The Funny Thing about Norman Foreman by Julietta Henderson (sci fi books to read .TXT) 📗

were interspersed with cut-out pictures of Eric Morecambe, Ernie Wise, Jack Dee, the Two Ronnies, Dave Allen, Frankie Boyle, Vic Reeves, Bob Mortimer and Norman Wisdom, all radiating around a handsome, smiling man in a dapper mulberry suit. A faded Polaroid that could still make my heart creak, no matter how many times I saw it. Robert Foreman. Norman’s grandfather. My father. Would-be comedy superstar. Actual alcoholic, gambler, benefit fraudster and, if we’re being honest, comedy absolutely bloody nobody. Although if you were a kid at a Butlin’s in the late 1980s you might have a faint memory of him trying to chat up your mother after his show.

As my eyes adjusted to a low-light focus I realized something looked different about the poster. There seemed to be a lot of crossing out, some words had been outlined more thickly than others and there was some new writing on it that was a lot fainter than the original. I tried squinting to get a better look, but in the end I had to drag myself out of Norman’s warm hollow and go over to the wall to make it out properly.

When the extent of the changes to Jax and Norman’s Five Year Plan became clear, my heart was just too smart for its own good and attempted a double reverse spin before crashing to the floor.

JAX AND NORMAN’S FIVE YEAR PLAN

Edinburgh Fringe 2023: For One Night Only. –

Norman and Jax – Teenage Comedy Geniuses!!!

Edinburgh Fringe Festival – Norman Foreman, For One Night Only

Sausages and Gravitas, the Jax Fenton Tribute Show

Steps:

1. Get to the Edinburgh Fringe, baby!

2. Get famous

3. Get rich

1. Look after Mum

2. Find Dad

3. Get to the Edinburgh Fringe

7NORMAN

First rule of comedy: It’s only funny if someone laughs.

Twelve’s a helluvan age. Or else it should be, according to Mum. It’s kind of a joke between us now, because when I was five she told me that five was a helluvan age and when I turned six that was also a helluvan age. When seven came around and she reckoned that was a helluvan age too I started thinking well, this looks like it’s here to stay.

I only twigged something might be up with that when we were in Tilley’s Bakery getting my second eighth-birthday cake. We had to get another one because the first one that Mum made somehow missed out having the butter in it. She could have sworn she put it in, she said, but she sometimes muddles stuff up when she’s cooking. Not that I care, because a lot of the time it ends up even cooler than how it’s supposed to be. Like once we had paprika-flavoured chocolate-and-supposedly-cinnamon biscuits, which Jax reckoned were doubly delicious because first they gave you a sweet, sugary kiss then they turned around and kapow! gave you a paprika punch in the mouth just for fun.

But it doesn’t always turn out that good because without the butter my first eighth-birthday cake tasted a bit like an omelette-flavoured dishcloth, or maybe it could have been a dishcloth-flavoured omelette. Anyway, I’m pretty sure neither of those are any good in case you’re thinking of trying them. So Mum chucked it in the bin and said that there was something to be said for letting the experts do their jobs.

When we got to the bakery and Mum said what we were looking for Mr Tilley leaned over the counter and stuck his face right into mine and goes, a birthday cake is it, eh? So how old are we today then young man? I always try to make Mr Tilley talk as much as possible, because when he does all these little puffs of flour explode off the sides of his cheeks and out of his ears and hair from all the baking he does. Even when I don’t actually have anything to say except like maybe two finger buns please Mr Tilley, I try really hard to think of a question as well so he has to talk.

Like I might say, two finger buns please Mr Tilley, and do your buns have a secret ingredient, because me and Jax reckon they’re the best in Penzance. Then Mr Tilley can’t help but start talking about how he uses this special Italian flour and that’s why his buns are the best and why thank you very much young man. And all those bits of flour go crazy, puffing out and floating all around his head, and it always makes me and Jax laugh really hard. But on the inside mostly, if we can.

When Mr Tilley asked how old I was that time, before I could think of a question to go along with my very short answer, which was just going to be eight, Mum piped up and goes, he’s eight today, aren’t you Norman? So then I said, yes, and I think it’s probably a helluvan age.

Well, it didn’t matter that I hadn’t thought up a question to make Mr Tilley talk more because when I said that he laughed so hard the puffs of flour that came out of his ears nearly blew me sideways. But it was a nice laugh. The kind that means I’m laughing with you, not at you because your skin is gross and I’m trying to impress my mates by being mean. I reckon there should be a different word for that kind of nasty laughing. Naughing, maybe.

When he stopped laughing and the air around him cleared Mr Tilley gave us what he reckoned was his best banana and walnut cake and goes, eight eh? Well, good luck to you son, and I hope you have a helluva year. Which made him start laughing all over again.

Later on, when Mum was rubbing stinking tar cream on my stinking psoriasis, which by the way had given me a present of getting just a bit worse for my birthday, I asked her why Mr T had cracked up so