Copyright

First published in Great Britain by

HarperCollins Children’s Books in 2018 HarperCollins Children’s Books is a division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd, HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF The HarperCollins website address is: www.harpercollins.co.uk Text copyright © David Walliams 2019 Cover illustration copyright © Tony Ross 2019 Cover lettering of author’s name copyright © Quentin Blake 2010 David Walliams and Tony Ross assert the moral right to be identified as the author and illustrator of the work respectively. Cover design copyright © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019 A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this eBook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins Publishers. Source ISBN: 9780008349134 Ebook Edition © 2019 ISBN: 9780008349103 Version: 2019-02-15

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Thank-Yous

Prologue

Part 1: More, More, More

Chapter 1: Howling

Chapter 2: An Alphabet of Stuff

Chapter 3: Fury

Chapter 4: Bestest Best

Chapter 5: Giant Poops

Chapter 6: Two Evils

Chapter 7: Ancient, Obscure and Bizarre

Part 2: The Monsterpedia

Chapter 8: An Encyclopedia of Monsters

Chapter 9: Rolled in Rabbit Droppings

Chapter 10: Aghastliest

Chapter 11: Twin Beds

Chapter 12: Some Light Reading

Part 3: Deepest, Darkest, Jungliest Jungle

Chapter 13: Underpants and Socks

Chapter 14: Up a Tree

Chapter 15: Trap!

Chapter 16: Suspicious Droppings

Chapter 17: Wiggled, Waggled and Woggled

Chapter 18: Double Trouble

Chapter 19: Flying Sausage

Chapter 20: Furry Finger-Warmer

Chapter 21: Hot-Air Fing-Ing

Chapter 22: Beard Down to his Belly Button

Part 4: Big Fing and Little Fing

Chapter 23: How We Laughed

Chapter 24: Being British

Chapter 25: Wart

Chapter 26: A Volcanic Explosion of Tears, Snot and Dribble

Chapter 27: Custard-Cream-Induced Frenzy

Chapter 28: Gobble!

Chapter 29: Big Fing, Meet Little Fing

Part 5: Kaboom!

Chapter 30: Instant Replay

Chapter 31: Pong

Chapter 32: Fizzling Fur

Chapter 33: Nightmare

Chapter 34: Escaped Burp

Chapter 35: Behind You

Chapter 36: A Ginormous Boot Up the Bottom

Chapter 37: Silence

Epilogue

Footnotes

More from the World of David Walliams

Also by David Walliams

About the Publisher

For Percy, Wilfred and Gilbert

Sometimes perfectly nice parents have children who are monsters.

Meet the Meeks.

This is Father, Mr Maurice Meek. As his name suggests, Mr Meek is a mild-mannered man. He likes to wear socks with his sandals, and would not dare to eat a peach in public. Mr Meek works as a librarian. He loves LIBRARIES as they are quiet, like him. This is a man who wouldn’t say boo to a goose. Or, indeed, any species of bird.

This is Mother, Mrs Meredith Meek. She wears her glasses on a chain round her neck.

The most embarrassing moment of her life was when she once sneezed on a bus, and everybody turned round and looked. It will not surprise you to learn that she is also a librarian. Meredith met Maurice at the LIBRARY. They were both so painfully shy that they never spoke a word to each other for the first ten years of working there. Eventually, across the poetry aisle, Maurice and Meredith fell in love. Some years later, they were married, and some years after that they had a baby girl.

This is their daughter, Myrtle. You might be thinking that nothing could be sweeter than a little baby girl. WRONG! From the moment she was born, Myrtle was an absolute HORROR. Whatever she was given – dummies, cuddly toys, rubber duckies – the baby demanded more.

Myrtle’s first-ever word was “more”, and she uttered it on the very day she was born. It was more milk Baby Myrtle was demanding, even though she had already guzzled a gallon. “More” was a word the infant would say over and over and over again.

“MORE! MORE! MORE!”

Being Meek by name and meek by nature, Maurice and Meredith didn’t dare stand up to their monster of a child. Whatever Baby Myrtle wanted, Baby Myrtle got. Her parents bought their baby daughter toys and toys and MORE toys, even though she would instantly smash them to pieces. BISH! BASH! BOSH!

“MORE! MORE! MORE!”

As a toddler, they gave their daughter crayons and crayons and MORE crayons. Myrtle would use them to scrawl all over the walls.

SCRATCH!

Before snapping them in two.

SNAP!

“MORE! MORE! MORE!”

As she grew bigger and bigger and bigger still, Mr and Mrs Meek would feed Myrtle chocolate biscuit after chocolate biscuit after chocolate biscuit. More and more and more. Even though Myrtle would take great delight in spitting the crumbs back in their faces.

The years passed. Mr and Mrs Meek secretly hoped that their daughter was just “going through a phase”. But this “phase” was not one she ever grew out of. In fact, Myrtle’s behaviour became worse and worse* over the years.

The nasty noughts turned into the outrageous ones. Then followed the terrible twos, and the tumultuous threes. After the fearsome fours and the frightful fives came the sickening sixes and the spiteful sevens. Then there were the egregious eights and the noisy nines.

Oh my word, they were noisy. Now nine, Myrtle would wake her parents up every morning by howling…

I wanna teddy bear!”

I wanna pony!”

I wanna suitcase full of money!”

The girl would make such a din that the little Meek family house would actually shake.

RATTLE!

Books would fly off the shelves.

WHOOSH! BONK!

Pictures would fall off the walls.

DUNK! SHATTER!

Plaster would shower down from the ceiling.

CRUMBLE! DUNK!

Poor Mr and Mrs Meek would be hurled out of bed.

DOOF! DOOF!

They would scramble to their feet, and immediately run around doing their daughter’s bidding. They gave Myrtle everything. But everything was never, ever enough.

Oh no.

The girl wanted

one more

“FING”.

Over the years, Myrtle’s bedroom became so piled high with stuff her parents had got her that you could barely get in or out. She demanded more and more and more, and she got more and more and more.

Myrtle had at least one thing for every letter of the alphabet:

Ant farm. Home to a million and one ants.

Boomerang that doesn’t come back. Myrtle lost that on her first throw.

Cowbell, which the girl put round her mother’s neck so she could locate her easily.

Dog-grooming set. Even though she didn’t have a dog.

Elf.

Finger puppets of every king and queen of England from 1066 to the present day.

Gravel collection. It was the biggest in Europe.

Ham slicer. Even though she hated ham.

Ice skates made for an elephant. Four of them.

Jar containing one of scientist Albert Einstein’s burps.*

Knee warmers.

Lucky sausage. Actually it was unlucky.

Map of Belgium. A country she had no intention of ever visiting as it was, in her words, “too Belgiumy”.

Nelson’s Column made out of sultanas. Life-size.

Owl fudge. This is fudge made of melted-down owls. It is even more disgusting than it sounds.

Painting of some air. It wasn’t much to look at.

Quicksand. Children who came over for a playdate and ended up displeasing Myrtle met their doom in it.

Remote-controlled hedge (which could reach speeds of up to one mile an hour).

Stuffed flea. It was so small that it was impossible to see.

Turnip shampoo. It made your hair smell “as fresh as a turnip”.

Underpants for worms. Only come in size “small”.

Venom from a poisonous aubergine. Deadly.

Wombat juicer. Perfect for producing a cool, refreshing glass of wombat juice.

Xylophone case. Myrtle didn’t want an actual xylophone, just the case for one.

Yeti. It hasn’t been sighted in the Himalayan mountains for years because Myrtle kept it locked in her cupboard.

zebra dung. It was the only thing she could think of that began with a “z”.

One thing Myrtle didn’t have any of was books. Despite her parents being librarians, she DETESTED books and thought they were B-O-O-O-R-R-R-I-I-I-N-N-N-G-G-G!*

The girl had all this stuff, a universe of junk, but still she wanted something more. The funny thing was that she just didn’t know what.

Can you guess what Myrtle demanded for her tenth birthday? In the incredibly unlikely event that you guessed…

A pair of exploding socks.

A life-sized blue-whale bath toy. When it went in the bath, all the water spilled out.

A balloon model of the Taj Mahal.

A pencil un-sharpener.

And a robot pea.

…then congratulations. You were correct and win one pound.*

Mr and Mrs Meek were forced to give their daughter all these things that she had demanded for her birthday. If they hadn’t, Myrtle would have howled the house down.

“Happy birthday, our beautiful angel!” they called out as Myrtle lay in bed, ripping open the presents and throwing the scrunched-up balls of wrapping paper back at them.

RUSTLE!

DOINK!

Moments later, she was demanding something more. What was unusual this time, though, was that the girl had absolutely no idea what that something should be. Myrtle had so many things that she couldn’t think of a single thing in the world she didn’t have.

“I wanna FING!”

she announced over breakfast. The girl was scoffing a ginormous bowl of chocolate ice cream with seventeen chocolate flakes stuck in it, and an ocean of chocolate sauce on top. Yes, Myrtle had chocolate for breakfast. And lunch. And dinner. Well, would you say no to her?

Mr and Mrs Meek, who were dipping their neatly cut soldiers into boiled eggs, shared a worried look. A “FING”?

Whatever did she mean?

“A ‘FING’, my dearest darling?” asked Mother, putting down her book, One Hundred Poems for Ladies.

“Yeah. Are you deaf? A FING!”

“What’s a ‘FING’, sweetness?” enquired Father, putting down his book, One Hundred Poems for Gentlemen.

“I dunno, but I want one!”

“How do you spell it?” asked Mother.

Myrtle’s face went scarlet with fury.

“I ain’t fick! You spell it the normal way. F! I! N! G! FING!”

The girl thumped the breakfast table with her fist to add emphasis.

BASH!

All the crockery flew into the air, and smashed on to the floor.

“Pick up the pieces! NOW!” the girl ordered.

On their hands and knees under the kitchen table, Mr Meek whispered to his wife, “What are we to do? Our beloved offspring wants a ‘FING’. But I don’t think a ‘FING’ is a real thing. I worry a ‘FING’ is a made-up thing.”

“We’ll have to think of SOMEFING – I mean, something,” replied Mrs Meek just before she felt a boot up her bottom.

BOOF!

“OUCH!” she cried.

“SHUT UP DOWN THERE!” came the voice from above. “I can barely hear myself blow off!”

“That’s better.”

Mr and Mrs Meek were in a panic. If they didn’t come up with some “FING”, there was going to be TROUBLE.

BIG

TROUBLE.

After breakfast that morning, Mr and Mrs Meek gave their daughter a lift to school. And I mean “lift”, literally. Every morning, they were forced to lift her up and carry her there. Myrtle refused to walk even though it was only a short distance away. It was a mighty effort carrying her. As she mostly ate chocolate, Myrtle was as heavy as an ox.*

“PUT ME DOWN!” Myrtle ordered as her poor parents made their final stagger to the school gates. Once they’d carefully lowered her to the ground, Father passed his daughter her industrial-sized lunchbox. It was so big and heavy it was on wheels.

“Have a lovely day at school, my sweetest of hearts,” he said.

“DON’T FORGET – BY THE TIME I GET HOME FROM SCHOOL I WANNA FING!” she bawled, before waddling off into the playground, knocking several smaller children to the ground as she did so.

“My angel of heaven, we promise we will do our absolute bestest best!” called out Mother brightly.

This stopped Myrtle in her tracks. Slowly she turned round and reached into her lunchbox.

“BESTEST BEST ISN’T GOOD ENOUGH!” she hollered. Myrtle pulled out one of the tall cartons of chocolate milk and lobbed it at her mother.

It hit poor Mrs Meek right in the face, soaking her and her pink flowery dress.

“Thanking you kindly,” remarked the lady, not sure what else to say.

Father passed his wife the handkerchief he always kept in his breast pocket.

“There we are, Mother.”

Mrs Meek dabbed at the chocolate milk. It was little use. The pink flowery dress was now a brown chocolatey mess.

“BESTEST BETTER THAN BEST!” appealed Father.

Once again, Myrtle reached into her lunchbox.

“Oh dear,” muttered Father, closing his eyes as he was sure something was about to be lobbed in his direction.

He was right.

A bucket of chocolate mousse hit him – BANG! – on the top of his head.

“Thanking you muchly!” he said, like his wife, not knowing what else to say.

Without a word, Mother passed the handkerchief back to her husband, and he attempted to de-mousse himself.*

“Don’t you worry your pretty little head!” called out Father, lying. There was nothing pretty or little about Myrtle’s head. “We will have that FING for you as soon as you are home from school.”

“YOU BETTER!” replied Myrtle. “Or else.”

Neither Mr Meek nor Mrs Meek knew what “else” was, but, whatever it was, it sounded nasty.

The school bell rang.

As soon as Myrtle began lumbering off towards her classroom, Father took his wife’s hand.

“Ooh, you are very forward, Mr Meek,” she remarked.

“I know the perfect place to start looking for a FING,” said the librarian.

“Where?”

“The LIBRARY, of course!”

Mr and Mrs Meek bolted down the street. They were quite a sight, both covered as they were in chocolatey-brown gunge. The pair looked like two giant poops making a dash for freedom.

As soon as they reached the doors to the LIBRARY, they slowed to a stroll.

PITTER-PATTER…

After all, the LIBRARY is a place where you should always be on your best behaviour. Especially if you are a librarian.

“W-w-where to begin?” whispered an out-of-breath Father as they strolled through the aisles and aisles of floor-to-ceiling books, leaving a trail of brown sludge behind them. OOZE!

“The d-d-dictionary?” replied an out-of-breath Mother.

Their eyes searched the shelves of dictionaries until they found the widest, weightiest one. They eased it off the shelf together. The book was almost as heavy as their daughter.*

Mrs Meek eagerly flicked through the pages until she reached the long, long list of words that began with F. However, soon a word that began with F, “frustration”, was painted all over her face.

“‘FING’ isn’t in the dictionary,” she whispered.

“OH, FOR GOODNESS’ SAKE!” exclaimed Father.

“SHUSH!” shushed Mrs Meek, pointing to a sign that her husband himself had put up, which read “SILENCE”.

“Sorry,” he mouthed, before continuing in hushed tones. “That doesn’t mean there is no such thing as a ‘FING’. There are thousands and thousands of books in the LIBRARY. Surely one of them must mention a ‘FING’.”

“But what books should we look at next, Father?”

“Well, let’s think, Mother. What does a ‘FING’ sound like to you?”

Both went into deep concentration.

“A rude-shaped vegetable?” guessed Mother, reaching for

“An annoying board game?” suggested Father as he took down

“A very distant planet?” said Mother as she found

Books, books and more books tumbled off the shelves. Books about the human body. Books about motor cars. Books about flowers. Books about antiques. Books about books.

“Could a ‘FING’ be that thing that’s left in your plughole after a bath?” suggested Father.

“An unidentifiable item of clothing you find in the tumble dryer?” guessed Mother.

Guesses were volleyed back and forth like tennis balls.

“Something sticky you find up your nose that isn’t a bogey?”

“A mysterious stain?”

“The gangly bit of a jellyfish?”

“A prize from a Christmas cracker that you never actually work out what it is?”

“Something you find stuck to a dog?”

“That dangly bit of your belly button that looks like the end of a balloon?”

“The fluffy stuff you find between your toes?”

“The opposite of a ‘FONG’?” exclaimed Mrs Meek.

“What’s a ‘FONG’?” asked Mr Meek.

“I don’t know,” she replied, downcast.

Hours passed until the exhausted pair had searched through every single book in the LIBRARY.*

Just as they were about to admit defeat and brace themselves for the wrath of their daughter, Mrs Meek had a thought.

“There is one last place we haven’t looked,” she said.

“Where? Where? Where?” he asked eagerly.

“The ancient vaults of the LIBRARY. That’s where all the old books are kept. We might find a clue down there.”

Mr Meek gulped. “But, Mrs Meek, we librarians are strictly forbidden to go down to the vaults.”

“Everybody is forbidden.

Nobody has been down there for a hundred years…”

Well then, we can’t go down into the vaults,” said Mr Meek. “And that’s that.”

Mrs Meek was not taking no for an answer. “But what about our darling daughter? If we don’t get her a FING, there will be tears before bedtime.”

“Oh yes.” The man turned deathly pale at the thought. His eyes rolled back and he wobbled.

“Are you quite all right, Mr Meek?”

But, before he could reply, Mr Meek fainted. Mrs Meek went to catch him, but they both tumbled backwards and landed on the floor.

THUD!

“OOF!” she exclaimed as her husband landed on top of her.

An old man stepped over them to reach a gardening book. The pair smiled politely up at him.

“Good morning,” they said.

“Are you all right under there, Mrs Meek?” enquired Mr Meek.

“Yes. Are you all right?”

“Me?”

“Yes. You fainted.”

“Did I?”

“Yes.”

“Oh dear.”

“Oh dear indeed.”

“Let me help you up.”

“No, let me help you up!”

This went on for quite a while until finally both of them were on their feet. Now the pair had to choose between two evils. Either they went down to the spooky vaults of the LIBRARY or they faced the wrath of their daughter.

The lesser of the two seemed to be the vaults.

“I don’t think we have a choice,” said Father.

“Then follow me,” replied Mother.

Mrs Meek led her husband to a battered old door in the far corner of the LIBRARY. Cobwebs covered the cracks, and a sign over it read “DO NOT ENTER".

“Will it be dark down in the vaults?” he asked, his voice wavering.

“Oh yes. Pitch black. To protect all the old books,” she replied.

“Well then, ladies first…”

“Me?” protested Mrs Meek.

They were both scared of the dark.

“I insist,” he pressed.

“I insist.”

“I am a gentleman. I have to let a lady go first.”

“No, no, no, that’s very old-fashioned these days, Mr Meek. You should definitely go first.”

“No, you.”

“You.”

“YOU!”

The pair had reached something of a stand-off.

“I know! Let’s both go together,” announced Mother.

“Good plan,” replied Father. He took down the rusty old key that was sitting on top of the doorframe. Looking around to check no one was watching, he unlocked the door.

C L I C K.

He fumbled for his wife’s hand, and together they slowly descended the steps.

“It’s not too bad, is it?” asked Mrs Meek.

stammered Mr Meek.

To his relief, Mr Meek found a candle and a box of old matches halfway down the stairs. His hands trembling uncontrollably, he passed them to his wife, who struck a match and lit the candle.

STRIKE!

The flickering light illuminated shelves and shelves of dusty old leather-bound books. The LIBRARY vaults were a treasure trove of titles that were ancient, obscure and bizarre. There were thousands of books down there, all of them long out of print.

One by one, Mr and Mrs Meek pulled the books from the shelves. With just a candle to read by, they searched the millions upon millions of words for any reference to a “FING”. Just as they were about to lose all hope, Mr Meek thought he saw something move out of the corner of his eye.

“What was that?” he whispered.

“What was what?” she asked.

“Something moved.”

“Maybe it was a rat? I hate rats.”

With the candle, Mrs Meek illuminated a dingy corner of the vault. Indeed, something was moving underneath a pile of old newspapers.

RUSTLE! RUSTLE! RUSTLE!

She pushed her husband towards it to investigate further.

“Go on!”

“I am going! I am going!”

“Lift up the newspapers and see!” suggested Mrs Meek.

“No, after you.”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake! Let’s not start all this again.”

Reluctantly, Mr Meek lifted the old damp sheets of paper. To his surprise, all that was underneath was a book.

“It’s a book!”

“Books can’t move,” she replied.

“This one did.”

“What is it called?”

Mr Meek peered down to study the spine.

The title sent through him.

“It’s called

THE

MONSTERPEDIA.”

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