Nathalia Buttface and the Most Epically Embarrassing Trip Ever

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

Chapter Thirty-two

Chapter Thirty-three

Chapter Thirty-four

Chapter Thirty-five

Chapter Thirty-six

The Bit After the Book’s Finished

A Sneek Preview from Nathalia Buttface

Also by Nigel Smith

About the Author

About the Publisher

(#u06ff74b5-e15d-5c94-bb06-0da6e85b164c)

’m not going on holiday to France, Dad,” said Nathalia Bumolé, crossly. “It’s rubbish.”

The Most Embarrassing Dad in the World paused. He hadn’t expected this reaction. In fact, he had come home from the pub with his Great French Holiday Idea feeling really pleased with himself.

Dad liked France. He liked the weather and the food and the wine and talking to local people.

“You wear STUPID shorts, your bald spot goes pink and peely, you drink red wine every day and get silly and even more embarrassing than usual and your teeth look like a vampire’s,” Nat went on, not pausing for breath, “and THE VERY WORST thing is, you talk in a funny accent.”

“It’s called speaking French.”

“It is not, Dad, it’s called ‘speaking English in a silly voice’. You don’t even bother to change the words. You are literally supposed to change the words to actual French ones. I know that and I’m eleven. BUT I didn’t know it at my primary school, did I? In my first French lesson.”

Dad put the kettle on. He knew what was coming; he’d heard this story about Nat’s first French lesson a lot. He looked around the kitchen for support from Mum but she was in the living room. She was pretending to do emails, but she was really playing a game on her phone and having a quiet giggle at Dad being in trouble again.

“Cos of you, when Madame Hérisson asked us who could speak any French, I put my hand up.”

“Biscuit?” said Dad, still trying to avoid the story. “There might be one left as your nan’s not been here for a couple of days.”

But Nat wasn’t going to let him escape. She was an angry blur of stick arms and legs and flying blonde hair. Dad was already regretting getting her out of bed to tell her about the Great French Holiday Idea.

Nat advanced on her father. “I put my hand up and said ‘Yes, I know French,’ and Madame Hérisson said ‘Wonderful, come up and tell the class what you had for breakfast, in French.’”

“No custard creams,” said Dad, popping the lid of the biscuit tin back on. “I could do you a cheese toastie though?”

But Nat was too busy remembering that horribly embarrassing lesson.

“’Ello my leetle class mateys,” Nat had said, confidently, “for brek-farst, I ’ad a sliss of tost.” She waited for applause.

“Very amusing,” said Madame Hérisson coldly. She didn’t look amused. Nat’s classmates giggled.

“Zere is nuffink zat iss fuh-nee about a sliss of tost,” Nat continued, still speaking what she now called ‘Dad French’.

“Do it properly or sit down,” snapped Madame Hérisson, marking Nat out for special attention that year.

Nat pressed on. Perhaps her accent wasn’t big enough. She tried Dad French again. “I ’ad ze sliss off tost, and I ’ad a leetle beet of butt-urgh wheech I spred weeeth a ker-nurf.” The giggling got louder.

“A ker-nurf?” said Madame Hérisson. “A KER-NURF? What are you talking about, girl?”

“Like a ker-nurf and furk,” said Nat. By now the class was in uproar.

“Class clown, are you?” said Madame Hérisson. “Detention.”

Dad was always embarrassing her. He could even do it when he WASN’T THERE. Of course, it was way worse when he was there. Which was why she had tried so very hard to stop him interfering at her new school.

Epic fail.

It had started on day one. Nat’s form teacher, Miss Hunny, was an old friend of Dad’s (aaarrggh!) and had encouraged Dad to ‘join in’ at school events (double aaarrggh!).

Dad had very much joined in.

He organised a school trip and lost a pupil AND a teacher.

He put on a quiz night that ended in a riot.

And he was DJ at the end-of-term school disco and accidentally projected Nat’s NAKED BABY PHOTOS six metres high in the school hall!

But at least the summer holidays were about to start. After tomorrow, her classmates would have eight weeks to forget about all the disasters Dad had caused. And with a bit of luck they might even forget her horrible surname too.

Even THAT was Dad’s fault. Not just because it was his stupid name, but because he had managed to reveal it live on air on the breakfast radio show that EVERYONE at Nat’s school listened to.

And it didn’t matter how many times she explained ‘Bumolé’ was pronounced Bew-mow–lay. She was still going to be Bum Hole for the rest of her school life, unless everyone developed a very short memory over the summer holidays.

Even her best friend, Darius Bagley, called her Buttface.

Dad was talking again now, doing his gentle voice that drove her nuts.

“Yes yes yes. But let me tell you about my Great French Holiday Idea. It’s just brilliant. And the best of it is – it’s free.”