
    ‘So he’ll be like a puppy that was beaten,’ said Mum. ‘He won’t trust anyone and he’ll probably snap if you go near him. If he has a go at you, try not to take any notice.’
    How could you not notice that you’re about to die?
    Somehow, we managed to make it through the morning. But then to my horror,