The Human Atom Bomb

Jimmy Ellis, having finally reached the age of ten, was lying on his bed reflecting on how things had gone so far today. His happiness rating, he decided, was currently sitting at a score of one out of ten. He considered the possibility of scoring it at zero, but rejected the idea in case he should contract Ebola from next door’s cat, or lose all of his hair in a freak accident involving a lawnmower. He would then, he surmised, require the ability to reduce the score and, had he already set it at zero, would have found himself in a position where this was impossible.

How, one might ask, had he arrived at this perilous psychological position? The answer could be found by examining three major contributory factors to his morose mental malaise.

Factor One. The number of friends invited to his birthday party this afternoon. When originally discussing the terms and conditions of his birthday party with his father, he achieved his target of twenty-five attendees, together with the hire of a bouncy castle and a clown (the one that had done Tristan’s birthday party last month and had the entire audience howling with laughter with the prolific use of a fart machine). This negotiation was entirely pointless, however, as his father’s binding agreement was subsequently overruled by his mother, who counter-offered ten attendees together with a paddling pool ‘if the weather’s good’. Her comment to his father (said loudly enough to guarantee his hearing it as well) of “what do you think we are, made of money?” conclusively summed up her position.

Factor Two. The position of Tottenham Hotspur in the English Premier League. It had, he suspected, been a cruel joke by his father to have brainwashed him into supporting them in the first place. His friends were fortunate in supporting either Manchester City or Liverpool because these teams won trophies, whereas Tottenham never did. His father would blather on about double-winning glory days–whatever they were - and Martin Chivers and Paul Gasgoigne and other players he’d never even heard of, but what did he care? Currently, Tottenham was eleventh. Eleventh!

Factor Three. The quality and quantity of birthday presents received so far. Of the three contributory doom and gloom factors, this was by far the biggest, and of that, there could be no doubt whatsoever. For his previous birthday he had received a metal detector, setting a new standard in excellence by his parents. Before it had inexplicably stopped working after he had dropped it into Brueton Lake, he’d managed to find not only a one pound coin in next door’s driveway, but also his dad’s i-phone, apparently buried in the garden by the dog for some unknown reason. How this drop in quality could have been achieved in only one year was almost unbelievable.

One out of ten, therefore, was an honest, justified rating, bearing in mind that this excuse for a birthday party was scheduled to start in an hour. The back garden, visible from his bedroom window if he stood on his bed, was fully prepared, with tables set up, and inflated balloons attached to various garden ornaments, clothes-lines and trees. A large sign proclaiming “Happy Birthday Jimmy” had been hung across the kitchen window. To be fair, the sign was pretty good, being coloured orange and purple, and large enough to impress even Ronny Thompson, whose own tiddler of a birthday party banner looked like it had been purchased from amongst the weird stuff found in the centre aisle of Lidl. He knew also that there was an enormous chocolate cake sitting on the kitchen table, featuring a marzipan picture on its top. The cake had been hidden underneath a kitchen tea-towel, but he’d sneaked a look when his mum momentarily left him alone in the room. Initially, he had not recognised that it was meant to be a likeness of his face on the cake, as to him it resembled King Charles, owing to the size of the ears. When he twigged it was meant to be him, he felt inclined to think that it was all part of some elaborate, cruel joke. Even the thought of the ten litres of coca-cola residing in the kitchen was failing to improve his mood, which, at this precise moment, could be compared to a dog that’s seen its dinner eaten by next door’s cat. No, the actual issue, the key, core, critical issue when he got down to it, was his birthday present. To use a French word he’d learnt in class just last week, it was the cruel cadeaux calamity causing his consternation. He was prepared to put up with a mere ten friends coming, as he only liked nine of his so-called friends, anyway. The request for Ronny Thompson to be on the invite list was because he could then gloat about the size of his banner signage in the garden. He didn’t care that much about Tottenham’s pathetic league form because at least they had a decent enough home kit, which looked a lot cooler than Manchester City’s horrible strip. No–it was the birthday present debacle cementing his state of unhappiness. Of all the things that mattered to a boy of his huge worldly experience, it wasn’t friends or cake or weird old men with squirty lapel flowers and fart machines, it was the MAIN BIRTHDAY PRESENT. He had been hoping for, indeed expecting, a wrestling outfit as his main present. His parents had handed over a sack of birthday loot about fifteen minutes ago and all he had to show for ten years of unfaltering love, affection and obedience was a coat, some ghastly sunglasses, a book about the Spurs double-winning side of 1961 and a board game featuring Thomas the Tank Engine. He really could not have made it clearer to them during the three month build up to this important day that the only thing required to make him the happiest boy on the planet was a replica outfit of his favourite wrestling hero, “The Human Atom Bomb.” And what had he been given? THOMAS THE BLOODY TANK ENGINE!

His dad had told him to “be grateful”, warning him that his friends would not enjoy this “hugely expensive” birthday party if the host’s face resembled the back-end of their bulldog, Walter. Whilst he’d been pleasantly surprised when his parents brought the presents into the lounge before the commencement of the party, he had made the assumption they were doing so because he could then wear the costume. As he’d finished unwrapping the last present, he suggested they might have forgotten something. This was greeted with a fairly cursory negative response, as if to revel in his disappointment. He considered walking out of the house, perhaps to join the circus or play for Arsenal to spite his dad, but decided he was too psychologically damaged to do so. Instead, he did the only thing any respectable ten-year-old would do at this juncture- retire to his bedroom to practice sulking for England. He had slammed the door hard enough for it to nearly part company with its hinges, and screamed, “I REALLY DON’T CARE ABOUT YOUR STUPID DOOR” at the top of his voice. Slumped on to his bed, he reached across to his bedside table and picked up a copy of American Wrestlers magazine. On the cover page was a picture of the “Human Atom Bomb” - an enormous Mexican whose signature move was called the Mexicano Magic Melt-down. The Human Atom Bomb was wearing his distinctive outfit, an orange and purple lycra leotard with the picture of a large atomic mushroom cloud emblazoned across the front.

Were parents universally cruel, he pondered, or was it just his particular pair? Did they not realise he had told all of his friends that he was getting a wrestling outfit, (even the ones not invited because of the outrageous numbers restriction implemented by his mother) and had hinted that when they came to the party, they would get to see him dressed as either “The Human Atom Bomb”, “Godzilla Johnson” or “Sergeant Smashmouth”. The only sensible option at this point in time seemed to be to remain alone in his room for the foreseeable future (or at least until his friends had come and gone). It was then, at this moment of sublime despair, that Jimmy noticed the corner of purple and orange cloth poking out from under his bed pillow. He stared at the mysterious material. Could it be? Surely not..... IT WAS! Triumphantly, Jimmy pulled the thing from its hiding place to reveal the actual, the real, the totally epic “Human Atom Bomb” costume! He screamed with joy. If he had been paying attention, he would have heard a whisper from outside his door - “I think he’s found it!”

Minutes later, Billy’s bedroom door was flung open. Resplendent in orange and purple lycra, Jimmy Ellis held his arms aloft and proclaimed, in his happiest, loudest, deepest, ten-year-old voice,

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, BOYS AND GIRLS, PUT YOUR HANDS TOGETHER AND GIVE A MASSIVE WELCOME TO

THE AMAZING

THE ENORMOUS

THE TITANIC

HUMAN ATOM BOMB!