Billionaire Boy story

My name’s Joe Spud, and at twelve years old I was officially the richest kid on Earth.

Dad invented Bumfresh (the toilet paper that’s moist on one side, dry on the other).

Sold the company for a billion when I was eight.

By twelve we had twelve billion, a mansion with its own postcode, and a pet giraffe called Gerald who wore a diamond collar.

I had everything.

Except someone to sit next to at lunch.

At St Cuthbert’s Private School for Extremely Loaded Children, the kids didn’t bully me; they just… orbited.

They wanted selfies with the bumper cars in my bedroom.

They wanted to race my solid-gold go-karts.

They wanted invites to the annual Spud fireworks night (Dad hired NASA to spell JOE IS COOL in the sky).

Nobody ever asked what my favourite crisp flavour was.

Then came the new kid.

Bob.

Uniform two sizes too big, shoes from the supermarket, hair that looked like it lost a fight with a lawnmower.

He walked into the canteen carrying a lunchbox that actually had sandwiches in it, not sushi flown in from Tokyo.

Everyone stared.

Bob saw the only empty seat (next to me) and asked, “This taken?”

I waited for the usual sucking-up.

It never came.

He just sat down and opened a packet of cheese-and-onion crisps like he didn’t know I could buy Walkers.

I couldn’t help myself.

“Want anything?” I said. “I’ve got a chef on speed-dial.”

Bob shrugged. “Got any brown sauce?”

That was it.

I was in love (friendship love, obviously).

We hung out every lunch after that.

He taught me how to make a crisp sandwich properly.

I taught him how to drive the go-karts (he crashed into the fountain on lap one and laughed so hard he fell out).

Dad hated him on sight.

“Common,” he sniffed. “Smells like council estate.”

Dad’s answer to everything was more money.

He bought me a celebrity best friend (some rapper called Lil’ Rocket).

Lil’ Rocket only wanted to film TikToks in my cinema room.

I fired him after two days.

Then Dad went nuclear.

He paid the school to expel Bob.

Something about “hygiene standards.”

Bob left without a fuss, just gave me half his cheese-and-onion crisps and said, “See you around, billionaire boy.”

That night I sat in my bedroom the size of Wales and cried into Gerald the giraffe’s neck.

Dad found me at 3 a.m.

“Money can’t buy happiness?” he said, doing his disappointed face. “Rubbish. Name your price.”

So I did.

“I want you to give it all away,” I said. “Every penny. Until we’re normal.”

Dad laughed.

Then saw I was serious.

Then realised the press would call him the greatest philanthropist in history.

By breakfast he was on the phone to lawyers.

We gave the lot away.

Hospitals.

Schools.

Homeless shelters.

Even Raj’s corner shop got a complete refit (he cried when they installed a new slushie machine).

We kept one million.

Dad said that was still “comfortable.”

We moved to a semi-detached in the same street as Bob.

First day at the local comprehensive, I walked into the canteen with my packed lunch (cheese-and-onion crisp sandwich, brown sauce, obviously).

The only empty seat was next to Bob.

“This taken?” I asked.

He looked up, grinned like Christmas, and shoved half his sandwich my way.

“Course not, billionaire boy.”

I never told him I wasn’t a billionaire anymore.

Didn’t need to.

Turns out the best things in life aren’t free;

they cost exactly twelve billion pounds and one packet of cheese-and-onion crisps shared on a plastic school bench.

And for the first time ever,

I had someone to sit next to at lunch.