Invasion of the Christmas Puddings Read online

  Christmas is coming…… and so is the Death Pudding!

  Cue flashing lights and sound FX: Ba-ba-ba-boom!

  Can the world be saved?

  Over to the kids at Plumpot Primary…

  Jeremy Strong once worked in a bakery, putting the jam into three thousand doughnuts every night. Now he puts the jam in stories instead, which he finds much more exciting. At the age of three, he fell out of a first-floor bedroom window and landed on his head. His mother says that this damaged him for the rest of his life and refuses to take any responsibility. He loves writing stories because he says it is ‘the only time you alone have complete control and can make anything happen’. His ambition is to make you laugh (or at least snuffle). Jeremy Strong lives near Bath with four cats and a flying cow.

  Are you feeling silly enough to read more?

  THE HUNDRED-MILE-AN-HOUR DOG

  RETURN OF THE HUNDRED-MILE-AN-HOUR DOG

  WANTED! THE HUNDRED-MILE-AN-HOUR DOG

  MY DAD’S GOT AN ALLIGATOR!

  MY GRANNY’S GREAT ESCAPE

  MY MUM’S GOING TO EXPLODE!

  MY BROTHER’S FAMOUS BOTTOM

  MY BROTHER’S FAMOUS BOTTOM GETS PINCHED!

  BEWARE! KILLER TOMATOES

  CHICKEN SCHOOL

  I’M TELLING YOU, THEY’RE ALIENS

  KRAZY KOW SAVES THE WORLD – WELL, ALMOST

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

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  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  puffinbooks.com

  First published 2007

  5

  Text copyright © Jeremy Strong, 2007

  Illustrations copyright © Rowan Clifford, 2007

  All rights reserved

  The moral right of the author and illustrator has been asserted

  Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN: 978-0-14-190664-5

  For Gillie, who has longer than average arms and a larger than average heart, with thanks for all the suggestions, the laughter, and the Moments

  One: In the beginning…

  One and a half: Meanwhile back on Earth…

  One and three-quarters: At much the same time, in Britain…

  Two: Meanwhile at the edge of the universe…

  Two and a half: Meanwhile somewhere near the North Pole…

  Two and three-quarters: At much the same time in Britain

  Three: On the Death Pudding…

  Three and a little half: Meanwhile at the North Pole…

  Three and rather a bit more than a half: And at Plumpot Primary…

  Four: Deep inside the Death Pudding…

  Four and the rest of it: Back on Earth…

  Five: Three days later and it’s Christmas Eve!

  Five and a bit: Ambushed!

  Five and a little bit more: Things get even worse…

  Six: Bad Christmas becomes a TV star, sort of…

  Six and an extra bit: In Bay Two…

  Six and a teeny-weeny bit: Meanwhile down on the blue planet…

  Seven: An exciting moment on the Death Pudding…

  Seven and it’s even more exciting than the last bit: The Command Centre…

  Seven and the end: Return to Earth…

  They gathered at the furthest reaches of the known universe – millions of them. What were they? Christmas puddings. Why were they gathering there? They were preparing to invade PLANET EARTH.

  DANGG DUH-DANGG DANGG – SPLURRPP!!

  But where had they come from? An unknown universe on The Other Side. It is true. Beyond our universe is another, and like a mirror it reflects everything we know and see. It is known to scientists as a universe of the fifth dimension.

  Our science expert, Professor Dump-Crumpett, explains:

  ‘Oh, please, this is easy-squeezy. There are many dimensions. Imagine a box. Look at the box. You can already see three dimensions. Firstly there is Width. How wide is the box? Secondly there is Height. How high is the box? The third dimension is Depth. How deep is the box? The fourth dimension is Time. Look at the box. Here it is now, but where was it yesterday? You couldn’t see it, because you weren’t reading this book. But it was here! The fifth dimension is Reflection, or The Other Side. There is another box, like the first one. But it is not in this book. It is in another book, like this one, but on The Other Side. If we can’t see it how do we know it is there? WE DON’T! But we suspect it is, just as you are there when you look in a mirror. We have never seen The Other Side. But it IS there. That’s enough for now. Goodbye!’

  And so the puddings came through from The Other Side. No, they didn’t simply come through – they poured through in their hundreds of thousands, in their millions.

  MILLIONS OF CHRISTMAS PUDDINGS.

  And they were made of…

  STICKY MATTER!

  Beyond the reach of our most powerful telescopes, at the far edge of our universe, the puddings gathered, hovering in dark outer space. But WHO, or WHAT, was behind this deadly invasion? Somewhere a dark shadow shifted among the distant stars. An evil force was slipping into our world, bringing with him a terrifying invasion force of Christmas puddings. And very soon Earth would fall!

  DANGG DUH-DANGG DANGG – SPLURRPP!! (Again.)

  Father Christmas was cross. He had just managed to set fire to his slippers. Fortunately Mrs Christmas was nearby and she prevented the slippers from setting the house ablaze by snatching them up with the salad tongs. She plunged the flaming footwear into the sink, where they hissed, spat and sank out of sight.

  ‘What on earth did you think you were doing?’ she shouted.

  ‘I was trying to warm them up,’ cried Father Christmas with exasperation.

  ‘IN THE TOASTER?!’ yelled Mrs Christmas. ‘You daft tomato! You can’t warm slippers in the toaster!’

  ‘Why not? Daft tomato yourself!’ Father

  Christmas bellowed back.

  ‘Bread goes in the toaster, not slippers!’ cried Mrs Christmas. ‘Why put slippers in the toaster?’

  ‘Because my feet are COLD!’ roared Father Christmas. ‘And I don’t like cold slippers. It’s like wearing fish on your feet.’

  ‘And how often do you wear fish on your feet?’ yelled Mrs Christmas.

  ‘Didn’t say I did. Said it was like wearing fish on your feet. It would be like putting your feet insid
e a large haddock.’

  ‘And why would anyone want to imagine putting their feet inside a haddock, large or small?’ Mrs Christmas went on, pulling her husband’s slippers from the washing-up bowl and putting them into the bin. ‘You crazy cauliflower.’

  ‘I’m imagining it so that I can explain why I don’t like cold slippers,’ Father Christmas snapped back. ‘And you’re a brainless banana.’

  Mrs Christmas put her enormous hands on her equally enormous hips and glared at her husband. Father Christmas glared back. A moment later the room exploded with laughter. Mrs Christmas collapsed back into a chair, which put considerable strain on its creaking legs, while her husband rocked on his feet. He at last managed to stop laughing long enough to tell his wife that what he wanted for Christmas, more than anything else, was –

  ‘A new pair of slippers!’ she spluttered and they collapsed into hysterics again.

  Father Christmas pulled on his boots, still chuckling to himself. He paused for a moment and a frown slowly appeared on his forehead.

  ‘Why is there only one day for Christmas? It’s so much work. I’ve got parcels coming out of my ears. Other people get the whole year to do things. I get one day. And that’s a holiday for everyone, except me. It’s not fair.’

  ‘There, there, calm down, my big red jellybean. At least you have your lovely new sleigh.’

  They gazed out at the fabulously shiny rocket-sleigh. An overnight frosting of snow had given the ship a magical glitter. Father Christmas slipped a loving arm round his wife’s waist – or at least he slipped his arm round as much of it as he could manage, considering her size – and his.

  Meanwhile Mrs Christmas carried on knitting the cardigan she was wearing. It had a habit of unravelling at the bottom because she didn’t know how to cast off. The consequence was that she spent half her time knitting back what had unravelled. She had to keep a ball of wool and needles with her all the time. Unfortunately she didn’t have pockets on her cardigan because she hadn’t knitted them yet, and there were no pockets on her skirt, so she stuck the ball of wool on her head and held it in place with the needles.

  ‘It’s pretty smart, isn’t it?’ he murmured happily.

  ‘Yes, my gigantic mince pie. You can leave the reindeer behind this year and they can have a rest. Shall I give you a hand with loading up?’

  ‘Not if you do what you did last year,’ grunted Father Christmas.

  ‘And what was that?’ asked Mrs Christmas frostily.

  ‘You didn’t tie on the sacks properly. I was halfway across America when I had to take sharp action to avoid a space shuttle and a sack fell off. It crashed to Earth and completely demolished a truck carrying baked beans. You can imagine the mess that made. The worst of it was that I had to come all the way back home to pick up another sack, and it was all your fault.’

  ‘It wasn’t. You probably braked too quickly.’

  ‘Braked? Reindeer can’t brake, you daft jam pot! The best they can do is slow down.’

  ‘Then you should’t have been driving so fast,’ sniffed Mrs Christmas.

  ‘But I had the whole world to get round in one day! I can’t dawdle. Honestly, sometimes I think your brain has been boiled in a pan for a week.’

  ‘Why do you need to load up now, anyway? It’s days before Christmas is upon us.’

  Father Christmas groaned. He had explained this three times already. ‘I need to test the new sleigh. I want to see how it performs with a full load. If there are any problems I want to know about them now, not on Christmas Day.’

  Mrs Christmas nudged him with a fat elbow. ‘Go on! You just want to have a whizz round in your new toy. You’re a boy racer at heart, that’s what you are. I suppose you’ll miss lunch too. I’ll make you some sandwiches.’

  Miss Comet was the youngest, prettiest and nicest teacher at Plumpot Primary School. Most of the other teachers were so old that they talked about the Age of the Dinosaurs as if they had been born then. In fact Dylan, who was nine, was pretty sure that some of the teachers really were dinosaurs. It was just that they hadn’t quite fossilized yet, although they seemed well on the way.

  Dylan was lucky enough to be in Miss Comet’s class, along with his friends Amy, Lewis and Freya. It was the last day of term and their teacher had just announced that the school was going to play a special Christmas game and the children were impatient to hear what it was.

  ‘Each class is going to research something special to do with Christmas,’ smiled Miss Comet, ‘and we are going to test Christmas food!’

  ‘Oh wow! I have just died and gone to heaven,’ breathed Lewis, who was, to say the least, a large child.

  Miss Comet beamed at him and went on, ‘We are going to try out some Christmas puddings, to see which ones we like best, and so on.’

  Twenty-four children congratulated each other. Four children groaned and gazed at one another as if they had just been sentenced to death, including Lewis, who had decided on the spot that he must be the unluckiest child on Earth. Miss Comet noticed at once, because that’s the kind of teacher she was.

  ‘Whatever is the matter with you four?’ Freya’s face was pale. ‘Please, I don’t like Christmas pudding.’

  ‘And I hate it!’ Lewis burst out. He began making choking noises and pretended to be sick. Miss Comet said that she had got the idea and he didn’t need to perform a three-act drama about such a small thing.

  ‘Anyhow, Lewis, I thought you liked all food?’

  ‘I like everything, miss, everything except Christmas pudding.’

  ‘Christmas pudding stinks!’ blurted Amy. ‘It’s all sticky and yucky and dark.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ sighed Miss Comet, turning to Dylan. ‘How about you, Dylan? Do you like Christmas pudding?’

  Dylan shook his head and gazed sadly at his teacher. ‘I’m allergic to it,’ he announced flatly.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. If I eat just the tiniest bit of it I get spots all over and I start shaking and can’t stop and I shake and shake until I fall to bits,’ Dylan went

  on, his imagination going into super-drive. ‘My legs and arms fall off, and my head and my ears and nose and everything, even my eyebrows.’

  ‘Goodness me,’ cried Miss Comet, wide-eyed. ‘We shall need a bucket for all your bits. We certainly can’t have that. Very well, you four are excused the tasting. You can write down the pudding scores, all right?’

  The four friends nodded seriously and Miss Comet smiled at them encouragingly. She was very understanding, they thought. What they didn’t know was that Miss Comet couldn’t stand Christmas puddings either and she had no intention of eating any herself.

  And the truth of the matter was that soon, the fact that none of them liked Christmas pudding was going to become VERY IMPORTANT INDEED. In fact, Dylan, Freya, Amy, Lewis and Miss Comet were going to have to SAVE THE WORLD!

  Ba – ba – ba – ba – BOOOOM!

  Here is something shocking that very few people know – Father Christmas has a big brother. Oh yes. His name is Bad Christmas and he is EVIL.

  Look at those glinting, piggy eyes. See the sinister grin twisting his mouth like a snag of barbed wire. Look at those grabby hands with fat sausage fingers. Look at that funny little tartan beanie monkey he’s sucking.

  WHAT? HE SUCKS A TARTAN BEANIE MONKEY?

  Yes, and the monkey’s name is Boo-Boo. Bad Christmas has had Boo-Boo since he was three. But don’t be fooled – Bad Christmas is so evil that if you cut out his heart it would probably have the word EVIL written on it in blood-red letters. That’s assuming you could actually find his heart, because he probably HASN’T EVEN GOT ONE!

  Bad Christmas does not live in our universe. He comes from The Other Side, a universe in the fifth dimension. Yes, Bad Christmas is the monster behind the Invasion of the Christmas Puddings. For hundreds of years Bad Christmas has been imprisoned in this other dimension, for all his crimes against Christmas. Now he has found a way back into our world, and he has bro
ught his deadly puddings with him. And they are made of STICKY MATTER!

  STICKY MATTER? AAAAAARRRGH!

  Our scientific adviser, Professor Damp-Trumpett, explains:

  ‘Oh, PLEEEASE, this is so squeezy-peasy-teasy! Every astro-scientist knows that most of the universe is made of Dark Matter. It is called Dark Matter because you can’t actually see it. You might ask, if you can’t see it does it matter? In fact, you might even like to call it Does It Matter Matter. Ha ha ha! That’s the sort of joke we scientists find very funny indeed. (But nobody else does.) Now then, Bad Christmas has created a new kind of matter to make things from. It is called Sticky Matter and naturally it’s very sticky. It is made from sultanas, raisins, peel, flour, nutmeg, eggs, molasses and so on. These things are harmless on their own, but when mixed together they make a foul and stinking sticky goo. It clings to everything. It slithers and oozes and splip-splap-splops. Bad Christmas discovered that if he smeared Sticky Matter along the edge of his universe it would gradually dribble over into our universe! The next thing to do was to find some way to hide himself in enough Sticky Matter to allow himself to slip into our universe too. And so he built a universe-hopping space machine – THE DEATH PUDDING!’

  Sound FX: Terrible screams echo through space: ‘No! Save us! Save us from the Death Padding!’

  The Death Pudding is a gigantic, slowly revolving Christmas pudding. Engulfed in flames, it spins through Deep Space. This is home for Bad Christmas, a home as big as a football stadium. This is where he plots and plans. He is going to take over the world. But first of all he has to exterminate his brother and take his place.

  Yes! He is going to DESTROY FATHER CHRISTMAS!

  Father Christmas stood beside his new rocket-sleigh, whistling ‘Jingle Bells’ and filling the spaceship’s tank from a fuel pump. He gave a cheerful sigh. This was so much easier than feeding reindeer with endless bales of hay.