Ninety-nine bottles of pop on the wall,
Ninety-nine bottles of pop on the wall,
And if one of those bottles should happen to fall—”
“OOOHHH!” moaned Mary. “I’m having the baby.”
“Can’t you wait till I’ve finished my song?” snapped the innkeeper.
“NO!” bellowed Mary.
Miss Battle-Axe drew her hand across her throat.
Henry ignored her. After all, the show must go on.
“Come on, Joseph,” interrupted Mary. “We’re going to the stable.”
“OK,” said Joseph.
“You’re making a big mistake,” said the innkeeper. “We’ve got satellite TV and …”
Miss Battle-Axe ran onstage.
“Thank you, innkeeper, your other guests need you now,” said Miss BattleAxe, grabbing him by the collar.
“Merry Christmas!” shrieked Horrid Henry as she yanked him offstage.
There was a very long silence.
“Bravo!” yelled Moody Margaret’s deaf aunt.
Mom and Dad weren’t sure what to do. Should they clap or run away to a place where no one knew them?
Mom clapped.
Dad hid his face in his hands.
“Do you think anyone noticed?” whispered Mom.
Dad looked at Mrs. Oddbod’s grim face. He sank down in his chair. Maybe one day he would learn how to make himself invisible.
“But what was I supposed to do?” said Horrid Henry afterward in Mrs. Oddbod’s office. “It’s not my fault I forgot my line. Miss Battle-Axe said not to worry if we made a mistake and just to carry on.”
Could he help it if a star was born?
2
HORRID HENRY’S CHRISTMAS PRESENTS
December 23rd
(Just two more days to go!!!)
Horrid Henry sat by the Christmas tree and stuffed himself full of the special candy he’d swiped from the special Christmas Day stash when Mom and Dad weren’t looking. After his triumph in the school Christmas play, Horrid Henry was feeling delighted with himself and with the world.
Granny and Grandpa, his grown-up cousins Pimply Paul and Prissy Polly, and their baby, Vomiting Vera, were coming to spend Christmas. Whoopee, thought Horrid Henry, because they’d all have to bring him presents. Thankfully, Rich Aunt Ruby and Stuck-Up Steve weren’t coming. They were off skiing. Henry hadn’t forgotten the dreadful lime green cardigan Aunt Ruby had given him last year. And as much as he hated cousin Polly, anyone was better than Stuck-Up Steve, even someone who squealed all the time and had a baby who threw up on everyone.
Mom dashed into the living room, wearing a flour-covered apron and looking frantic. Henry choked down his mouthful of candy.
“Right, who wants to decorate the tree?” said Mom. She held out a cardboard box brimming with tinsel and gold and silver and blue baubles.
“Me!” said Henry.
“Me!” said Peter.
Horrid Henry dashed to the box and scooped up as many shiny ornaments as he could.
“I want to put on the gold baubles,” said Henry.
“I want to put on the tinsel,” said Peter.
“Keep away from my side of the tree,” hissed Henry.
“You don’t have a side,” said Peter.
“Do too.”
“Do not,” said Peter.
“I want to put on the tinsel and the baubles,” said Henry.
“But I want to do the tinsel,” said Peter.
“Tough,” said Henry, draping Peter in tinsel.
“Mooom!” wailed Peter. “Henry’s hogging all the decorations! And he’s putting tinsel on me.”
“Don’t be horrid, Henry,” said Mom. “Share with your brother.”
Peter carefully wrapped blue tinsel around the lower branches.
“Don’t put it there,” said Henry, yanking it off. Trust Peter to ruin his beautiful plan.
“MOOOM!” wailed Peter.
“He’s wrecking my design,” screeched Henry. “He doesn’t know how to decorate a tree.”
“But I wanted it there!” protested Peter. “Leave my tinsel alone.”
“You leave my stuff alone then,” said Henry.
“He wrecked my design!” shrieked Henry and Peter.
“Stop fighting, both of you!” shrieked Mom.
“He started it!” screamed Henry.
“Did not!”
“Did too!”
“That’s enough,” said Mom. “Now, whose turn is it to put the fairy on top?”
“I don’t want to have that stupid fairy,” wailed Horrid Henry. “I want to have Terminator Gladiator instead.”
“No,” said Peter. “I want the fairy. We always have the fairy.”
“Terminator!”
“Fairy!”
“TERMINATOR!”
“FAIRY!”
“We’re having the fairy,” said Mom firmly, “and I’ll put it on the tree.”
“NOOOOOO!” screamed Henry. “Why can’t we do what I want to do? I never get to have what I want.”
“Liar!” whimpered Peter.
“I’ve had enough of this,” said Mom. “Now get your presents and put them under the tree.”
Peter ran off.
Henry stood still.
“Henry,” said Mom. “Have you finished wrapping your Christmas presents?”
Yikes, thought Horrid Henry. What am I going to do now? The moment he’d been dreading for weeks had arrived.
“Henry! I’m not going to ask you again,” said Mom. “Have you finished wrapping all your Christmas presents?”
“Yes!” bellowed Horrid Henry.
This was not entirely true. Henry had not finished wrapping his Christmas presents. In fact, he hadn’t even started. The truth was, Henry had finished wrapping because he had no presents to wrap.
This was certainly not his fault. He had bought a few gifts, of course. He knew Peter would love the box of green DayGlo slime. And if he didn’t, well, he knew who to give it to. And Granny and Grandpa and Mom and Dad and Paul and Polly would have adored the big boxes of chocolates Henry had won at the school fair. Could he help it if the chocolates had called his name so loudly that he’d been forced to eat them all? And then Granny had been complaining about gaining weight. Surely it would have been very unkind to give her chocolate. And eating chocolate would have just made Pimply Paul’s pimples worse. Henry’d done him a big favor eating that box.
And it was hardly Henry’s fault when he’d needed extra goo for a raid on the Secret Club and Peter’s present was the only stuff on hand? He’d meant to buy replacements. But he had so many things he needed to buy for himself that when he opened his skeleton bank to get out some cash for Christmas shopping, only 35 cents had rolled out.
“I’ve bought and wrapped all my presents, Mom,” said Perfect Peter. “I’ve been saving my pocket money for months.”
“Whoopee for you,” said Henry.
“Henry, it’s always better to give than to receive,” said Peter.
Mom beamed. “Quite right, Peter.”
“Says who?” growled Horrid Henry. “I’d much rather get presents.”
“Don’t be so horrid, Henry,” said Mom.
“Don’t be so selfish, Henry,” said Dad.
Horrid Henry stuck out his tongue. Mom and Dad gasped.
“You horrid boy,” said Mom.
“I just hope Santa Claus didn’t see that,” said Dad.
“Henry,” said Peter, “Santa Claus won’t bring you any presents if you’re bad.”
AAARRRGGHHH! Horrid Henry sprang at Peter. He was a grizzly bear guzzling a juicy morsel.
“AAAAIIEEE,” wailed Peter. “Henry pinched me.”
“Henry! Go to your room,” said Mom.
“Fine!” screamed Horrid Henry, stomping off and slamming the door. Why did he get stuck with the world’s meanest and most horrible parents? They certainly didn’t deserve any presents.
Presents! Why couldn’t
he just get them? Why oh why did he have to give them? Giving other people presents was such a waste of his hard-earned money. Every time he gave a present it meant something he couldn’t buy for himself. Good-bye chocolate. Good-bye comics. Good-bye Deluxe Goo-Shooter. And then, if you bought anything good, it was so horrible having to give it away. He’d practically cried having to give Ralph that Terminator Gladiator poster for his birthday. And the Mutant Max lunch box Mom made him give Kasim still made him gnash his teeth whenever he saw Kasim with it.
Now he was stuck, on Christmas Eve, with no money, and no presents to give anyone, deserving or not.
And then Henry had a wonderful, spectacular idea. It was so wonderful, and so spectacular, that he couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of it before. Who said he had to buy presents? Didn’t Mom and Dad always say it was the thought that counted? And oh boy was he thinking.
Granny was sure to love a Mutant Max comic. After all, who wouldn’t? Then when she’d finished enjoying it, he could borrow it back. Horrid Henry rummaged under his bed and found a recent copy. In fact, it would be a shame if Grandpa got jealous of Granny’s great present. Safer to give them each one, thought Henry, digging deep into his pile to find one with the fewest torn pages.
Now let’s see, Mom and Dad. He could draw them a lovely picture. Nah, that would take too long. Even better, he could write them a poem.
Henry sat down at his desk, grabbed a pencil, and wrote:
Not bad, thought Henry. Not bad. And so cheap! Now one for Mom.
Wow! It was hard finding so many words to rhyme but he’d done it. And the poem was nice and Christmasy with the “ho ho ho.” Son didn’t rhyme but hopefully Mom wouldn’t notice because she’d be so thrilled with the rest of the poem. When he was famous she’d be proud to show off the poem her son had written specially for her.
Now, Polly. Hmmm. She was always squeaking and squealing about dirt and dust. Maybe a lovely kitchen sponge? Or a rag she could use to mop up after Vera? Or a bucket to put over Pimply Paul’s head?
Wait. What about some soap?
Horrid Henry ran into the bathroom. Yes! There was a tempting bar of blue soap going to waste in the soap dish by the bathtub. True, it had been used once or twice, but a bit of smoothing with his fingers would sort that out. In fact, Polly and Paul could share this present, it was such a good one.
Whistling, Horrid Henry wrapped up the soap in sparkling reindeer paper. He was a genius. Why hadn’t he ever done this before? And a lovely rag from under the sink would be perfect as a gag for Vera.
That just left Peter and all his present problems would be over. A piece of chewing gum, only one careful owner? A collage of candy wrappers that spelled out Worm? The unused comb Peter had given him last Christmas?
Aha. Peter loved bunnies. What better present than a picture of a bunny?
It was the work of a few moments for Henry to draw a bunny and slash a few blue lines across it to color it in. Then he signed his name in big letters at the bottom. Maybe he should be a famous artist and not a poet when he grew up, he thought, admiring his handiwork. Henry had heard that artists got paid tons of cash just for stacking a few bricks or hurling paint at a white canvas. Being an artist sounded like a great job, since it left so much time for playing computer games.
Horrid Henry dumped his presents beneath the Christmas tree and sighed happily. This was one Christmas where he was sure to get a lot more than he gave. Whoopee! Who could ask for anything more?
3
HORRID HENRY’S AMBUSH
Christmas Eve
(just a few more hours to go!)
It was Christmas Eve at last. Every minute felt like an hour. Every hour felt like a year. How could Henry live until Christmas morning when he could get his hands on all his loot?
Mom and Dad were baking frantically in the kitchen.
Perfect Peter sat by the twinkling Christmas tree scratching out “Silent Night” over and over again on his cello.
“Can’t you play something else?” snapped Henry.
“No,” said Peter, sawing away. “This is the only Christmas carol I know. You can move if you don’t like it.”
“You move,” said Henry.
Peter ignored him.
“Siiiiiiiii—lent Niiiiight,” screeched the cello.
AAARRRGH.
Horrid Henry lay on the sofa with his fingers in his ears, double-checking his choices from the Toy Heaven catalog. Big red X’s appeared on every page, to help you-know-who remember all the toys he absolutely had to have. Oh please, let everything he wanted leap from its pages and into Santa’s sack. After all, what could be better than looking at a huge glittering stack of presents on Christmas morning, and knowing that they were all for you?
Oh please let this be the year when he finally got everything he wanted!
His letter to Santa Claus couldn’t have been clearer.
Dear Santa Claus,
I want loads and loads and loads of cash, to make up for the puny amount you put in my stocking last year. And a Robomatic Supersonic Space Howler Deluxe plus attachments would be great too. I have asked for this before, you know!!! And the Terminator Gladiator fighting kit. I need lots more DayGlo slime and comics and a Mutant Max poster and the new Zapatron Hip-Hop Dinosaur. This is your last chance.
Henry
P.S. Oranges are NOT presents!!!!!
P.P.S. Peter asked me to tell you to give me all his presents as he doesn’t want any.
How hard could it be for Santa Claus to get this right? He’d asked for the Space Howler last year, and it never arrived. Instead, Henry got …vests. And handkerchiefs. And books. And clothes. And a—bleuccccck—jigsaw puzzle and a jump rope and a tiny Waterblaster instead of the mega-sized one he’d specified. Yuck! Santa Claus obviously needed Henry’s help.
Santa Claus is getting old and doddery, thought Henry. Maybe he hasn’t got my letters. Maybe he’s lost his reading glasses. Or—what a horrible thought—maybe he was delivering Henry’s presents by mistake to some other Henry. Eeeek! Some yucky, undeserving Henry was probably right now this minute playing with Henry’s Terminator Gladiator sword, shield, axe, and trident. And enjoying his Intergalactic Samurai Gorillas. It was so unfair!
And then suddenly Henry had a brilliant, spectacular idea. Why had he never thought of this before? All his present problems would be over. Presents were far too important to leave to Santa Claus. Since he couldn’t be trusted to bring the right gifts, Horrid Henry had no choice. He would have to ambush Santa Claus.
Yes!
He’d hold Santa Claus hostage with his Goo-Shooter, while he rummaged in his present sack for all the loot he was owed. Maybe Henry would keep it all. Now that would be fair.
Let’s see, thought Horrid Henry. Santa Claus was bound to be a slippery character, so he’d need to booby-trap his bedroom. When you-know-who sneaked in to fill his stocking at the end of the bed, Henry could leap up and nab him. Santa Claus had a lot of explaining to do for all those years of stockings filled with oranges and walnuts instead of chocolate and cold hard cash.
So, how best to capture him?
Henry considered.
A bucket of water above the door.
A jump rope stretched tight across the entrance, guaranteed to trip up intruders.
A web of string crisscrossed from bedpost to door and threaded with bells to ensnare nighttime visitors.
And let’s not forget strategically scattered whoopee cushions.
His plan was foolproof.
Loot, here I come, thought Horrid Henry.
Horrid Henry sat up in bed, his Goo-Shooter aimed at the half-open door where a bucket of water balanced. All his traps were laid. No one was getting in without Henry knowing about it. Any minute now, he’d catch Santa Claus and make him pay up.
Henry waited. And waited. And waited. His eyes started to feel heavy and he closed them for a moment.
There was a rustling at Henry’s door. Oh my gosh, this was it! Henry la
y down and pretended to be asleep.
Horrid Henry reached for his GooShooter.
A huge shape loomed in the doorway.
Henry braced himself to attack.
“Doesn’t he look sweet when he’s asleep?” whispered the shape.
“What a little snugglechops,” whispered another.
Sweet? Snugglechops?
Horrid Henry’s fingers itched to let Mom and Dad have it with both barrels.
Henry could see it now. Mom covered in green goo. Dad covered in green goo. Mom and Dad snatching the Goo-Shooter and wrecking all his plans and throwing out all his presents and banning him from TV forever …hmmm. His fingers felt a little less itchy.
Henry lowered his Goo-Shooter. The bucket of water wobbled above the door.
Yikes! What if Mom and Dad stepped into his Santa traps? All his hard work— ruined.
“I’m awake,” snarled Henry.
The shapes stepped back. The water stopped wobbling.
“Go to sleep!” hissed Mom.
“Go to sleep!” hissed Dad.
“What are you doing here?” demanded Henry.
“Checking on you,” said Mom. “Now go to sleep or Santa Claus will never come.”
He’d better, thought Henry.
Horrid Henry woke with a jolt.
AAARRGGH! He’d fallen asleep. How could he? Panting and gasping Henry switched on the light. Phew. His traps were intact. His stocking was empty. Santa Claus hadn’t been yet.
Wow, was that lucky. That was incredibly lucky. Henry lay back, his heart pounding.
And then Horrid Henry had a terrible thought.
What if Santa Claus had decided to be spiteful and avoid Henry’s bedroom this year? Or what if he’d played a sneaky trick on Henry and filled a stocking downstairs instead?
Nah. No way.
But wait. When Santa Claus came to Rude Ralph’s house he always filled the stockings downstairs. Now Henry came to think of it, Moody Margaret always left her stocking downstairs too, hanging from the fireplace, not from the end of her bed, like Henry did.
Horrid Henry's Christmas Page 2
