“We have time to hear one more,” said Miss Battle-Axe, scanning the class. Horrid Henry thought his arm would detach itself from his shoulder if he shoved it any higher. “Margaret,” said Miss Battle-Axe.
Henry scowled. It was so unfair. No one wanted to know about that moody old grouch.
Moody Margaret swaggered to the front and noisily cleared her throat.
MARGARET’S AUTOBIOGRAPHY
Greetings, world. I’m very sad when I think that many of you reading this will never get to meet someone as amazing as me. But at least you can read something I’ve written, and you newspaper people should save this piece of paper, because I, Margaret, have touched it with my very own hands, and it’s sure to be valuable in the future when I’m famous.
Let me tell you a few things about marvelous me. First, I am the leader of the Secret Club, which is always victorious against the pathetic and puny Purple Hand Gang next door. One reason we always destroy them, apart from my brilliant plotting, is because the Purple Hand’s so-called leader, Henry, is really stupid and useless and pathetic.
Horrid Henry could not believe his ears.
“Liar!” shouted Henry. “I always win!”
“Shh!” said Miss Battle-Axe.
Naturally, I am the best soccer player the school has ever had or will ever have, and naturally I’m captain of the soccer team. Everyone always wants to play on my team, but of course I don’t let no-hopers like Henry on it. I’m also a fantastic trumpet player and a top spy. My best toy is my Dungeon Drink Kit, which I’ve used many times to play great tricks on the Purple Hand Gang, which they always fall for.
But I know I’ll be very famous so I’m saving my best stories for my future bestselling autobiography. I expect there will be many statues built in my honor all over town, and that this school will be renamed the Margaret School.
I know it’s hard realizing that you can never be as great as me, but get used to it!!!
Moody Margaret stopped reading and swaggered to her seat.
“Yay!” yelled Sour Susan.
“Boo!” yelled Horrid Henry.
“Boo!” yelled Rude Ralph.
“There’s no booing in this class,” said Miss Battle-Axe.
Horrid Henry was outraged. Margaret’s lies about him…published? The Purple Hand Gang always won. But the whole world would believe her lies once they read them in a newspaper. He had to stop that foul fiend. He had to show everyone what a big fat liar Margaret really was.
But how? How? He could just try to steal her autobiography. But someone might notice it had gone missing. Or he could…he could…
The playtime bell rang. Miss Battle-Axe starting collecting up all the autobiographies. Henry watched helplessly as Margaret’s pack of boasting lies went into the folder.
And then Horrid Henry knew what he had to do. It was dangerous. It was risky. But a pirate gang leader had to take his chances, come what may.
Horrid Henry put up his hand. “Please, miss, I haven’t finished my autobiography yet. Could I stay in at playtime to finish?”
Miss Battle-Axe looked at Henry as if he had just grown an extra head. Henry…asking to spend more time on work? Horrid Henry asking to skip playtime?
“You can have five more minutes,” said Miss Battle-Axe, mopping her brow.
Horrid Henry wrote and wrote and wrote. When would Miss Battle-Axe leave him alone for a moment? But there she was, stapling up drawings of light bulbs.
“Put it in the folder with the others,” said Miss Battle-Axe, facing the wall. Horrid Henry didn’t wait to be asked twice and grabbed the folder.
There wasn’t a moment to lose. Henry rifled through the autobiographies, removed Margaret’s, and substituted his new, improved version.
Moody Margaret peered round the door. Tee-hee, thought Horrid Henry, pushing past her. Wouldn’t she get a shock when she got her newspaper! What he’d give to see her face.
THWACK!
The local paper dropped through the door. Henry snatched it. There was the headline:
LOCAL CHILDREN SHINE IN FASCINATING TALES OF THEIR LIVES
Feverishly, he turned to read the class autobiographies.
MARGARET’S AUTOBIOGRAPHY
Oh woe is me, to be such a silly moody grouchy grump. I’ve always looked like a frog, in fact my mom took one look at me when I was born, threw me in the garbage and ran screaming from the room. I don’t blame her; I scream too whenever I see my ugly warty face in the mirror. Everyone calls me Maggie Moo Moo, or Maggie Poo Poo, because I still wear diapers. I started a Secret Club, which no one wants to join, because I am so mean and bossy.
I can’t even have a sleepover without everyone running away. I keep trying to beat Henry’s Purple Hand Gang, but he’s much too clever for me and always foils my evil plans. I live next door to Henry, but of course I don’t deserve such a great honor. I really should just live in a smelly hole somewhere with all the other frogs. So, just remember, everyone, beware of being a moody, grouchy grump, or you might end up as horrible as me.
Yes! What a triumph! He was brilliant. He was a genius. What an amazing trick to write the truth about Margaret and swap it for her pack of lies.
Horrid Henry beamed. Now to enjoy his own autobiography. It was far too short, but there was always next time.
HENRY’S AUTOBIOGRAPHY
I’m a total copycat. Luckily, I live next door to the amazing Margaret, who I look up to and admire and worship more than anyone in the world. Margaret is my heroine, but I will never be as clever or as brilliant as she is, because I’m a pathetic, useless toad. I copied her amazing Secret Club, but the Purple Hand always loses. I tried to do makeovers, but of course I couldn’t. Even my own brother wants to work for her as a spy. But then, she is an empress and I’m a worm.
The most exciting thing that ever happened to me was when Margaret moved in next door. I hope that one day she will let me be the guard of the Secret Club, but I will have to work very hard to deserve it. That would be the best thing that has ever happened in my boring life.
Huh? What? That fiend! That foul fiend!
The doorbell rang.
There was Margaret, waving the newspaper. Her face was purple.
“How dare you!” she shrieked.
“How dare you!” Henry shrieked.
“I’ll get you for this, Henry,” hissed Margaret.
“Just you wait, Margaret,” hissed Henry.
“Boys, I have a very special treat for you,” said Mom, beaming.
Horrid Henry looked up from his Mutant Max comic.
Perfect Peter looked up from his spelling homework.
A treat? A special treat? A very special treat? Maybe Mom and Dad were finally appreciating him. Maybe they’d got tickets…maybe they’d actually got tickets…Horrid Henry’s heart leaped. Could it be possible that at last, at long last, he’d get to go to a Killer Boy Rats concert?
“We’re going to the Daffy and her Dancing Daisies show!” said Mom. “I got the last four tickets.”
“OOOOOOHHHH,” said Peter, clapping his hands. “Yippee! I love Daffy.”
What?? NOOOOOOOOOOO! That wasn’t a treat. That was torture. A treat would be a day at the Frosty Freeze Ice Cream Factory. A treat would be no school. A treat would be all he could eat at Gobble and Go.
“I don’t want to see that stupid Daffy,” said Horrid Henry. “I want to see the Killer Boy Rats.”
“No way,” said Mom.
“I don’t like the Killer Boy Rats,” shuddered Peter. “Too scary.”
“Me neither,” shuddered Mom. “Too loud.”
“Me neither,” shuddered Dad. “Too shouty.”
“NOOOOOOOO!” screamed Henry.
“But Henry,” said Peter, “everyone loves Daffy.”
“Not me,” snarled Henry.
&
nbsp; Perfect Peter waved a flier. “Daffy’s going to be the greatest show ever. Read this.”
AAAARRRRRGGGGGHHHHHH.
Moody Margaret’s parents were taking her to the Killer Boy Rats concert. Rude Ralph was going to the Killer Boy Rats concert. Even Anxious Andrew was going, and he didn’t even like them. Stuck-Up Steve had been bragging for months that he was going and would be sitting in a special box. It was so unfair.
No one was a bigger Rats fan than Horrid Henry. Henry had all their albums: Killer Boy Rats Attack-Tack-Tack, Killer Boy Rats Splat!, Killer Boy Rats Manic Panic.
“It’s not fair!” screamed Horrid Henry. “I want to see the Killers!!!!”
“We have to see something that everyone in the family will like,” said Mom. “Peter’s too young for the Killer Boy Rats but we can all enjoy Daffy.”
“Not me!” screamed Henry.
Oh, why did he have such a stupid diaper baby for a brother? Younger brothers should be banned. They just wrecked everything. When he was King Henry the Horrible, all younger brothers would be arrested and dumped in a volcano.
In fact, why wait?
Horrid Henry pounced. He was a fiery god scooping up a human sacrifice and hurling him into the volcano’s molten depths.
“AAAIIIIIEEEEEEE!” screamed Perfect Peter. “Henry attacked me.”
“Stop being horrid, Henry!” shouted Mom. “Leave your brother alone.”
“I won’t go to Daffy,” yelled Henry. “And you can’t make me.”
“Go to your room,” said Dad.
Horrid Henry paced up and down his bedroom, singing his favorite Rats song at the top of his lungs:
“I’m dead, you’re dead, we’re dead.
Get over it.
Dead is great, dead’s where it’s at
’Cause…”
“Henry! Be quiet!” screamed Dad.
“I am being quiet!” bellowed Henry. Honestly. Now, how could he get out of going to that terrible Daffy concert? He’d easily be the oldest one there. Only stupid babies liked Daffy. If the horrible songs didn’t kill him then he was sure to die of embarrassment. Then they’d be sorry they’d made him go. But it would be too late. Mom and Dad and Peter could sob and boohoo all they liked but he’d still be dead. And serve them right for being so mean to him.
Dad said if he was good he could see the Killer Boys next time they were in town. Ha. The Killer Boy Rats NEVER put on concerts. Next time they did he’d be old and hobbling and whacking Peter with his cane.
He had to get a Killer Boys ticket now. He just had to. But how? They’d been sold out for weeks.
Maybe he could place an ad:
That might work. Or he could tell people that the concert was cursed and anyone who went would turn into a rat. Hmmm. Somehow Henry didn’t see Margaret falling for that. Too bad Peter didn’t have a ticket, thought Henry sadly, he could tell him he’d turn into a killer and Peter would hand over the ticket instantly.
And then suddenly Horrid Henry had a brilliant, spectacular idea. There must be someone out there who was desperate for a Daffy ticket. In fact there must be someone out there who would swap a Killers ticket for a Daffy one. It was certainly worth a try.
“Hey, Brian, I hear you’ve got a Killer Boy Rats ticket,” said Horrid Henry at school the next day.
“So?” said Brainy Brian.
“I’ve got a ticket to something much better,” said Henry.
“What?” said Brian. “The Killers are the best.”
Horrid Henry could barely force the grisly words out of his mouth. He twisted his lips into a smile.
“Daffy and her Dancing Daisies,” said Horrid Henry.
Brainy Brian stared at him.
“Daffy and her Dancing Daisies?” he spluttered.
“Yes,” said Horrid Henry brightly. “I’ve heard it’s their best show ever. Great new songs. You’d love it. Wanna swap?”
Brainy Brian stared at him as if he had a turnip instead of a head.
“You’re trying to swap Daffy and her Dancing Daisies tickets for the Killer Boy Rats?” said Brian slowly.
“I’m doing you a favor, no one likes the Killer Boy Rats anymore,” said Henry.
“I do,” said Brian.
Rats.
“How come you have a ticket for Daffy?” said Brian. “Isn’t that a baby show?”
“It’s not mine, I found it,” said Horrid Henry quickly. Oops.
“Ha ha, Henry, I’m seeing the Killers, and you’re not,” Margaret taunted.
“Yeah, Henry,” said Sour Susan.
“I heard…” Margaret doubled over laughing, “I heard you were going to the Daffy show!”
“That’s a big fat lie,” said Henry hotly. “I wouldn’t be seen dead there.”
Horrid Henry looked around the auditorium at the sea of little baby nappy faces. There was Needy Neil clutching his mother’s hand. There was Weepy William, crying because he’d dropped his ice cream. There was Toddler Tom, up past his bedtime. Oh, no! There was Lisping Lily. Henry ducked.
Phew. She hadn’t seen him. Margaret would never stop teasing him if she ever found out. When he was king, Daffy and her Dancing Daisies would live in a dungeon with only rats for company. Anyone who so much as mentioned the name Daffy, or even grew a daisy, would be flushed down the toilet.
There was a round of polite applause as Daffy and her Dancing Daisies pirouetted on stage. Horrid Henry slumped in his seat as far as he could slump and pulled his cap over his face. Thank goodness he’d come disguised and brought some earplugs. No one would ever know he’d been there.
“Tra la la la la la la!” trilled the Daisies.
“Tra la la la la la la!” trilled the audience.
Oh, the torture, groaned Horrid Henry as horrible song followed horrible song. Perfect Peter sang along. So did Mom and Dad.
AAARRRRRGGGHHHHH. And to think that tomorrow night the Killer Boy Rats would be performing…and he wouldn’t be there! It was so unfair.
Then Daffy cartwheeled to the front of the stage. One of the daisies stood beside her holding a giant hat.
“And now the moment all you Daffy Daisy fans have been waiting for,” squealed Daffy. “It’s the Lucky Ducky Daisy Draw, when we call up on stage an oh-so-lucky audience member to lead us in the Whoops-a-Daisy sing-along song! Who’s it going to be?”
“Me!” squealed Peter. Mom squeezed his arm.
Daffy fumbled in the hat and pulled out a ticket.
“And the lucky winner of our ticket raffle is…Henry! Ticket 597! Ticket 597, yes, Henry, you in row P, seat 10, come on up! Daffy needs you on stage!”
Horrid Henry was stuck to his seat in horror. It must be some other Henry. Never in his worst nightmares had he ever imagined—
“Henry, that’s you,” said Perfect Peter. “You’re so lucky.”
“Henry! Come on up, Henry!” shrieked Daffy. “Don’t be shy!”
Onstage at the Daffy show? No! No! Wait till Moody Margaret found out. Wait till anyone found out. Henry would never hear the end of it. He wasn’t moving. Pigs would fly before he budged.
“Henwy!” squealed Lisping Lily behind him. “Henwy! I want to give you a big kiss, Henwy…”
Horrid Henry leaped out of his seat. Lily! Lisping Lily! That fiend in toddler’s clothing would stop at nothing to get hold of him.
Before Henry knew what had happened, ushers dressed as daisies had nabbed him and pushed him onstage.
Horrid Henry blinked in the lights. Was anyone in the world as unlucky as he?
“All together now, everyone get ready to ruffle their petals. Let’s sing Tippy-toe daisy do/Let us sing a song for you!” beamed Daffy. “Henry, you start us off.”
Horrid Henry stared at the vast audience. Everyone was looking at him. Of course he didn’t know any stupid Da
isy songs. He always blocked his ears or ran from the room whenever Peter sang them. Whatever could the words be…“Watch out, whoop-de-do/Daisy’s doing a big poo?”
These poor stupid kids. If only they could hear some decent songs, like…like…
“Granny on her crutches
Push her off her chair
Shove shove shove shove
Shove her down the stairs.”
shrieked Horrid Henry.
The audience was silent. Daffy looked stunned.
“Uh, Henry…that’s not Tippy-toe daisy do,” whispered Daffy.
“C’mon everyone, join in with me,” shouted Horrid Henry, spinning around and twirling in his best Killer Boy Rats manner.
“I’m in my coffin
No time for coughin’
When you’re squished down dead.
Don’t care if you’re a goony
Don’t care if you’re a loony,
Don’t care if you’re cartoony
I’ll squish you!”
sang Horrid Henry as loud as he could.
“Gonna be a rock star (and you ain’t)
Don’t even—”
Two security guards ran onstage and grabbed Horrid Henry.
“Killer Boy Rats forever!” shrieked Henry as he was dragged off.
* * *
Horrid Henry stared at the special delivery letter covered in skulls and crossbones. His hand shook.
Horrid Henry goggled at the tickets and the backstage pass. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe. He was going to the Killer Boy Rats concert. He was actually going to the Killer Boy Rats concert.
Life, thought Horrid Henry, beaming, was sweet.
Acknowledgments
Thanks to Hannah Goodwin, who suggested Horrid Henry’s Autobiography would be a good title for a story. And thanks to Michael Rosen for the muddy twig revenge, and to my son, Josh, who came up with an extraordinary number of excellent tricks for Henry to play on Peter.
Horrid Henry Rocks Page 3
