Bang! Crash! Kaboom!
Rude Ralph bounced on a chair and did his Tarzan impression.
Moody Margaret yanked Lazy Linda’s hair. Linda screamed.
Stone-Age Steven stomped around the room grunting “Ugg.”
“Rat about town
don’t need a gown.
Where I’m goin’
Only fangs’ll be showin,”
shrieked Horrid Henry.
“Quiet!” barked Miss Battle-Axe. “Settle down immediately.”
Ralph bounced.
Steven stomped.
Linda screamed.
Henry shrieked. He was the Killer Boy Rats new lead singer, blasting his music into the roaring crowd, hurling—
“HENRY, BE QUIET!” bellowed Miss Battle-Axe. “Or playtime is canceled. For everyone.”
Horrid Henry scowled. Why oh why did he have to come to school? Why didn’t the Killer Boy Rats start a school, where you’d do nothing but scream and stomp all day? Now that’s the sort of school everyone would want to go to. But no. He had to come here. When he was king all schools would just teach jousting and spying and Terminator Gladiator would be principal.
Henry looked at the clock. How could it be only 9:42? It felt like he’d been sitting here for ages. What he’d give to be lounging right now on the comfy black chair, eating chips and watching Hog House…
“Today we have a very exciting project,” said Miss Battle-Axe.
Henry groaned. Miss Battle-Axe’s idea of an exciting project and his were never the same. An exciting project would be building a time machine, or a “let’s see who can give Henry the most chocolate” competition, or counting how many times he could hit Miss Battle-Axe with a water balloon.
“We’ll be writing autobiographies,” said Miss Battle-Axe.
Ha. He knew it would be something boring. Horrid Henry hated writing. All that pushing a pen across a piece of paper. Writing always made his hand ache. Writing was hard, heavy work. Why did Miss Battle-Axe try to torture him every day? Didn’t she have anything better to do? Henry groaned again.
“An autobiography means the story of your life,” continued Miss Battle-Axe, glaring at him with her evil red eyes. “Everyone will write a page about themselves and all the interesting things they’ve done.”
Yawn. Could his life get any worse?
Write a page? A whole entire page? What could be more boring then writing on and on about himself—
Wait a minute.
He got to write…about himself? The world’s most fascinating boy? He could write for hours about himself! Days. Weeks. Years. Hold on…what was batty old Miss Battle-Axe saying now?
“…the really exciting part is that our autobiographies will be published in the local newspaper next week.”
Oh wow! Oh wow! Oh wow! His autobiography would be published!
This was his chance to tell the world all about being Lord High Excellent Majesty of the Purple Hand Gang. How he’d vanquished so many evil enemies. All the brilliant tricks he’d played on Peter. He’d write about the Mega-Mean Time Machine. And the Fangmangler. And the millions of times he’d defeated the Secret Club and squished Moody Margaret to a pulp! And oh yes, he’d be sure to include the time he’d turned his one line in the school play into a starring part and scored the winning goal in the class soccer game. But one page would barely cover one day in his life. He needed hundreds of pages…no, thousands of pages to write about just some of his top triumphs.
Where to begin?
“Let’s start with you, Clare,” burbled Miss Battle-Axe. “What would you put in your autobiography?”
Clare beamed. “I walked when I was four months old, learned to read when I was two, did long division when I was three, built my first telescope when I was four, composed a symphony—”
“Thank you, Clare, I’m sure everyone will look forward to learning more about you,” said Miss Battle-Axe. “Steven. What will—”
“Can’t we just get started?” shouted Henry. “I’ve got masses to write.”
“As I was saying, before I was so RUDELY interrupted,” said Miss Battle-Axe, glaring, “Steven, what will you be writing about in your autobiography?”
“Being a caveman,” grunted Stone-Age Steven. “Uggg.”
“Fascinating,” said Miss Battle-Axe. “Bert! What’s interesting about your life?”
“I dunno,” said Beefy Bert.
“Right, then, everyone get to work,” said Miss Battle-Axe, fixing Horrid Henry with her basilisk stare.
Horrid Henry wrote until his hand ached. But he’d barely got to the time he tricked Margaret into eating glop before Miss Battle-Axe ordered everyone to stop.
“But I haven’t finished!” shouted Horrid Henry.
“Tough,” said Miss Battle-Axe. “Now, before we send these autobiographies to the newspaper, I’d like a few of you to read yours aloud to the class. William, let’s start with you.”
Weepy William burst into tears. “I don’t want to go first,” he wailed, dabbing his eyes with some toilet paper.
“Read,” said Miss Battle-Axe.
WILLIAM’S AUTOBIOGRAPHY
I was born. I cried. A few years later my brother, Neil, was born. I cried. In school Toby broke my pencil. Margaret picked me last. When we had to build the Parthenon Henry took all my paper and then when I got some more it was dirty. I had to play a blade of grass in the Nativity play. I cried. I lost every race on Sports Day. I cried. Then I got lice. On the school trip to the Ice Cream Factory I peed in my pants. I cried. Nothing else has ever happened to me.
“Who’s next?” asked Miss Battle-Axe.
Horrid Henry’s hand shot up. Miss Battle-Axe looked as if a zombie had just walked across her grave. Horrid Henry never put his hand up.
“Linda,” said Miss Battle-Axe.
Lazy Linda woke up and yawned.
LINDA’S AUTOBIOGRAPHY
I’ve had many nice beds in my life. First was my Moses basket. Then my cot. Then my little bed. Then my great big sleigh bed. Then my princess bed with the curtains and the yellow headboard. I’ve
also had a lot of quilts. First my quilt had ducks on it. Then I got a new soft one with big fluffy clouds. Oooh, I am sleepy just thinking about it…
“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.
Horrid Henry could not believe his ears.
“Liar!” shouted Henry. “I always win!”
“Shh!” said Miss Battle-Axe.
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.