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Written by John Simmons, illustrated by Aimee Simmons
Inspired by The Twits

After the Twits got the shrinks, the Muggle-Wumps were happy to be free.

“Let’s celebrate,” they said to their bird friend who helped them escape from their cage. Monkeys don’t like being kept in cages any more than you would.

“We should go on holiday. How about France?”

“Oooo,” said Muggle-Wumps.

“Ooo-la-la,” said the Roly-Poly Bird. “We should learn French – no good going and not knowing the language.”

He flew them on his back to Paris. They were enjoying  chocolat chaud and croissants in a café when they saw the sign: “See Paris from above. Best views from our chauderairee.”….

They went straightaway to buy tickets. “Quatre singes,” said the Roly-Poly Bird, hoping to get a reduced price for the four monkeys. The man in the ticket office just shrugged.

“My treat,” said the Roly-Poly Bird. They walked through the gate to where a scruffy-looking man was holding the rope attached to the balloon’s basket.

“Hop in,” the Roly-Poly Bird led the way. Soon they felt the basket move under their feet as the flames heated the air in the balloon. They started to lift off the ground. Looking down, the man holding the rope, with his beret pulled low over his head, looked strangely familiar. The Muggle-Wumps laughed: “Looks like Mr Twit!”

Up they soared. Paris was all around them down below. There was the Eiffel Tower, the Arc de Triomphe, Notre Dame Cathedral. The Muggle-Wumps were having a high old time jumping around. The basket shook from side to side. They were going higher and higher, and the Roly-Poly Bird noticed that the man holding the rope had been lifted off the ground and was swinging below them. He did look familiar. It was Mr Twit – Mr Twit unshrunk.

“Non, non, arrête!!” squawked the bird at the Muggle-Wumps, forgetting that they didn’t speak much French. They jumped and swung all the more, enjoying themselves. They didn’t realise that a flame from the chauderairee was now burning the rope that Mr Twit was holding on to.

The flame burnt through the rope and they all watched Mr Twit fall from the sky, landing with an enormous splash in the River Seine.

‘Au revoir, Mr Twit,” shouted the Roly-Poly Bird.

“Adieu,” screamed the Muggle-Wumps as the chauderairee took them back across the channel towards England.

Read the feature story ‘Aimee and the Twits’

Written by Dan Germain, illustrated by Ruby Germain
Inspired by The Twits

As he oiled his chain with the greasy gunk from behind his ears, Mr Twit felt quite happy, which was most unusual. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been for a bike ride, and even the fact that it was a sunny day didn’t put him off.

The last time Mr Twit had left the house had been some time in 1980. Since then he’d been recovering from the Terrible Shrinks, gathering his strength and looking for his wife. Mrs Twit appeared to have disappeared, and Mr Twit could only imagine that the VILE OLD HAG hadn’t had the gumption to save herself from the Shrinks or those idiotic Muggle-Wumps.

Still, he didn’t miss her. Without her around, he’d been free to revel in his own filth for the last thirty-six years. He’d survived on and enjoyed a delicious diet of worms, mud and whatever poor unfortunate creature he could snare in his overgrown back garden. He washed his pants just the once, when it had become clear that they were starting turn into a sort of pant soup.

In short, he’d enjoyed being the filthy man that he was. It was making him feel quite GOOD. And he wanted to share that feeling with the world.

He walked to the gate with his bike, chain freshly ear-gunked, and off he pedalled, lungs wheehoozelling like a pair of rusty bellows. His knees clackled, the bike moaned and groaned under his weight, and fresh air whistled through his filthy facial fur.

Minutes passed, and Mr Twit found himself passing through a part of town he hadn’t visited for many years. Young people sat outside cafés, drinking strange green drinks, and seemed to be enjoying them.

“Mmm, pond slime,” thought Mr Twit enviously, and wondered if he should try one of these new concoctions.

It was only then that it struck him. All of these people – they all looked like him. They had straggly, unkempt beards and frightening hairstyles. They wore raggedy trousers and rode antique bicycles. And they drank those weird drinks, full of algae and grass clippings.

Mr Twit’s mind rumbled. His heart grumbled. His temper soared like a dirty vulture.

“What, in the name of all that is filthy, is going on?!” screamed Mr Twit inside his own extremely tiny brain.

“Everyone seems to have turned into me!”

Written by Andy Hayes, illustrated by Millie Hayes
Inspired by Fantastic Mr Fox

Mrs Fox used to call me Fantastic Mr Fox. I was a magnificent creature: from my sharp white teeth to my neckerchief, but please – don’t mention my tail.

I had outfoxed the farmers, Boggis, Bunce and Bean. We thrived under ground as they shivered above us. We were happy, but good things never last. Mr Badger called me a show-off. We fought, I won, but hurt the poor chap in the process. The others started looking at me with fear in their eyes. They scuttled away whenever I came around. So I felt it was time to move on.

_

I took Mrs Fox and the little foxes to the city. It broke our hearts to leave the country. We went from green grass to grey concrete, fresh chicken to greasy leftovers, and the sharp, sweet air to the toxic fumes of killer cars.

The city foxes laughed at my country ways. They bent their heads, curled up their tails, and called me Fantastic Sir Fox – the insolent fellows. But I soon held sway. I knew they were weak. I could tell from their fundge, which was pale and insipid. Not like our pure pungent poo at all.

I marked my territory on the best patch, right by an all-night take-away. The fried chicken scraps were not bad. I’d eaten better, but my little foxes loved the fries.

Mrs Fox wasn’t happy. She wanted to go back home, or what was left of it. My stupid pride stopped me from seeing sense, and I refused to go. So she left, and took my darling cubs with her.

They left a huge hole in my heart, deeper than the one dug in the field by Boggis, Bunce and Bean. I ate to fill the emptiness. I stopped caring about my appearance. I became angry and bitter. I lost all my sense of joy. My teeth started to yellow, and my neckerchief hung from me like a dog chain, heavy, dragging me down.

And now, when I prowl my patch at night, I can hear the other foxes whispering, waiting for their turn, wanting to gnaw on my discarded fried chicken. Listen hard and you’ll hear them. ‘There he goes,’ they sneer, ‘he used to be someone. He thought he was the best thing since onion rings. Sad old fat old Mr Fox.’

Read the feature story ‘Mr Fox, meet Millie and Me‘