Chapter Eight – The Grand Finale
The Biscuit Ballroom fell into hushed silence as the Disco Twins stepped into the spotlight. Every eye in the audience fixed on Monterey Jack Flash and Halloumi Belle, their sequined jumpsuits gleaming like twin constellations.
The glitter ball turned, scattering shards of light across the fudge-polished floor.
A single beat of the drum.
A breath held by the crowd.
Then — the music exploded.
Monterey Jack slid into a sharp spin, landing in perfect sync with Halloumi Belle’s triple twirl. Their boots tapped out a rhythm that echoed through the hall, as crisp as crackers snapping in time. The crowd gasped, then erupted into claps and stomps, keeping beat with every move.
The twins flowed like molten fondue — smooth, unstoppable, dazzling. Monterey clicked his fondue-dipped fingers, sparks of glitter flying. Halloumi Belle leapt high, landing in a split that sent sequins scattering like shooting stars.
Backstage, Clarabelle and Eddie clutched each other’s hands. Sir Blue Vein leaned heavily on his cane, eyes misting with pride. Lady Brie dabbed at her brow with a lace handkerchief, muttering, “Cheese above, don’t let them stumble.”
But not everyone in the hall was cheering.
The Stilton Sisters lurked at the wings, their midnight gowns shimmering faintly under the stage lights. Their eyes narrowed, their smiles sharp as broken crackers.
“They think they can outshine us?” hissed the elder.
“Let’s see how long their sparkle lasts,” murmured the younger.
Halfway through the routine, a low hiss filled the backstage corner.
Wensley’s ears pricked up. He swung his wedge-shaped head toward the glitter cannon.
Smoke curled from its nozzle. A faint oily scent — the same sabotage he’d sniffed before.
Wensley barked once, twice. Eddie spun around.
“Not again—!”
The cannon’s wires sparked, a dangerous fizz building. The timer ticked toward release, aiming to blast at the exact moment of the final pose.
Clarabelle gasped. “If that goes off now—!”
But Wensley was already charging. His paws thundered across the boards, tail streaming behind him. The wedge-shaped hound leapt just as sparks flared — teeth snapping on the cord with a sharp crack he pulled it free from the power socket once again.
The cannon fizzled. The danger died.
The crowd never noticed — they were too busy cheering as Monterey and Halloumi launched into their finale. Back-to-back, arms raised high, sequins blazing beneath the glitter ball.
The music crashed to its final note. Silence.
Then: an explosion of applause. The Biscuit Ballroom shook with cheers, whistles, and stomps. A fondue fountain erupted, sending golden cheese cascading in celebration.
Melba Toast and Cherry Bakewell strutted onto the stage, dazzling as ever.
“Judges!” Melba cried, mic raised. “It’s time to reveal your scores!”
The spotlight swung. onto them
Judge Pearée adjusted his cuffs, his expression unreadable. “Technically sound. Aged to perfection. A TEN.”
Crispy Tempura bounced in his seat. “Golden! Crispy! I want to eat them — TEN!”
El Pimento Diablo flicked his cape, sparks of spice raining down. “Cheeky. Bold. Spicy. Loved it. A sizzling TEN!”
Dame Bina Pavlova dabbed her eyes, overcome. “Oh, my darlings… you melted my heart. A perfect TEN!”
The scoreboard flashed: 40 out of 40.
The crowd roared, confetti bursting from the rafters.
Dame Bina rose again, holding aloft a smaller trophy shaped like a golden cheese biscuit. Glitter sparkled across its edges.
“Before we crown the winners,” she announced, her voice quivering with emotion, “we must recognise bravery. For loyalty, courage, and saving us all from glittery disaster… the Golden Biscuit for Outstanding Backstage Bravery goes to Wensley the Wensleydoodle!”
The hall erupted into chants: “Wens-ley! Wens-ley!”
Wensley trotted forward, his big melty eyes shining, and gently took the biscuit in his mouth. His tail wagged furiously as the crowd surged to their feet in ovation.
Eddie wiped his eyes. “That’s my boy.”
Finally, Melba and Cherry took centre stage once more.
“And now, darlings,” Melba grinned, her voice carrying across the hall, “the winners of The Nationals are…”
Cherry twirled, her cherry crown glittering. “…the Cheese Family’s Disco Twins!”
The confetti cannons erupted again — this time safely — as mushrooms bounced, fruit twirled, veg spun, and even Salad Slay slid onto the stage to surround the twins in a whirlwind of hugs and cheers.
The Disco Twins stood at the centre, Monterey’s hand clasped in Halloumi Belle’s, their sequined outfits glowing under the lights. Behind them, the rest of the Cheese Family rushed forward, embracing them in a circle of proud, teary smiles.
But at the far edge of the stage, the Stilton Sisters lingered in the shadows, arms crossed, their mouldy gowns trailing.
“They may have the trophy now,” one muttered darkly.
“But next time,” the other hissed, “the rind will rise.”
Their laughter echoed faintly as they melted back into the darkness.
The music swelled once more. The audience cheered. The Cheese Family danced together in the centre of the stage, sequins flying, fondue flowing, and joy overflowing.
They had won — not just the trophy, but the honour of family, flavour, and fun.
And as the lights dimmed on the grand finale of the Nationals, one thing was certain: this was only the beginning of their adventures.
Blind Man Makes 