Imagine if your dad opened a new restaurant in the grounds of an ancient castle. Imagine if he asked you ‘How can I fill it with happy diners?’ And you said, ‘Do something amazing Dad. Grab the headlines. Make a statement. I know, bake the world’s biggest… scone!’

Imagine then if your dad said ‘O.K., where do we start?’ And you figured out the best place to start was the local cement works. You figured out that with the help of the site foreman, a cement mixer and a giant kiln you actually could bake the world’s biggest scone.

Imagine if you managed to get local businesses to sponsor you and your dad on your quest for glory and together you brought about a miracle, the world’s first 2-ton sweet scone filled with sultanas, raspberry jam and fresh cream.

Then imagine if you can, a sunny morning in the same castle grounds. It’s the day before the scone’s grand unveiling. The day before those respected men from the G.B.R. (Guinness Book of Records) officially recognise your achievement. You turn into the shaded courtyard that houses the giant pastry you’ve slaved to create and ‘Oh My God! It’s vanished!’

Would you… could you… leave it to the apathetic local police to find it? Or would you fight for the adulation you so richly deserve…?

Tom O'Donnell isn't satisfied with the challenges that face your average twelve-year-old boy. He needs to reach a bit further, jump a bit higher, strive for that far horizon. And when his dad opens a new restaurant in the grounds of Stone Castle, he sees his chance. His dad needs something to put his restaurant on the map and Tom has a terrific idea.

'We'll bake the world's biggest scone,' he suggests.

The nearby cement works provide the perfect location. With the help of the site foreman, a cement mixer and a giant kiln, they start work. Local businesses sponsor them, supplying them with the enormous quantities of flour and milk they need. And soon the shady courtyard of Scone Castle is home to the world's largest sweet scone.

But fate has played a cruel trick on Tom O’Donnell. The local press have dubbed his creation the Scone of Stone and this simple fact will be its undoing. The night before it's grand unveiling, the scone is stolen by a group of Scottish students.

Tom quickly learns there's an awful lot of history behind this dastardly act of skullduggery. His best friend Derek tells him all about the Stone of Scone, an ancient Holy Relic used for centuries to crown the kings of Scotland. It was stolen by an English king, Edward the first, in 1196 and the Scots have never gotten over it. They were even given the stone back, permanently, in the year 2000. But they can’t half hold a grudge!

As a fresher’s week prank, a group of Edinburgh students have carried the scone off to their lawless campus. They plan to pit it against their own enormous creation, a haggis, the proportions of which rival those of Tom’s record-breaking scone.

In a food-themed clash of the titans, they’ll hurl both the scone and the haggis down Arthur’s Seat (the highest peak in Edinburgh) and revel in the haggis’ certain victory. Unless, that is, Tom O’Donnell can stop them. He races north, lodging with friends in the city’s Marchment district. As it turns out, his hosts have rented their spare room to a Chemistry Professor, Richard Frensmart, so Tom has to rough it on the living room floor.

Professor Frensmart quickly becomes fascinated with Tom’s story and the practicalities of baking such an enormous scone. He’s as keen to discover its fate as Tom and together they scour the city looking for it.

They eventually track it down in a disused poly-tunnel outside one of Edinburgh Medical College’s old research sites. Alan Slysby and his band of cronies turn up in a flat bed truck and heave the scone aboard. Tom and Richard are torn between bringing the reckless fresher’s to justice and joining them in their madcap adventure. Both are tempted by the spectacle of a race down Arthur’s Seat with an equally grandiose haggis. In the end, Tom stows away under a tarpaulin on the back of their truck, while Richard and his junior lab assistant Lucy, follow in a taxi.

Twenty minutes later, the fresher’s pull up beside a smart Mercedes on the Radical Road, which encircles Arthur’s Seat. Its driver, Lance Philips, is a reporter with the Herald who’ll record, for all posterity, the scone’s defeat. Tom listens to Alan and the others explain the deep national significance attached to the Scone of Stone and the Stone of Scone. As the banks of Arthur’s Seat fill up with students who’ve gotten wind of the event, their vehicles pull away again, winding their way up the great escarpment that dwarfs Hollyrood Palace.

There’s a scuffle at the top of Arthur’s Seat as Tom, Richard and Lucy, who’ve arrived in their taxi, decide not to let the scone race. Alan overpowers them however, sabotaging the scone at the same time. Suddenly, it’s chocks away for both the Scottish Haggis and the English Scone. In a blizzard of crumbs and offal, they begin to rattle down the hillside.

Side by side, neck and neck, the two gastronomic giants gallop over bracken-filled hollows, boggy thickets of birch and rowan, babbling brooks and dumbstruck O.A.P.s. Alan Slysby’s commentary falters as the haggis bursts, the scone takes the lead and crosses the Radical Road first. But Tom’s jubilation at winning is short lived. A car rounds a bend on the Radical Road and obliterates his scone utterly.

Tom flies home to Kent defeated. He will never fulfill his dream of seeing his name in the Guinness Book of World Records. Or will he? Richard phones him with an idea for a new world record, an ambitious quest they can undertake together. And the tale ends with them planning their new endeavor.

‘Heavyweight Scone Set To Shatter World Record,’ read the banner headline of the Kent Messenger lying on Tom O’Donnell’s Welcome mat. Tom picked it up and cast his eye over the rest of the story on page 2. ‘Canterbury Cathedral, the port of Dover, the Channel Tunnel and now the Worlds Largest Scone, Kent has it all!’ it began. ‘It’s 7 feet wide, 6 feet tall, contains 100 litres of Raspberry Jam and weighs more than 2,200 pounds. It’s the biggest scone in the world, and it’s here in Kent, in the little village of Stone-Next-Dartford.’

Tom was delighted, that was his little village and the scone had been his big idea. He’d always loved a good scone (he pronounced it skoan, to rhyme with stone, though he knew some people liked to say it skon.) A sweet scone, filled with sultanas and spread with a thick layer of jam was, to him, a thing of great beauty, a king amongst pastries. Savoury scones were nice too, but it was definitely the sweet, jam and sultana filled ones that really made his mouth water.

He’d begun thinking of baking a really big scone a few months ago, when his dad had said he wanted to get his new restaurant, in the grounds of Stone Castle in the local paper. Tom had wondered just how big a scone would have to be, to be the biggest scone ever baked. It turned out there’d never been a truly enormous one; at least, if there had, no one had photographed it. Not in America. Not in Japan. And certainly not here in Great Britain.

Nor, for that matter, had anyone ever made a note of the world’s heaviest scone; or the world’s fattest scone. So, he suggested to his dad they make one. A really, grotesquely, appallingly, disgracefully BIG one, right away. His dad was sceptical at first but Tom just wouldn’t take ‘No’ for an answer. It was a sure-fire way to grab the headlines. He was convinced it would put The Chivalrous Chef on the map. And here was the proof! He rushed into the kitchen with the paper under his arm. Sadly, his dad had already left for work.

‘Look mum,’ he said. She was on the phone, telling someone about the awful headache she’d had yesterday, but this was important. ‘Look,’ he repeated. He held the paper an inch beneath her nose. ‘That’s our scone, right there, ours, mine and Dad’s.’ He jabbed his finger at the top of the page. ‘Look!’

She smiled, covering the mouthpiece. ‘Well done love,’ she whispered. ‘I knew you could do it. Now let me finish my conversation with Aunty Vicky in Edinburgh. She’s having her hernia op’ this week. Did you know?’

Tom sighed. He didn’t know. And what’s more, he didn’t want to know. Aunty Vicky wasn’t really his aunt. She’d just been one of his mum’s best friends when he was little. They’d shared the experience of having young children together, and still hadn’t got tired of talking about it.

‘Roger and Tom have been busy,’ he heard her say as she turned away. ‘They’ve baked an enormous scone and it’s in the paper.’ There was a short pause while Tom’s Aunty Vicky said something polite in return. His mum’s face changed. Her eyes glowed and her cheeks dimpled. She looked proudly back at Tom. ‘When are the guys from the Guinness Book of Records coming round?’ she asked him.

‘First thing tomorrow morning,’ Tom puffed out his chest.
‘First thing tomorrow,’ his mum repeated into the phone. ‘I’ll iron you a shirt,’ she added, patting him on the head.
‘Whatever,’ Tom shrugged. ‘I’m off. To school I mean.’ He was already late. ‘I’ll see you later.’
‘Fish for tea,’ his mum mouthed as he picked up his bag. Normally, Tom looked forward to his mum’s home-cooked fish supper. But today, he thought, eating with his friends outside the Chip Shop on the way home might be more fun. ‘Everyone is going to hear about my scone!’ he shouted as he trotted out the back door. ‘I’ll call you from Derek’s,’ he waved over his shoulder. ‘Stick mine in the oven for me. I’ll heat it up when I get in.’ 

In his first class, Tom sat next to Derek Picknibs, his best friend. ‘Congratulations,’ said Derek, ‘I saw the Kent Messenger this morning. You did it!’
‘Thanks,’ Tom beamed. ‘I can’t believe I’m a real live record breaker.’
A flicker of doubt crossed Derek’s chubby face. ‘Is it official then?’ he said. He wrinkled his squashy nose. ‘Has it been approved?’
‘Tomorrow,’ Tom admitted, frowning. ‘Officially.’
‘It will be though won’t it?’ Derek went on. ‘I mean, it’s a proper scone, you didn’t cheat or anything?’

Mr. Slaptens, their substitute teacher, coughed loudly from behind his desk. He was trying to start the lesson. ‘Of course,’ Tom hissed behind his hand, ‘it’s a real scone. What do you think? I faked it?’
‘Sorry,’ Derek raised one eyebrow. ‘I only meant… you didn’t bulk it up with any cheap ingredients. You could eat it could you, this super-scone?’
‘You could eat it,’ Tom nodded. ‘I’ll bring you a piece, once the experts have finished with it. Photographers, people taking measurements, you know how it is.’

Derek nudged Tom with his elbow, telling him to face forward. Mr. Slaptens was eying them suspiciously. ‘My gran likes to put orange peel in hers,’ he said through the corner of his mouth. ‘Brushes the tops with egg yolk before bangin’ ‘em in her Aga. Did you? Do anything like that?’
‘We used milk,’ Tom smiled demurely at Mr. Slaptens. ‘Does the same thing though. Makes ‘em go all crispy and golden brown in the oven. Every scone needs a sun tan eh?’

Mr. Slaptens was coming over, twisting his wiry body through the maze of tube-steel and chipboard desks in front of them. Derek had to agree. ‘Sounds like you’ve thought of everything,’ he breathed. ‘Well done,’ he disguised the last two words, looking down and opening his textbook at the same time. Mr. Slaptens put his hands on his desk but said nothing. Tom was so proud he could burst. He knitted his hands together and stared at his feet. Mr. Slaptens went away, chuntering under his breath.