“Number 16, Ashton Athletic, will be playing…” there was a long pause as the announcer drew another ball from the hat…“number 7, Manhattan United.”
“Go Ashton!” shrieked Horrid Henry.
“As I was saying, before I was so rudely interrupted—” Miss Battle-Axe glared at Horrid Henry, “Ashton are playing Manhattan United in a few weeks. Every local elementary school has been given a pair of tickets. And thanks to my good luck in the teacher’s draw, the lucky winner will come from our class.”
“Me!” screamed Horrid Henry.
“Me!” screamed Moody Margaret.
“Me!” screamed Tough Toby, Aerobic Al, Fiery Fiona, and Brainy Brian.
“No one who shouts out will be getting anything,” said Miss Battle-Axe. “Our class will be playing a soccer match at lunchtime. The best player of the match will win the tickets. I’m the referee and my decision will be final.”
Horrid Henry was so stunned that for a moment he could scarcely breathe. National Soccer Cup tickets! National Soccer Cup tickets to see his local team Ashton play against Man U! Those tickets were like gold dust. Henry had begged and pleaded with Mom and Dad to get tickets, but naturally they were all sold out by the time Henry’s mean, horrible, lazy parents managed to heave their stupid bones to the phone. And now here was another chance to go to the match of the century!
Ashton Athletic had never got so far in the Cup. Sure, they’d knocked out the Tooting Tigers (chant: Toot Toot! Grrr!) the Pynchley Pythons and the Cheam Champions but—Manhattan United! Henry had to go to the game. He just had to. And all he had to do was be MVP.
There was just one problem. Unfortunately, the best soccer player in the class wasn’t Horrid Henry. Or Aerobic Al. Or Beefy Bert.
The best soccer player in the class was Moody Margaret. The second best player in the class was Moody Margaret.
The third best player in the class was Moody Margaret. It was so unfair! Why should Margaret of all people be so fantastic at soccer?
Horrid Henry was great at shirt pulling. Horrid Henry was superb at
screaming “Offside!” (whatever that meant). No one could howl “Come on, ref !” louder. And at toe treading, elbowing, barging, pushing, shoving, and tripping, Horrid Henry had no equal. The only thing Horrid Henry wasn’t good at was playing soccer.
But never mind. Today would be different. Today he would dig deep inside and find the power to be Hot-Foot Henry—for real. Today no one would stop him. National Soccer Cup match here I come, thought Horrid Henry gleefully.
Lunchtime!
Horrid Henry’s class dashed to the back playground, where the field was set up. Two sweatshirts either end marked the goals. A few parents gathered on the sidelines.
Miss Battle-Axe split the class into two teams: Aerobic Al was captain of Henry’s team, Moody Margaret was captain of the other.
There she stood in midfield, having nabbed a striker position, smirking confidently. Horrid Henry glared at her from the depths of the outfield.
“Na na ne nah nah, I’m sure to be MVP,” trilled Moody Margaret, sticking out her tongue at him. “And you-ooo won’t.”
“Shut up, Margaret,” said Henry. When he was king, anyone named Margaret would be boiled in oil and fed to the crows.
“Will you take me to the match, Margaret?” said Susan. “After all, I’m your best friend.”
Moody Margaret scowled. “Since when?”
“Since always!” wailed Susan.
“Huh!” said Margaret. “We’ll just have to see how nice you are to me, won’t we?”
“Take me,” begged Brainy Brian.
“Remember how I helped you with those fractions?”
“And called me stupid,” said Margaret. “Did not,” said Brian.
“Did too,” said Margaret.
Horrid Henry eyed his classmates. Everyone looking straight ahead, everyone determined to be MVP. Well, wouldn’t they be in for a shock when Horrid Henry waltzed off with those tickets!
“Go Margaret!” screeched Moody Margaret’s mom.
“Go Al!” screeched Aerobic Al’s dad.
“Everyone ready?” said Miss Battle-Axe. “Bert! Which team are you on?”
“I dunno,” said Beefy Bert.
Miss Battle-Axe blew her whistle.
Henry stood disconsolately on the left wing, running back and forth as the play passed him by. How could he ever be MVP stuck out here? Well, no way was he staying in this stupid spot a moment longer.
Horrid Henry abandoned his position and chased after the ball. All the other defenders followed him.
Moody Margaret had the ball. Horrid Henry ran up behind her. He glanced at Miss Battle-Axe. She was busy chatting to Mrs. Oddbod. Horrid Henry went for a two-foot slide tackle and tripped her.
“Foul!” screeched Margaret. “He hacked my leg!”
“Liar!” screeched Henry. “I just went for the ball!”
“Cheater!” screamed Moody Margaret’s mom.
“Play on,” ordered Miss Battle-Axe.
Yes! thought Horrid Henry triumphantly. After all, what did blind old Miss Battle-Axe know about the rules of soccer? Nothing. This was his golden chance to score.
Now Jazzy Jim had the ball.
Horrid Henry stepped on his toes, elbowed him, and grabbed the ball.
“Hey, we’re on the same team!” yelped Jim.
Horrid Henry kept dribbling.
“Pass! Pass!” screamed Al. “I’m open!”
Henry ignored him. Pass the ball? Was Al crazy? For once Henry had the ball and he was keeping it.
Then suddenly Moody Margaret appeared from behind, barged him, dribbled the ball past Henry’s team, and kicked it straight past Weepy William into the goal. Moody Margaret’s team cheered.
Weepy William burst into tears.
“Waaaaaa,” wailed Weepy William.
“Idiot!” screamed Aerobic Al’s dad.
“She cheated!” shrieked Henry. “She fouled me!”
“Didn’t,” said Margaret.
“How dare you call my daughter a cheater?” screamed Margaret’s mom.
Miss Battle-Axe blew her whistle.
“Goal to Margaret’s team. The score is one– nothing.”
Horrid Henry gritted his teeth. He would score a goal if he had to trample on every player to do so.
Unfortunately, everyone else seemed to have the same idea.
“Ralph pushed me!” shrieked Aerobic Al.
“Didn’t!” lied Rude Ralph. “It was just an accident.”
“He used his hands; I saw him!” howled Al’s father. “Send him off.”
“I’ll send you off if you don’t behave,” snapped Miss Battle-Axe, looking up and blowing her whistle.
“It was kept in!” protested Henry.
“No way!” shouted Margaret. “It went past the line!”
“That was ball to hand!” yelled Kind Kasim.
“No way!” screamed Aerobic Al. “I just went for the ball.”
“Liar!”
“Liar!”
“Free kick to Margaret’s team,” said Miss Battle-Axe.
“Ouch!” screamed Soraya, as Brian stepped on her toes, grabbed the ball, and headed it into the goal past Kasim.
“Hurray!” cheered Al’s team.
“Foul!” screamed Margaret’s team.
“Score is one all,” said Miss Battle-Axe. “Five more minutes to go.”
AAARRRGGHH! thought Horrid Henry. I’ve got to score a goal to have a chance to be MVP. I’ve just got to. But how, how?
Henry glanced at Miss Battle-Axe. She appeared to be rummaging in her purse. Henry saw his chance. He stuck out his foot as Margaret hurtled past.
Crash!
Margaret tumbled.
Henry seized the ball.
“Henry kicked my leg!” shrieked Margaret.
“Did not!” shrieked Henry. “I just went for the ball.”
“REF!” screamed Margaret.
“He
cheated!” screamed Margaret’s mom. “Are you blind, ref ?”
Miss Battle-Axe glared.
“My eyesight is perfect, thank you,” she snapped.
Tee hee, chortled Horrid Henry.
Henry stepped on Brian’s toes, elbowed him, then grabbed the ball. Then Dave elbowed Henry, Ralph trod on Dave’s toes, and Susan seized the ball and kicked it high overhead.
Henry looked up. The ball was high, high up. He’d never reach it, not unless, unless— Henry glanced at Miss Battle-Axe. She was watching a traffic officer patrolling outside the school gate. Henry leapt into the air and whacked the ball with his hand.
Thwack!
The ball hurled across the goal. “Goal!” screamed Henry.
“He used his hands!” protested Margaret.
“No way!” shouted Henry. “It was the hand of God!”
“Henry! Henry! Hen-ry!” cheered his team.
“Unfair!” howled Margaret’s team.
Miss Battle-Axe blew her whistle.
“Time!” she bellowed. “Al’s team wins 2–1.”
“Yes!” shrieked Horrid Henry, punching the air. He’d scored the winning goal! He’d be MVP! Ashton Athletic versus Man U, here I come!
* * *
Horrid Henry’s class limped through the door and sat down. Horrid Henry sat at the front, beaming. Miss Battle-Axe had to award him the tickets after his brilliant performance and spectacular, game-winning goal. The question was, who deserved to be his guest?
No one.
I know, thought Horrid Henry, I’ll sell my other ticket. Bet I get a million dollars for it. No, a billion dollars. Then I’ll buy my own team, and play striker any time I want to. Horrid Henry smiled happily.
Miss Battle-Axe glared at her class.
“That was absolutely disgraceful,” she said. “Cheating! Moving the goals! Shirt tugging!” she glared at Graham. “Pushing!”
She glowered at Ralph. “Pushing and shoving! Bad sportsmanship!” Her eyes swept over the class.
Horrid Henry sank lower in his seat.
Oops.
“And don’t get me started about the offsides penalties,” she snapped.
Horrid Henry sank even lower.
“There was only one person who deserves to be MVP,” she continued. “One person who observed the rules of the beautiful game. One person who has nothing to be ashamed of today.”
Horrid Henry’s heart leapt. He certainly had nothing to be ashamed of. “… One person who can truly be proud of his or her performance …”
Horrid Henry beamed with pride.
“And that person is—”
“Me!” screamed Moody Margaret. “Me!” screamed Aerobic Al.
“Me!” screamed Horrid Henry.
“—the referee,” said Miss Battle-Axe.
What?
Miss Battle-Axe…MVP?
Miss Battle-Axe…a soccer fiend?
“IT’s NOT FAIR!” screamed the class.
“IT’s NOT FAIR!” screamed Horrid Henry.
3
HORRID HENRY GOES SHOPPING
Horrid Henry stood in his bedroom up to his knees in clothes. The long sleeve stripy T-shirt came to his elbow. His pants stopped halfway down his legs. Henry sucked in his tummy as hard as he could. Still the zipper wouldn’t zip.
“Nothing fits!” he screamed, yanking off the shirt and hurling it across the room. “And my shoes hurt.”
“All right, Henry, calm down,” said Mom. “You’ve grown. We’ll go out this afternoon and get you some new clothes and shoes.”
“NOOOOOOO!” shrieked Henry. “NOOOOOOOOOOOO!”
Horrid Henry hated shopping.
Correction: Horrid Henry loved shopping. He loved shopping for gigantic TVs, computer games, comics, toys, and candy. Yet for some reason Horrid Henry’s parents never wanted to go shopping for good stuff. Oh no. They shopped for vacuum bags. Toothpaste. Spinach. Socks. Why oh why did he have such horrible parents? When he was grown up he’d never set foot in a supermarket. He’d only shop for TVs, computer games, and chocolate.
But shopping for clothes was even worse than heaving his heavy bones around the Happy Shopper Supermarket. Nothing was more boring than being dragged around miles and miles and miles of shops, filled with disgusting clothes only a mutant would ever want to wear, and then standing in a little room while Mom made you try on icky scratchy things you wouldn’t be seen dead in if they were the last pair of pants on earth. It was horrible enough getting dressed once a day without doing it fifty times. Just thinking about trying on shirt after shirt after shirt made Horrid Henry want to scream.
“I’m not going shopping!” he howled, kicking the pile of clothes as viciously as he could. “And you can’t make me.”
“What’s all this yelling?” demanded Dad.
“Henry needs new pants,” said Mom grimly.
Dad went pale.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” said Mom. “Take a look at him.”
Dad looked at Henry. Henry scowled.
“They’re a little small, but not that bad,” said Dad.
“I can’t breathe in these pants!” shrieked Henry.
“That’s why we’re going shopping,” said Mom. “And I’ll take him.” Last time Dad had taken Henry shopping for socks and came back instead with three Hairy Hellhound CDs and a jumbo pack of Day-Glo slime.
“I don’t know what came over me,” Dad had said when Mom told him off.
“But why do I have to go?” said Henry. “I don’t want to waste my precious time shopping.”
“What about my precious time?” said Mom.
Henry scowled. Parents didn’t have precious time. They were there to serve their children. New pants should just magically appear, like clean clothes and packed lunches.
Mom’s face brightened. “Wait, I have an idea,” she beamed. She rushed out and came back with a large plastic bag. “Here,” she said, pulling out a pair of bright red pants, “try these on.”
Henry looked at them suspiciously.
“Where are they from?”
“Aunt Ruby dropped off some of Steve’s old clothes a few weeks ago. I’m sure we’ll find something that fits you.”
Horrid Henry stared at Mom. Had she gone gaga? Was she actually suggesting that he should wear his horrible cousin’s moldy old shirts and smelly pants? Just imagine, putting his arms into the same stinky sleeves that Stuckup Steve had slimed? Uggh!
“NO WAY!” screamed Henry, shuddering. “I’m not wearing Steve’s smelly old clothes. I’d catch rabies.”
“They’re practically brand new,” said Mom.
“I don’t care,” said Henry.
“But Henry,” said Perfect Peter. “I always wear your hand-me-downs.”
“So?” snarled Henry.
“I don’t mind wearing hand-medowns,” said Perfect Peter. “It saves so much money. You shouldn’t be so selfish, Henry.”
“Quite right, Peter,” said Mom, smiling. “At least one of my sons thinks about others.”
Horrid Henry pounced. He was a vampire sampling his supper.
“AAIIIEEEEEE!” squealed Peter.
“Stop that, Henry!” screamed Mom.
“Leave your brother alone!” screamed Dad.
Horrid Henry glared at Peter.
“Peter is a worm, Peter is a toad,” jeered Henry.
“Mom!” wailed Peter. “Henry said I was a worm. And a toad.”
“Don’t be horrid, Henry,” said Dad. “Or no TV for a week. You have three choices. Wear Steve’s old clothes. Wear your old clothes. Go shopping for new ones today.”
“Do we have to go today?” moaned Henry.
“Fine,” said Mom. “We’ll go tomorrow.”
“I don’t want to go tomorrow,” wailed Henry. “My weekend will be ruined.”
Mom glared at Henry.
“Then we’ll go right now this minute.”
“NO!” screamed Horrid Henry.
“YES!�
�� screamed Mom.
* * *
Several hours later, Mom and Henry walked into Mellow Mall. Mom already looked like she’d been crossing the Sahara desert without water for days. Serves her right for bringing me here, thought Horrid Henry, scowling, as he scuffed his feet.
“Can’t we go to Shop ’n’ Drop?” whined Henry. “Graham says they’ve got a win your weight in chocolate competition.”
“No,” said Mom, dragging Henry into Zippy’s Department Store. “We’re here to get you some new pants and shoes. Now hurry up, we don’t have all day.”
Horrid Henry looked around. Wow! There was lots of great stuff on display.
“I want the Hip-Hop Robots,” said Henry.
“No,” said Mom.
“I want the new Waterblaster!” screeched Henry.
“No,” said Mom.
“I want a Creepy Crawly lunch box!”
“NO!” said Mom, pulling him into the boys’ clothing department.
What, thought Horrid Henry grimly, is the point of going shopping if you never buy anything?
“I want Root-a-Toot sneakers with flashing red lights,” said Henry. He could see himself now, strolling into class, a bugle blasting and red light flashing every time his feet hit the floor. Cool! He’d love to see Miss Battle-Axe’s face when he exploded into class wearing them.
“No,” said Mom, shuddering.
“Oh please,” said Henry.
“NO!” said Mom, “We’re here to buy pants and sensible school shoes.”
“But I want Root-a-Toot sneakers!” screamed Horrid Henry. “Why can’t we buy what I want to buy? You’re the meanest mother in the world and I hate you!”
“Don’t be horrid, Henry. Go and try these on,” said Mom, grabbing a selection of hideous pants and revolting T-shirts. “I’ll keep looking.”
Horrid Henry sighed loudly and slumped toward the dressing room. No one in the world suffered as much as he did. Maybe he could hide between the clothes racks and never come out.
Horrid Henry and the Soccer Fiend Page 2
