Bad Luck Barry

Bad Luck Barry

It started as most days did for our Barry. He’d downed the two cans of Orangina he’d put in his Coca Cola mini fridge overnight- in his eyes this was hitting two of his five a day by the time he’d taken off his Foo Fighters bedtime shirt. It did nothing for his undiagnosed diabetes though. 

But something was amiss this morning; Barry’s mum hadn’t left his usual breakfast spread on the table… there was no Billy Bear Ham, no Dairy Lea Triangles, and no Wagon Wheels, just a note.

‘Baz- I came into your room this morning to give you a kiss before work, and it suddenly hit me. You really are a f*cking useless bastard. You’re 19 and you’ve got a fish tank in your room. It stinks of cat piss. You’ve got a poster on your wall of Avril Lavigne. I went away with work for a week and you couldn’t even keep my Nintendogs alive. You deleted all my recordings of Midsummer Murders so you could tape Ninja Warrior reruns. That was the last straw. I’ve decided to move in with your Uncle Ian- he was always a better shag than your dad anyway. There’s a strong chance he is your dad as well seeing as he’s got a nose like a fucking dorito too. I suggest you get a proper job so you can afford the rent that I’m not paying anymore you sad little dosser. If you really need me I’ll be down The Anchor most nights necking Shiraz to try and forget about how much your face pisses me off. Sort yourself out. Mum’.

Dealt an awful hand, Barry had always been up against it. Officially, he’s the only millennial with the name Barry- his middle name is Gary. His surname is Gollop. Barry Gary Gollop. Fancy telling people that’s your name. Who wants to hold a baby Barry? Who wants to tell Barry to f*ck them harder. His only proper friend is ‘Naughty Nick’ from down the road, who’s 42 and goes nowhere without his inhaler and a mars bar. 

Aside from his name, Barry wasn’t exactly the best looking lad either. Picture this. A fat Adam Sandler with three front teeth who wears black leather brogues with yellow Quiksilver board shorts and an Umbro hoodie. That’s what Barry wore to prom because he put his suit in the bath to get the creases out. An hour before the event. He still got a kiss though. Of sorts. He got the kiss of life; someone told Barry an oyster was actually the inside of a creme egg without knowing our Baz had a massive shellfish allergy. 

From that day on the moniker ‘Bad Luck Barry’ was born, though in fairness it’d been coming for a while. He never went back to school except to collect his GCSE results, which was pointless because he thought coursework was optional and so didn’t pass any of his subjects. His only passion, aside from googling ‘Avril Lavigne tits’ and ‘Avril Lavigne bikini falls off’, was karate, which he was forced to give up when he broke both legs trying to do parkour off of a moving bus. 

But what next for our hero? Our protagonist found himself at a crossroads that morning- motherless, jobless and, as far as everyone else was concerned, hopeless. But not our Barry. It was time to open the box. Not the box of soft Avril Lavigne porn he kept under his bunk bed. Not his Xbox. Not his boxful of Ben10 memorabilia. The box that his dad left for him after his untimely passing…

Barry’s 8th birthday party was a day that’d always haunt him. As a child, Barry had quite the obsession with Bargain Hunt. So his dad decided to dress up as David Dickinson to mark the occasion. He grew out his mullet in the months leading to the big day, and, on that fateful morning, decided to go to ‘Tanning World’ to make sure he was the right shade of orange to perfect the look. Barry’s old man had never been in a sunbed before, and, with both a lack of experience and a reluctance to ask the staff for advice, he used up a four hour ‘mega token’ in one go. By the time Tanning World Tina smelt what she thought was a Creme Brûlée, it was all too late. At the age of eight Barry had to identify his dad purely by his Reebok Classics- the rest of him had burnt to a crisp. The inside of the sunbed looked like one massive piece of streaky bacon. Barry’s dad’s name, ironically, was Ash. 

Ever since Ash had met a man in the local Bargain Booze by the name of ‘Jim Reaper’, he was convinced he didn’t have long left, so he’d already prepared a will, of sorts. Everything Barry would ever need to know was in the box his dad had left him, which was sealed with a letter instructing our ‘down on his luck’ hero what circumstances to open them in. It read ‘If ever things get too much, son, open this box.’

The time was now. With no short term fix to the pickle he found himself in, Barry knew that this was the sign he’d been waiting for to see what his dad had left for him.

Peeling back the sellotape and ripping apart the Manchester United wrapping paper, an old Smarties Easter Egg box revealed itself. The egg half eaten, Ash, in a true act of kindness, had left the other half of the egg for Barry to finish. But beneath the chocolate was a little black notebook. He reached for his friend Nick’s backup inhaler and took a massive hit. His forehead grew sweaty, his monobrow looked like a Moray eel. The 3D glasses he stole from the cinema that he wore every day fogged up. He threw his retainer brace into his fishtank and used his 4 inch thumbnail to open the book to the page marked. He knew his life was about to change forever. Barry braced himself, knowing that what he read next would help him to overcome any hurdle life put in front of him.

He blinked longingly, and read aloud the words his father had written for him with what looked like a green highlighter. 

‘Barry, if you’re reading this, I’m long gone. I need you to know something.

I’ve ran up a massive debt on wongaloans to fund my subscription to Top Gear magazine and Kerry Katona’s OnlyFans page. You were my guarantor so this is what you’ll inherit. You’re coming into about 20 grand. Of debt.

All the best son.’.