LITMIR.BIZ

      First published in Great Britain 2018 by Egmont UK Ltd, The Yellow Building, 1 Nicholas Road, London W11 4AN

      Text and illustration copyright © Jim Smith 2018 The moral rights of Jim Smith have been asserted.

      ISBN 978 1 4502 8714 2 eISBN 978 1 7803 1804 2

      barryloser.com www.egmont.co.uk

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

      Printed and bound in Great Britain by the CPI Group

      67190/1

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      Ever since the World Cup started, everyone in school has been comperleeterly into football.

      Like the other Saturday when my best friend Bunky was playing keepy uppy in Mogden Park.

      ‘A hundred and seventy seven, a hundred and seventy eight, a hundred and seventy nine . . .’ he counted, showing off how many times he could do it.

      ‘Pull the other one, Bunkoid,’ burped Darren Darrenofski, slurping on a can of World Cup flavour Fronkle. ‘Even Ronaldio Donaldio can’t do it that many times!’

      Ronaldio Donaldio is the keelest footballer in the whole wide world amen. He plays for the Smeldovian football team, who everyone reckons are going to win the World Cup easily.

      ‘Ronaldio Donaldio?’ sniggled Nancy, looking up from the book she was reading. ‘That’s the stupidest name I’ve ever heard!’

      Sharonella leaned her head on Nancy’s shoulder like she was a parrot. ‘Oh my days Nance,’ she squawked. ‘You trying to tell me you’ve never heard of Ronaldio Donaldio?’

      Nancy shrugged. ‘I’m just not that into football,’ she said.

      ‘You don’t know what you’re missing, babes!’ said Sharonella, whipping a football card out of her pocket.

      Gordon Smugly sidled up with his sort-of-servant, Stuart Shmendrix. ‘Ronaldio Donaldio?’ he said. ‘Yeah, he’s alright I spose.’

      ‘Think you’re pretty good then, do you?’ said a voice from behind us, and I turned round.

      Standing in front of me were five really tall, smug-looking kids wearing shiny green football kits. On the front of their T-shirts were the words ‘Green Giants’.

      Darren crumpled an empty Fronkle can in one hand and kicked it towards a bin. It flew straight over and donked a squirrel off a branch.

      ‘Who are you lot when you’re at home?’ barked Darren as the squirrel limped off.

      ‘We’re the Green Giants,’ said the kid at the front whose blonde hair was combed so neatly it looked like Nancy’s open book. He pointed at his T-shirt. ‘Can’t you Mogden losers read?’

      Stuart Shmendrix pointed at Nancy. ‘We can read,’ he said. ‘Look, she’s reading right now.’

      ‘Whatever,’ said the kid next to the blonde one. ‘Come on Tarquin, let’s get out of here - it stinks!’

      ‘That’s cos of Mogden Sewage Works?’ said Sharonella, as if that was a good thing. ‘The smell blows over this way when the wind’s going in the right direction?’

      ‘Delightful,’ chuckled Tarquin. ‘Of course, we don’t have that problem up in Avocado Hill.’

      Avocado Hill is the posh little village that sits on top of a slope overlooking Mogden Town.

      Tarquin dropped the ball he was holding and kicked it back up with his foot, ducking to catch it on the back of his neck, then flicking his head to make it bounce into his hands again.

      ‘Pretty impressive,’ said Nancy. ‘And I don’t even like football.’

      Tarquin turned to Bunky. ‘I was watching you keepy uppying,’ he said. ‘Not bad for a Mogdener.’

      ‘Fanks!’ grinned Bunky, who thinks he’s the best at football out of all of us, probably cos he is.

      ‘Tell you what,’ said Tarquin. ‘We’ve got a little stadium up in Avo Hill - nothing fancy, just a few hundred seats. You lot fancy a game next Saturday, after the World Cup final?’

      Bunky looked at the ball in Tarquin’s hands and gulped. ‘Oh, er . . . I’m busy then,’ he said.

      ‘Me too,’ squawked Sharonella. ‘I’m going to the, um . . . toilet.’

      ‘With me!’ burped Darren, putting his hand up in the air.

      Gordon pulled his phone out of his pocket. ‘Do you know what,’ he said, tapping the screen. ‘I’m fully booked for the next three weeks.’

      ‘He’s my boss,’ said Stuart, pointing at Smugly. ‘So looks like I’ll be tied up as well.’

      I looked round at my friends. ‘How

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