Free Mascot Madness! by Andy Griffiths

I’ll turn you into compost!’
    Mr Grunt got to his feet and ran for his life.
    Mr Spade revved his engine and chased after him.
    â€˜Come back here, Grunt!’ he yelled. ‘I’m going to . . .’
    We couldn’t catch the next threat as it was drowned out by the deep throaty roar of Mr Grunt’s Hummer. He’d made it to the car park, jumped into his car, and was now escaping at high speed through the school gates.
    Mr Spade, however, was not going to give up the chase. He kept right on after Mr Grunt. He followed him out of the school grounds and was now riding his mower up the road at surprising speed.
    â€˜That’s amazing!’ said Grant, as they disappeared into the distance. ‘How can Mr Spade get so much power out of that tiny motor? Wait till my dad hears about this!’
    Mr Brainfright was dancing and chanting, cheering Mr Spade on. ‘Go, Spade, go! Mow! Mow! Mow!’
    We all joined in for a few rounds before Mr Brainfright changed to another cheer. ‘He wrecked your garden bed! Mow Grunt’s head!’
    The class started chanting the new cheer enthusiastically. I was doing it too, till Jenny shook my shoulder roughly. ‘Henry!’ she said. ‘That’s not very nice!’
    â€˜It’s only Mr Grunt,’ I said.
    â€˜It doesn’t matter who it is,’ she replied. ‘It’s not nice to mow anyone’s head.’
    â€˜Sorry,’ I said. ‘I guess you’re right. It’s just that Mr Brainfright is so persuasive.’
    â€˜Yes, he is,’ said Jenny, a concerned look on her face. ‘But I think his madness is getting worse. I’m worried that we’ll never get the old Mr Brainfright back.’

34
Northwest West Academy welcome us to the stadium . . . NOT!

    It was Friday morning.
    The big day had finally arrived.
    Our class was unlucky enough to have been put on the first bus. We sat in our seats, quiet and miserable. Despite our mascot, our visualisations and our success in turning Northwest West Academy’s tomato attack back on themselves, we didn’t really expect today’s competition to turn out any differently than any other year.
    At the end of the day, Northwest West Academy would be holding the gold cup high above their heads, while we hung our heads in miserable defeat.
    The only person who didn’t seem to realise this was Mr Brainfright—and at this point, Mr Brainfright wasn’t even technically a person. He was a banana. A big yellow dancing banana.
    Decked out in his suit, he was dancing up anddown the aisle of the bus, trying his hardest to lift our spirits.
    Our spirits, however, did not exactly lift at the sight of a large group of jeering Northwest West Academy students standing in the car park with a banner that said GO HOME LOSERS !
    â€˜That’s not very nice!’ said Jenny.
    â€˜Northwest West Academy are not very nice, in case you’d forgotten,’ I said.
    â€˜Let me handle this,’ said Mr Brainfright, making his way to the front of the bus. ‘Let’s give them a little taste of banana power, shall we? Open the door, driver! We’ve got an athletics competition to blitz!’
    The bus driver, a tired-looking man who’d driven countless busloads of demoralised Northwest Southeast Central students to and from the Northwest Stadium over the years, looked at Mr Brainfright with great sympathy. He’d seen us get beaten too many times before to believe that a man in a banana suit was going to make any difference.
    He shrugged. ‘It’s your funeral, Banana Boy,’ he said, and opened the door of the bus.
    â€˜B-A-N-A-N-A-S!’ chanted Mr Brainfright defiantly as he launched himself forward.
    Now, it could have been great.
    It could even have been inspiring.
    It could have struck fear into the hearts of our opponents.
    But it didn’t.
    Because Mr Brainfright tripped and fell out of the