In the sleepy town of Beverley, where the Minster’s shadow stretched long and lazy over the cobbled streets, the nights were usually as quiet as a mouse nibbling a crumb. But one evening, when the moon hung fat and wobbly like a great disc of cheese, something extraordinary was happening. A giant—yes, a giant!—loped through the shadows, his ears flapping like enormous pancakes and his boots squelching softly on the dew-damp stones.
This was no ordinary giant, and not a mean giant either. This was the Big Friendly Giant, the BFG himself, and he’d come to Beverley with a sack full of his finest bottles of whizzbombs to help the children of Beverley have wonderful dreams.
Perched on his shoulder was Sophie, her nightgown fluttering like a flag as he strode about. “Look there, BFG!” she whispered, pointing to a row of houses tucked beneath the Minster’s watchful spires. “Those children need some happy dreams tonight—I can feel it.”
The BFG nodded, his eyes twinkling like stars caught in a jam jar. “Right you is, Sophie. I’s got a batch of golden phizzwizards in me sack—dreams so scrumptious they’d make a snozzcumber taste like strawberry fizz!” With a grin, he pulled out his long, twisty blowpipe, loaded it with a shimmering dream, and WHOOSH!—sent it sailing through little Archie Pickwicks bedroom window.
Inside, poor Archie had been tossing and turning, plagued by a nightmare of a spider so hairy it could knit its own jumper. But as the BFG’s dream dust tickled his nose, the spider vanished, replaced by a fluffy cloud that carried him off to a land of candyfloss castles and rivers of chocolate syrup. A sleepy smile spread across his face, and soon the whole street was humming with the soft snores of happy dreamers.
But oh, calamity and cats alive! Not everyone in Beverley was pleased with this midnight meddling. Down by the Wednesday Market, where the lamplights flickered like grumpy fireflies, stood Mayor Grumbold Gizzardbreath—a man so sour he could curdle milk with a single glare. His face was a map of wrinkles, his moustache bristled like a hedgehog with a grudge, and he’d heard whispers of a “colossal clodhopper” stomping about, blowing who-knows-what into innocent bedrooms.
“Poppycock and piffle!” Mayor Grumbold bellowed, stomping his polished boots on the cobbles. “This is Beverley, not some higgledy-piggledy dream factory! Noise! Nonsense! Paving stones cracking like eggshells! I’ll have this giant locked up faster than you can say ‘Town Council Regulation 42B!’”
The BFG, who’d been tiptoeing past St Mary’s Church, froze mid-step. “Oh, rumpledumpers,” he muttered. “This human bean’s got a grump as big as a trogglehumper!”
Sophie peeked over his shoulder. “Don’t worry, BFG. We’ll fix this.” She rummaged in his sack and pulled out a tiny jar labelled Giggle Gas—Highly Contagious. “Blow this, now!”
With a wink and a wuffle, the BFG aimed his blowpipe and WHOOSH!—a glittering cloud of golden gas swirled around Mayor Grumbold. For a moment, he stood stiff as a lamppost, his arms crossed and his scowl deepening. Then—snort!—a tiny giggle escaped his nose. Snort-snort! Another! And then—oh, glory be!—he erupted into a full-blown, belly-wobbling, eye-watering HA HA HA!
“What’s this?” Mayor Grumbold wheezed, clutching his sides as he toppled onto the cobbles. “Hee hee hee! My tummy’s tickling! Ho ho ho!” He rolled about, kicking his legs in the air, tears streaming down his cheeks as the giggles bubbled out like a fountain of fizzy pop. The BFG and Sophie couldn’t help it—they joined in, their laughter bouncing off the Minster’s ancient stones until the whole town seemed to jiggle with joy.
At last, Mayor Grumbold staggered to his feet, still chuckling. “Oh, my stars and sausages,” he gasped, wiping his eyes. “You’re not a troublemaker, you big lolloping lump—you’re a marvel! A dream-whizzing wonder!”
“Truly?” asked the BFG, his ears wagging with delight.
“Truly!” cried Mayor Grumbold. “Why, you must come to the Town Hall tomorrow. We’ll make you Beverley’s Official Dream-Catcher-in-Chief!”
And so, the next day, the BFG squeezed into the Town Hall—his head brushing the chandelier and his knees tucked under his chin—while Sophie sat proudly on his shoulder. The Councillors, a stuffy bunch with spectacles and stern frowns, stared as Mayor Grumbold thumped the table.
“This giant’s a treasure!” he declared, a stray giggle slipping out. “He’s been chasing away the trogglehumpers and bringing golden phizzwizards to our kiddies. I say we make Beverley the dreamiest town in all of England!”
A murmur rippled through the room. One councillor muttered about “unapproved giant activity,” but Mayor Grumbold shot him a look so merry it could melt a snozzcumber. “All in favour?” he called.
“AYE!” roared the council, their voices ringing like bells.
From that night on, the BFG became Beverley’s gentle guardian of dreams. Every evening, as the Minster clock chimed midnight, he’d roam the streets with his blowpipe, sending whizzpopping wonders through every window. And if you listen closely on a quiet night, you might hear the faint WHOOSH! of his dreams—or the distant chuckle of Mayor Grumbold, who never quite stopped giggling.
THE END
Disclaimer
This story, “The BFG Comes to Beverley, a Tale of Fizzwigging and Fiasco,” is a work of fan fiction created for entertainment purposes only. The Big Friendly Giant (BFG), Sophie, and related concepts such as “phizzwizards,” “snozzcumbers,” and “trogglehumpers” are the intellectual property of Roald Dahl and his estate, the Roald Dahl Story company or Netflix as originally introduced in The BFG. No copyright infringement is intended. This story is not affiliated with, endorsed by, or authorized by the Roald Dahl estate, his publishers, or any associated parties. All original characters, settings (such as Beverley), and additional plot elements are my own creation, inspired by the whimsical spirit of Dahl’s work. This piece is non-commercial and intended solely as a tribute to the original story.