Category Archives: Will Blyton’s Diary

The diary of Will Blyton just before he is thrown into the adventure of The Stinking Shadow.

Help Desperately Needed!

Please help Will Blyton and The Stinking Shadow FREE on Kindle today.

Amazon.co.uk: will blyton and the stinking shadow: Kindle Store

My novel for children Will Blyton and The Stinking Shadow is FREE on Kindle today and tomorrow..  We have all had that sickness bug and I haven’t been able to do much promotion.  So if you know any children from about  9-12 who might enjoy it please pass the above  link on.

When Hamnet, a tiny boy trapped in a stone, promises Will Blyton time travel, he thinks his problems are over. When a 14th century monks becomes his Stinking Shadow, he realises the trouble has just begun. Find out how Will stops the malicious shapeshifter, Ravensmite from returning Hamnet to his cursed existence whilst plotting to get rid of The Stinking Shadow. Although, Will Blyton and The Stinking Shadow is an hilarious comedy, it explores one boy’s journey from being bullied to learning a precious lesson about both himself and his tormentors. Step back in time to the 1970s and the strange seaside town of Groaningsea. There you will join Will in the adventure of a lifetime and find out how he becomes The Alternative Detective.

This book has great insults in it using Tudor type insults.  Subsequently, this is a wonderful stepping stone to introducing children to Shakespeare by insults.

Thank you so much for your help.  It is truly appreciated.

 

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Will Blyton – The Alternative Detective video – part 3

Find out what happens when Will Blyton, The Alternative Detective, and his friend, Bongo  try to take a photograph of the ghoul at Boris Death’s old house.

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Watch a Will Blyton Diary Entry.

Meet Will Blyton on video before he embarks on his adventure with The Stinking Shadow.  Find out what happens when  he comes face to face with the town bullies The Toad, Ferret and Snot

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Will Blyton’s Diary 5

January 1974

What a day to be on a mission!  The ice cold rain is launching itself from the heavy, black clouds of January but the wind is blowing it in all directions.  This means that when the rain hits you, it stings and is freezing cold.  No-one is about in Groaningsea except one lone shopper who is losing the fight with her umbrella which has been blown inside out.

A lone light shines in the Groaningsea Gazette office.  It is hard to peer through the windows as past stories are pasted all over them like wallpaper.  It does not reach to the top of the windows though; the light bulb glows dully, sad and naked without a light shade.

I open the door slowly; it creaks loudly as if to warn the occupant of the office that a stranger is entering.  He is there, an emperor in a small seaside town.  He waves his thin, bony fingers dismissively at me without looking up.  He is typing quickly and has the telephone trapped between his head and shoulders whilst he squeaks quickly into it.  I hold my breath; it must be a news breaking story.

“Right, Vera – I’ll pick my bacon sandwich up at twelve if you can have it ready, you cheeky minx,” says Pimple.  I am not sure what has shocked me the most – his high pitched voice or the fact that he sees Vera from the Drowning Fish Café as a cheeky minx, whatever that means.  He carries on stabbing the machine.  It whirrs and clicks in a strangled, tinny fashion, almost as if protesting about Pimple’s fingers prodding it at ten miles an hour.

After what seems like a lifetime to a boy desperate to speak, I realise that he has forgotten about me.  I am not sure what to do.  Should I go out and come back in again, thereby announcing myself?  It’s a bit difficult, because if I open the door it will creak, he will look up and he will think that I am leaving.  Unless, I open the door and pretend that I have just got there.  At first, this seems like a good idea but if the handle squeaks when I press it down, the door will still be closed and I will look like a person who has no idea whether he is coming or going.  I wish I had my deer stalker with me.  If I make the wrong impression on Pimple, he will not do what I want him to do.

“Are you going to stand there forever, boy or have you something to say.  Don’t waste my time now.  I am a very busy journalist,” he says and rises from his chair.  He comes towards me.  The bottom of his cardigan swings as he walks.  It has a hole in it.

“You are very lucky that I am granting you an audience boy, I am not simply a journalist – I am also the editor of the Groaningsea Gazette.  There, I bet I am the most important person you have ever met.  Am I boy?  Don’t be embarrassed,” he says and hikes himself up on the front of his desk.   The sole of his shoe is loose and it flaps as he crosses his legs.

I clear my throat, ready to surprise him with my newsworthy story.

“Of course, I won’t always be in Groaningsea.  Oh no!  I’m destined for greater things.  One of these days, I’ll get a county newspaper,” he sighs extravagantly.  “Now what do you want?  I’m busy.”

My mouth opens and then closes again.  Nothing will come out.  I make a decision.  I take the large, brown envelope, I’ve borrowed from dad and pull it from under my jacket.  I take the photograph out and slap it down into Pimple’s hand.  He looks down and frowns.

“So what’s this?” he asks.

“That, Mr Pimple, is a photograph I took at Boris Death’s old house the other day,” I say.  Pimple’s normally white face starts to colour and a large lump of dandruff falls onto his shoulder.  His cracked lips stretch out across his face.  I think he is smiling.

“Is this an exclusive boy?” he asks as he walks behind his desk and sits down.

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Will Blyton’s Diary 4

January 1974

 

My most exciting moment has arrived.  I’m down in the cellar where I have my very own dark room.  I can see you’re wondering what a kid like me is doing with a room for developing photos in a cellar.  I’d better explain.  Dad is a serial hobby killer.  Every few months, he finds a book in his second hand bookshop which introduces him to something new to become obsessed by.  A gleam of madness shines in his eyes and he tells Mum he has to buy a camera or join Pig Fancier’s Anonymous immediately.

A couple of years ago, it was photography and he had to have a dark room in the cellar.  His argument was that his photographs were going to be so unique, there was no way he could wait a full week for them at Plopson’s the Chemist on the High Street.  Mum eventually agreed to the dark room if Dad would teach me how to develop photographs.  Dad came up with the argument that I could not be responsible enough to use the chemicals required.  Mum said that if I wasn’t responsible enough to be let loose in a dark room, then there was no way that Dad was anywhere near responsible enough.  Dad and I choose the equipment for the dark room together.

After three weeks, Dad found a book on Astrology in his shop. He dumped photography and the dark room  and started looking out for fellow Pisceans to enjoy water colours with, whatever they are.

Anyway, backstory over with.  My moments of glory have finally arrived.  I look fondly at my washing line of developed photos which are pegged up to dry.  Two photos stand out for me.  They are virtually the same but I am not one to be troubled by minor details.  I can see a candle flame and behind it is the face of the ghost from Boris Death’s old house.  She has to be dead; nobody living could look remotely like that.  I collapse down onto the high stool as I realise what I have done.  The creature might know I have taken an image of it and jump on me whilst I’m in bed.  My stomach turns somersaults and I gulp loudly.  I can not allow fear to take me over.  I must think how I can benefit from the spooky image staring at me.

My mind is blurred, I cannot think logically.  I will have to resort to putting my deerstalker on.  I have a notion it warms my brain and sends it springing into action.  I pace the room, I stop, I stare at the photos.  I need to make them work to the very best of my advantage.  What I want is publicity.  Ambrose Pimple of the Groaningsea Gazette is the most obvious choice.  If I allow him to publish the photograph and run a story on my escapades, I will become The Groaningsea Ghosthunter.   The public will be finally fighting for The Alternative Detective’s services.  I can’t go wrong.

My mind is like a hare speeding through the open fields, I see the faces of The Toad, Ferret and Snot.  The fools will think again before whopping someone as brave as me.

The question is… do I telephone Pimple or just arrive with the bait?

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Will Blyton’s Diary 3

January 1974

 

I’m in Bongo’s secret shed stamping my feet to keep them warm.  He is banging away on the drums.  I blow on my hands, gently folding the image of the strange creature I saw over and over in my mind.  It is the only ghoul I have ever seen, apart from The Toad, Ferret and Snot and they don’t count because they are alive.  If only I could have gotten a photograph of the phantom.  I would be splashed all over the Gazette as The Groaningsea Ghosthunter.   Mum would be shocked, Dad would not notice and I would be proud.  I sigh heavily into my hands.

How can I be The Alternative Detective when I saw a ghost and didn’t get a photograph of it?  The faces of The Toad, Ferret and Snot appear in my mind singing “cowardy, cowardy, Blyton custard.”   I must be brave.  I must prove myself.  Another problem flings itself at me – maybe ghosts would not appear on photographs.  At least if I had been brave enough to click the camera, I would know that for sure.  I slap my palm onto my forehead – nothing is stopping me from trying to take a photo of the ghoul, except my fear.  I offer Bongo a Bull’s Eye to lure him into doing what I want.

It is getting dark and Bongo keeps looking behind him as we place our bikes against the oak tree.  I slap my inside jacket pocket heavily.  His eyes dart to it and his eyes light up at the thought of his beloveds. – that’s what he calls Bull’s Eyes.  Chocolate Limes are dearly beloveds – that is a secret between Bongo and myself – I had to swear on the cracking of my camera lens not to tell a soul.

I hand Bongo a tin of black shoe polish  – he takes the top off and smears it all over his face – his icy blue eyes look as if they are popping out of his head.  I take my specs off, colour my face in and then replace both specs and shoe polish to their rightful places.  I take my camera from my bag and remove the lens.

“You won’t be able to take any photos if that thing we saw flies at you,” says Bongo.  I wave a finger at him.

“It won’t see us, perhaps it can’t see us.  It might be from another dimension.  We could simply be wafts of wind to it.”  I sprout out so much rubbish, it even surprises me at times.

We bend down and creep across the wild overgrown garden onto the weedy terrace.  Suddenly, we see a light in one of the downstairs windows.  We crawl on hands and knees along the terrace and appear at the window which has the light in it.  It is faint, we can hardly see anything.

“It’s a candle,” whispers Bongo.

“I didn’t know that ghosts needed candlelight to see, did you?” I ask.

At that moment, a white, soulless face appears behind the candle and stares with large, luminous eyes through the window.  My legs want to run but my hands try to point the camera.  It will not go where I want it to.  After a shaking battle, I point and click.

“Come on Bongo, let’s go,” I say.  I turn to look for him but all I can see is his piglet wiggle moving with speed as far away from the house as he can go.

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Will Blyton’s Diary 2


 

January 1974

Sunday morning.  It’s pitch black.  I route around for my torch.  I can’t put the lights on, I might wake Mum and Dad and my cover will be blown.  I am having an early start with my pal Bongo.  The job is finding out what is going on at Boris Death’s old house.   Recently things seem to be happening there.  It has been empty for years.  No-one dares to go near it, in case the ghost of Boris as a werewolf jumps out at them.  It’s said that at midnight, he walks the grounds.  The Toad said that he once saw Boris as Frankenstein but he didn’t  flinch.  In fact, the Toad reckons that he pulled a face at Frankenboris who duly ran off.  I can’t say I blame him as The Toad is the ugliest person I have ever seen, apart from his mates Snot and Ferret.

I get dressed and  am ready to go.  I quietly open the bedroom door and sneak down the stairs.  Hopefully, I will be back before The Thunderous Mother wakes from her Sunday morning lie in.  I listen, I can hear Dad.  He sounds like a foghorn calling out to other ships in the mist.  No wonder Mum has to stuff her ears with dried up chewing gum.

Dad’s foghorn could have been a warning sound.  I stand in the street ready to mount my Chopper bike and look at the mist.  The sea fret dances around the street lights as if to music.  Bongo had better be up and waiting.  I’m starting to think this creeping around Boris Death’s old house at 6.30 on a Sunday morning is not such a great idea.  I must go.  I have to prove to myself that I’m not a total coward.  I see myself when I am cornered by The Toad, Ferret and Snot – cowardy, cowardy, Blyton custard.

I make myself peddle down the street.  Bongo sits on the wall with his chubby knees pulled up to his chest.  I’m a bit flummoxed as to why he’s wearing shorts on a cruel January morning.  I decide not to mention it but I can’t stop my eyes from staring at his muffin knees.

“Mum’s washed all my trousers except those bright orange ones Gran bought me for Christmas.  You can see me a mile off in those,” he mutters glumly.  It is hard not to laugh but I have to agree that we could hardly go undercover with Bongo resembling a giant tangerine.

The wind cuts into my cheeks as I pedal furiously against it.  We stop when we reach the woods which surround Boris’s old house.  The question is whether to leave our bikes at the edge of the wood and chance them being stolen or to wheel them with us to the house.   It is 6.30 on a Sunday morning, the idea that our bikes might be spotted or stolen is mad compared to the thought of having to wheel them through the woods.  We leave them propped up against an Oak tree.

I decide to go first.  I am proving myself.  I click my torch on and shine it in the clearing ahead.  The white tail of a rabbit scuttling away bobs up and down before my eyes.  The sea fret hangs around the trees like giant spiders’ webs.  I feel a strong pulling on my jacket sleeve.  Bongo has seen something.  I turn quickly, shivers run down my spine.  Who would have thought early morning could be as spooky as late nights?

“Have you got any Bull’s Eyes?” he hisses.  I might have known.  Bongo has two things on his mind – eating and playing the drums.   I rustle around in my pocket and pull the bag out.  Bongo’s crane like hand has a good rummage around and he grabs as many Bull’s Eyes as he can.  We have been friends for years so I have learned a way of holding the bag so that he can get no more than four of my delicious offerings at one time.  He crams them into his mouth so that his cheeks bulge.

We set off again.  When we reach the clearing for the house I stop sharp and Bongo knocks into me.

“What did you stop for?” he asks.  I put my finger to my lips and point towards the house.  We both strain to look.  The thinnest woman I have ever seen is standing on the weed covered terrace looking around.  She has long, black hair, a white face and very red lips.   We gulp.

“Is she a ghost?” whispers Bongo?

“No human dresses like that at 6.30a.m. on a Sunday morning,” I reply.  We run.

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Will Blyton’s Diary 1

January 1974

Today will be a perfect day –  unless they find me again.  At that point I will no longer want to be Will Blyton – The Alternative Detective.  I’m an optimist though and I’m sure I can get through the day without …

It’s a usual winter Saturday in Groaningsea.  The clouds are so black they could have been up Gran’s chimney.  Dad’s gone off, as usual, to open his second hand book shop and Mum’s roped me in to help with the weekly dusting down of the Floating Wreck Lighthouse Museum.  I get paid for  it.

Once inside, the wind whistles around the lighthouse as if it is a ghost who’s frightened itself with its hollow eyes and black tongue.  I don’t care.  I’ve got a tatty copy of a Sherlock Holmes mystery and a nice, full bag of Bull’s Eyes.  The problem is how to get from under The Thunderous Mother’s steely eye.   Being the detective that I am, I know that she isn’t fond of The Boris Death commemorative room.   So I offer to dust in there.

I suppose I’d better explain about the Boris room; for when I become a famous detective and my diaries are read world wide after my demise.  Boris Death is a famous, horror movie star who was born in Groaningsea.  In fact, he is the only notable person, except yours truly, of course, ever to come out of this small seaside town.  The commemorative room tells the story of Boris’s ghoulish career.  There is Frankenstein  Boris in a glass case which lights up and makes the noise of a thunderstorm.  A Dracula Boris, bites the neck of a woman in a white nightdress.  Whilst a figure of Boris as a werewolf eats live sheep.  The best is a wax figure of Boris dressed as Dr Jekyll looking through a mirror.  It is not his own reflection which peers back but that of the gruesome, distorted Hyde!

Anyway, you get the picture – yours truly is sitting there with his feet up on a Boris coffin with a mouth full of Bull’s Eye’s, a duster in one hand and my tatty Sherlock in the other.  Every time I turn a page, I flick the duster.   I have a sneaky read and get paid 50p for my dusting efforts at the end of it.  I silently congratulate myself on being the master of The Good Life and then…

Mum comes in and tells me to go back home to let Dad know that she is finishing off the museum paperwork.  The Sherlock goes in my bag and the Bull’s Eyes in the inside jacket pocket.  I am ready for home to put my feet up and watch Doctor Who on the telly.

It’s dark outside; the cutting wind attacks my cheeks when I get on my pride and joy, my red Chopper bike.  As I lift my foot onto the pedals, my bag is ripped over my shoulder nearly knocking my head off.  A dark, greasy head that looks like a flattened bat looms in front of me.  Warty, heavily ringed hands empty my bag onto the floor and then throw it down in disgust.  The Toad and his cronies have found me again.

“Empty your pockets kid,” he growls and then spits through the slit in his teeth onto my bag.  I hand over my 50p.  He snatches it, kicks my Chopper and struts off with his sidekicks Ferret and Snot at his platform booted heels.

I pick up my tatty Sherlock and wipe my bag clean.  I wish as hard as I can that one day, I will be able to stand up to The Toad – is there anybody or anything, anywhere in the universe listening to me?

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