Copyright

HarperCollins Children’s Books An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by Piccadilly Press Ltd 2001

Published by Scholastic Ltd 2002

This edition published by HarperCollins Children’s Books 2006

Copyright © Louise Rennison 2001

The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

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Source ISBN: 9780007218691

Ebook Edition © MARCH 2011 ISBN: 9780007397327

Version: 2017-01-11

Dedication

With love and thanks to my family – Mutti and Vati, Sophie and John, Kimmy and, of course, the magnificent three – Eduardo Delfonso Delgardo, Honor and Libbsy. To the Kiwi-a-gogo branch of the family and also in memory of Eth and Ted. Again I would like to thank my fab mates for not killing me. You know who you are: Pip “What an exciting conversion” Pringle, Jeddbox, Jimjams, Elton, Jools and the Mogul, Lozzer, Bobbins, Porky Morgan, Geff “Guildford calling”, Jo Good, Tony the Frock, Jenkins the Pen, Philip K, Kim and Sandy, Baggy Aggiss, Cock of the North and family, all my old school mates – Barbara D, Sheila R and Rosie M, etc., and thank you to Black Dog the captain. To the fabulous St Nick’s support group, in particular Aunti Haze and Doug. To the Natural Health Centre. Especial thanks again to Piccadilly – to the lovely Brenda and Jude, and Margot for selling me to Europe … and in particular to Germany: having a book called Frontal Knutschen is a marvellous thing. To my new mates at Scholastic – Nyree, and Kirsty and Gavin. And huge thanks to the truly marvy Clare Alexander and the quietly magnificent Gillon Aitken.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Return of the loonleader

Snog Fest

Away laughing on a fast camel

Big red bottomosity

Trouser snakes-a-go-go

Fish party

Keep Reading

Georgia’s Glossary

Preview

About the Author

Other Books By

About the Publisher

Return of the loonleader
Thursday October 21st 1:00 p.m.

Looking out of my bedroom window, counting my unblessings. Raining. A lot. It’s like living fully dressed in a pond. And I am the prisoner of whatsit.

I have to stay in my room, pretending to have tummy lurgy, so that Dad will not know I am an ostracised leper banned from Stalag 14 (i.e. suspended from school). I’m not alone in my room, though, because my cat Angus is also under house arrest for his love romps with Naomi the Burmese sex kitten.

2:00 p.m.

They’ll be doing PE now.

I never thought the day would come when I would long to hear Miss Stamp (Sports Oberführer and part-time lesbian) say, “Right, girls, into your PE knickers!”

But it has.

3.30 p.m.

All the Ace Gang will be thinking about the walk home from school.

Applying a touch of lippy. A hint of nail polish. Maybe even mascara because it is RE and Miss Wilson can’t even control her tragic 70s hairdo let alone a class. Rosie said she was going to test Miss Wilson’s sanity by giving herself a face mask in class and see if Miss Wilson has a nervy spaz.

Jas will be practising her pouting in case she bumps into Tom.

3:50 p.m.

How come Jas got off with cloakroom duty and I got banned? I am a whatsit … a scapethingy.

4.10 p.m.

Robbie the Sex God (MY NEW BOYFRIEND!!! Yesss and three times yesss!!!!!) will be going home from college now. Walking along in a Sex Goddy sort of way. A walking snogging machine.

4.30 p.m.

Mutti came in.

“Right, you can start making your startling recovery now, Georgia.”

Oh cheers. Thanks a lot. Goodnight. Just because Elvis Attwood, school caretaker from Planet of the Loons, tripped over his own wheelbarrow (when I told him Jas was on fire) I am banned from school.

Mutti rambled on, although she makes very little sense since Vati got home.

“It’s your own fault, you antagonise him and now you are paying the price.”

Yeah yeah, rave on.

4.45 p.m.

Phoned Jas.

“Jas.”

“Oh, hi Gee.”

“Why didn’t you phone me?”

“You’re phoning me. I would have got the engaged tone.”

“Jas, please don’t annoy me, I’ve only been speaking to you for two seconds.”

“I’m not annoying you.”

“Wrong.”

“Well, I’ve only said about two words to you.”

“That’s enough.”

Silence.

“Jas?”

Silence.

“Jas … what are you doing?”

“I’m not annoying you.”

She drives me to the brink of madnosity. Still, I really needed to speak to her, so I went on. “It’s really crap at home. I almost wish I hadn’t been banned from school. How was Stalag 14? Any goss?”

“No, just the usual. Nauseating P. Green smashed a chair to smithereens and back.”

“Really?! Was she fighting with it?”

“No, she was sitting on it having her lunch. It was the jumbo-sized Mars bar that did it. The Bummer Twins started singing “Who ate all the pies?” to her but Slim, our beloved headmistress, heard them and gave us a lecture about mocking the unfortunate.”

“Were her chins going all jelloid?”

“Yeah. In fact it was Chin City.”

“Fantastic. Are you all missing me? Did anyone talk about me or anything?”

“No, not really.”

Charming. Jas has a lot of good qualities though, qualities you need in a bestest pal. Qualities like, for instance, going out with the brother of a Sex God. I said, “Has Hunky – I mean, Tom – mentioned anything that Robbie has said about me?”

“Erm … let me think.”

Then there was this slurp slurp noise.

She was making slurping noises.

“Jas, what are you eating?”

“I’m sucking my pen top so I can think better.”

Bloody sacré bleu, I have got le idiot for a pal. Forty-nine centuries of pen-sucking later she said, “No, he hasn’t said anything.”

7:00 p.m.

Why hasn’t Robbie mentioned me? Hasn’t he got snogging withdrawal?

8:00 p.m.

I can hear Vati singing “If I Ruled the World”. Good Lord. I have only just recovered from a very bad bout of pretend lurgy. He has no consideration for others.

8:05 p.m.

The worsterosity of it is that the Loonleader (my vati) has returned from Kiwi-a-gogo land and I thought he would be there for ages. But sadly life was against me and he has returned. Not content with that he has insisted we all go to Och-aye land to “bond” on a family holiday.

But … na-na-na-na-na and who-gives-two-short-flying-pigs’-botties? because I live in Love Heaven.

Lalalalalalala.

I am the girlfriend of a Sex God!!!

Yesss!!! Result!!!!

8:15 p.m.

The Sex God said I should phone him from Scotland when I go up there. But there is a fly in his ointment … I am not going to Scotland!!!

My plan is this: everyone else goes to Scotland and … I don’t!

Simple enough, I think, for anyone to understand.

Operation Explain-brilliant-not-going-to-Scotland-plan-to-Mutti-and-Vati 8:30 p.m.

The Olds were slumped in front of the TV canoodling and drinking wine. They are so childish. I had to leave the room in the end because Dad did this really disgusting thing. It makes me feel sick even thinking about it. He got hold of Mum’s nip-nips(!) through her sweater and then sort of twiddled them around. He was going, “Calling all cars, calling all cars, are you receiving me?”

Like he was tuning a radio or something. With her basoomas.

Mum said, “Stop it, Bob, what are you like!”

But then they both were laughing and grappling about on the sofa. Libby was there as well. Laughing along. It can’t be healthy for a toddler to be exposed to porn. I’m sure other people’s parents don’t do this sort of thing. In fact, some of my mates are lucky enough to have parents that are split up.

I’ve never really seen Jas’s dad. He is usually upstairs or in his shed doing some DIY. He just appears now and again to give Jas her pocket money.

That is a proper dad.

11:00 p.m.

Before I went to bed I explained to the elderly snoggers (from outside the door, just in case they were touching each other) that I will not in a zillion years be going on the family excursion to Scotland tomorrow and said goodnight.

Friday October 22nd Scotland Raining In a crap cottage in nowhere 10:30 p.m.

I have come on holiday by mistake.

This is the gorgeous diary of my fantastic family holiday in Och-aye land.

Five hundred years driving with a madman at the wheel (Dad) and another two mad things in a basket (Angus and Libby). After two hours of trying to find the cottage and listening to Vati ramble on about the “wonderful countryside” I was ready to pull Dad’s head off, steal the car and drive, drive like the wind back home. The fact that I can’t drive stopped me, but actually I’m sure that, once behind the wheel, I could pick it up. How difficult can it be, anyway? All Dad does is swear at other cars and put his foot down on some pedal thing.

Finally arrived at some crap cottage in the middle of nowhere. The nearest shop is twelve hundred miles away (well, a fifteen-minute walk).

The only person younger than one hundred and eighty is a half-witted boy (Jock McThick) who hangs around the village on his pushbike(l).

In the end, out of sheer desperadoes, I went outside after supper and asked Jock McThick what him and his mates did at nights. (Even though I couldn’t give two short flying sporrans.)

He said, “Och.” (Honestly, he said that.) “We go awa’ doon to Alldays, you ken.” (I don’t know why he called me Ken but that is the mystery of the Scottish folk.)

It was like being in that film Braveheart. In fact, in order to inject a bit of hilariosity into an otherwise tragic situation, I said, when we first saw the cottage, “You can tak’ our lives, but you cannae tak’ our freedom!!”

1:15 a.m.

It’s a nightmare of noise in this place: hooting, yowling, snuffling … and that’s just Vati! No, it’s the great Scottish wildlife. Bats and badgers and so on … Haven’t they got homes to go to? Why do creatures wake up at night? Do they do it deliberately to annoy me? At least Angus is happy here though, now he is not under house arrest. It was about one a.m. before he came in and curled up in his luxurious cat headquarters (my bed).

Saturday October 23rd 10:30 a.m.

Vati back as Loonleader with a vengeance. He came barging into “my” (hahahahahaha) room at pre-dawn, waggling his new beard about. I was sleeping with cucumber slices on my eyes for beautosity purposes so at first I thought I had gone blind in the night. I nearly did go blind when he ripped open my curtains and said, “Gidday gidday, me little darlin’!” in a ludicrous Kiwi-a-gogo twang.

I wonder if he has finally snapped? He was very nearly bonkers before he went to Kiwi-a-gogo land and having his shoes blown off by a rogue bore can’t have helped.

But hey, El Beardo is, after all, my vati and that also makes him Vati of the girlfriend of a Sex God. So I said quite kindly, “Guten morgan, Vati, could you please go away now? Thank you.”

I think his beard may have grown into his ears however, because he ignored me and opened the window. He was leaning out, breathing in and out and flapping his arms around like a loon. His bottom is not tiny. If a very small pensioner was accidentally walking along behind him they may think there had been an eclipse of the sun.

“Aahh, smell that air, Georgie. Makes you feel good to be alive, doesn’t it?”

I pulled my duvet round me. “I won’t be alive for much longer if that freezing air gets into my lungs.”

He came and sat on the bed. Oh God, he wasn’t going to hug me, was he? Fortunately Mutti yelled up the stairs, “Bob, breakfast is ready!” and he lumbered off.

Breakfast is ready? Has everyone gone mad? When was the last time Mum made breakfast?

Anyway, ho hum pig’s bum, I could snuggle down in my comfy holiday bed and do dreamy-dreamy about snogging the Sex God in peace now.

Wrong.

Clank, clank. “Gergy! Gingey! It’s me!!”

Oh Blimey O’ReiIley’s trousers, it was Libby, mad toddler from Planet of the Loons. When my adorable little sister came in I couldn’t help noticing that although she was wearing her holiday sunglasses, she wasn’t wearing anything else. She was also carrying a pan. I said, “Libby, don’t bring the pan into …”

But she ignored me and clambered up into my bed, shoving me aside to make room. She has got hefty little arms for a child of four. She said, “Move up, bad boy, Mr Pan tired.”

Then she and Mr Pan snuggled up against me. I almost shot out of bed, her bottom was so cold … and sticky … urghh.

What is it with my room? You would think that at least on holiday I might be able to close my door and have a bit of privacy to do my holiday project (fantasy snogging), but oh no. There will probably be a coachload of German tourists in lederhosen looking round my room in a minute.

I’m going to go and find the local locksmith (Hamish McLocksmith) and get two huge bolts for my door, and you can only get in by appointment.

Which I will never make.

11:00 a.m.

Libby has clanked off with Mr Pan, thank the Lord. I don’t like to be near her naked botty for long as something always lurks out of it.

I think Mum and Dad are playing “catch” downstairs. I can hear them running up and down giggling “Gotcha” and so on.

Sacré bloody bleu. Très pathetico. Vati’s only been back for eighty-nine hours and I feel more than a touch of the sheer desperadoes coming on.

11:10 a.m.

Still, who cares about his parentosity and beardiness? Who cares about being dragged to the crappest, most freezing place known to humanity? I, Georgia Nicolson, offspring of loons am, in fact, the GIRLFRIEND OF A SEX GOD. Yessssss!!!! Fab and treble marvellosos. I have finally trapped a Sex God. He is mine miney mine mine. There is a song in my heart and do you know what it is? It is that well-known chart topper, “Robbie, oh Robbie, I … er … lobbie you!!! I do I do!!!”

1:00 p.m.

Hung around, sitting on the gate watching the world go by. Unfortunately it didn’t. All that went by were some loons talking gibberish (Scottish) and a ferret.

Then Jock McThick or whatever his name is loomed up on his bike. He has an unfortunate similarity to Spotty Norman, i.e. acne of the head. This is not enhanced by him being a ginger nob.

Jock said, “Me and the other lads meet oop at aboot nine just ootside Alldays. Mebbe see you later.”

Yeah, right, see you in the next life, don’t be late. Nothing is going to make me sadly go and hang out with Jock and his mates.

8:59 p.m.

Vati suggested we had a singsong round the piano tonight and started off with “New York, New York”.

9:00 p.m.

I took Angus for a walk to check out the nightlife that Jock McThick told me about. Angus is the only good thing about this trip. He’s really perked up. I know he longs for Naomi the sex kitten inside his furry brain but he is putting a brave face on it. In fact, he is strutting around like he owns Scotland. This is, after all, his birthplace. He can probably hear the call of the Scottish Highlands quite clearly here. The call that says, “Kill everything that moves.” There were four voles all lined up on the doorstep this morning. Mum said she found a dead mouse in her tights. I didn’t ask where she had left them. If I ask her anything she just giggles and goes stupid. Since Dad came home her brain has fallen out.

Angus has made a new furry chum. None of the other local cats will come near our cottage. I think there was a “duffing up” challenge last night. The black and white cat I saw in the lane yesterday has quite a bit of its ears missing now. Angus’s new mate is a retired sheepdog called Arrow. I say he is retired but sadly he is too barmy and old to know that he is retired, so he keeps rounding things up anyway. Not usually sheep though … things like chickens, passing cars … old Scottish people doing their haggis shopping. Angus hangs out with Arrow and they generally terrorise the neighbourhood and lay waste to the wildlife.

9:30 p.m.

It’s quite sweet and groovy walking along with Angus and Arrow. They pad along behind me. At least I have got some intelligent company in this lonely Sex Godless hell-hole.

9:35 p.m.

When the three of us got to Alldays, Scotland’s premier nightspot, I couldn‘t believe it.

Alldays turns out to be a tiny twenty-four-hour supermarket.

Not a club or anything.

A bloody shop.

And all the “youth” (four Jock McThicks on bikes) just go WILD there. They hang around in the aisles in the shop, listening to the piped music! Or hang about outside on their pushbikes and go in the shop now and again to buy Coca Cola or Irn-Bru!

Sacré bloody bleu and quel dommage.

Midnight

That was it. The premier nightspot of Scotland.

I said to Mutti, “Have you noticed how exceptionally crap it is here?” and she said, “You have to make your own fun in places like this. You have to make things happen. Anyway, you do exaggerate.”

Vati said, “Your cousin will be here tomorrow.”

Double merde. Vati reaches alarming levels of bonkerosity sometimes. Why does he think I will be pleased to see my cousin James, also known as Pervy Jimjams, pervert extraordinaire?

12:30 a.m.

Hoot hoot. Scuffle scuffle. Root root. Good grief, it’s like a badger party out there … Oh no, no, hang on, I forgot – I am enjoying my lovely holiday. Mum was right. I am exaggerating. Something did happen at Scotland’s premier hotspot. One Jock McThick lit up a fag and had such a coughing fit that he spilt his Coke on his trousers and had to go home.

1:00 a.m.

Honestly.

I am not kidding.

1:30 a.m.

I wonder if it would be uncool to walk the forty-eight miles into town and phone the SG?

1:35 a.m.

Or walk home to England?

Sunday October 24th 10:20 a.m.

Still in Och-aye land. Tartan trousers for as far as the eye can see.

10:31 a.m.

How many hours has it been since I saw Robbie now? Hmmm, ninety hours and thirty-six minutes.

10:46 a.m.

How many minutes is that?

11:04 a.m.

Oh God, I don’t know. I can’t do multiplication very well; it’s too jangly for my brain. I’ve tried to explain this to Miss Stamp our maths Oberführer (and part-time lesbian). It is not, as she stupidly suggests, that I am too busy writing notes to my mates or polishing my nails to concentrate, it is just that some numbers give me the mental droop.

Eight for instance.

It’s the same in German. As I pointed out to Herr Kamyer, there are too many letters in German words.

The German types say Goosegot in the morning; how normal is that? In fact, how can you take a language like that seriously? Well you can’t, which is why I only got sixty per cent in my last German exam.

11:50 p.m.

I’m just going to lie in bed conserving my strength for a snogging extravaganza when I get home.

Midday

Mutti came into my room with a tray of sandwiches. I said, “Goosegot in Himmel, Mutti, have you gone mad? Food? For me? No, no, I’ll just have my usual bit of old sausage.”

She still kept smiling. It was a bit eerie actually. She was all dreamy. Wafting around in a see-through nightie. Good Lord.

“Are you having a nice time, Gee? It’s gorgeous here, isn’t it?”

I looked at her ironically.

She raved on. “It’s fun, though, isn’t it?”

“Mum, it’s the best fun I’ve had since … er … since Libby dropped my make-up into the loo.”

She tutted, but not even in her usual violent tutting way. Just like, nice tutting.

Even thought I started reading my Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff for Teens book she still kept raving on. About how great it was to be a “family” again. I wish she would cover herself up a bit more. Other people’s mothers wear nice elegant old people’s-wear and she just lets her basoomas and so on poke out willy-nilly. And they certainly do poke out willy-nilly; they are GIGANTIC.

She said, “We thought we might go to the pencil-making factory this afternoon.”

I didn’t even bother saying anything to that.

“It will be a laugh.”

“No it won’t. When did we last have a laugh as a family? Apart from when Grandad’s false teeth went down that woman’s bra?”

1:00 p.m.

The “lovebirds” went off to the pencil factory. They only got Libby to go with them because she thinks they are going to go and see the pencil people.

And I do mean pencil people. Not people who make pencils. Pencil people. People who are pencils. She’ll go ballistic when she finds out it’s just some boring Scottish bloke making pencils.

Oh I am SO bored. Hours and hours of wasted snogging opportunities.

1:20 p.m.

I’d go out but there is nothing to look at. It just goes trees, trees, water, hill, trees, trees, Jock McTavish, Jock McTavish. What is the point of that?

On the plus side, I am going out with a SEX GOD!

1:36 p.m.

Oh Gott in Himmel! What is the point of going out with a Sex God if no one knows? Not even me at this rate.

4:00 p.m.

I wonder if I should phone him?

4:30 p.m.

I was even nearly pleased to see James and Grandad arrive with Uncle Eddie.

For about a second. Uncle Eddie had hired a van specially. He probably had to get a special kind that accommodates the very bald.

James’s voice has gone all weird. It’s sort of deep and then all squeaky. How normal is that? He is by no means a lurker-free zone either, I notice. Tout au contraire.

Dad said, “Cum awa’ in!” in a really crap Scottish accent and Grandad started to jig around “dancing”, and had to be helped into the cottage.

Uncle Eddie said, “Don’t panic, don’t panic! I’ve brought supplies of large Union Jack underpants!” What in the name of Louis the Fourteenth is he on about?

7:00 p.m.

Forced to go and sit in the pub with the elderly loons (and James) to “celebrate”. Yippeee! This is the life … (not). I asked Vati for a Tia Maria on the rocks with just a hint of Crème de Menthe but he pretended not to hear me. Typico. On the way home M and D and Uncle Eddie and Grandad were all linked up, singing “Donald, Where’s Your Trousers?” whilst James and I skulked along behind them. It was incredibly dark, no street lamps or anything. As we tramped along the grown-ups were laughing and crashing about (and in Grandad’s case farting) when this awful thing happened.

I felt something touch my basooma. I thought it was the Old Man of the Loch and I leaped back like a leaping banana. James spoke from out of the darkness, “Oh … er … sorry, was that you, Gee? I was just like … you know … feeling my way.”

Dream on, saddo. Feeling your way? Feeling your way to where? My other basooma?

This was disgusting. He was my crap cousin. Molesting my nunga-nungas. Nunga-nunga molester.

11:00 p.m.

Despite the incredible crapness of my life my nunga-nungas have made me laugh.

Nunga-nungas is what Ellen’s brother and his mates call girls’ basoomas. He says it is because if you pull out a girl’s breast and let it go … it goes nunga-nunga-nunga. He is obviously a touch on the mental side.

11:10 p.m.

But quite funny though.

11:20 p.m.

I wonder what size nunga-nunga-holder Mum wears?

11:30 p.m.

Perhaps I could make some nunga-nunga protectors by electrifying my sports bra with a battery type thing. That would give Cousin James the perv a shock if he attempted to “accidentally” molest my nungas.

11:35 p.m.

But it would also give me a shock, which is la mouche in the ointment.

Midnight

Angus has rediscovered his Scottish roots. Apparently they are in the middle of some bog because he had bits of horrible slimy stuff in his whiskers. He came into my bed purring and all damp and muddy. Still, he soon got nice and dry by wiping himself on my T-shirt.

God he smells disgusting. I think he’s been rolling in fox poo again. He thinks it’s like a sort of really attractive aftershave.

12:10 a.m.

It isn’t.

Monday October 25th 10:00 a.m.

Why oh why oh why has the SG not called me? Oh hang on, I know why he hasn’t, it’s because we haven’t got a phone in our fantastic cottage. I couldn’t believe it when we first arrived. I said to Mutti, “There has been some mistake. I’m afraid we must go back to civilisation immediately. I’ll drive.”

Dad raved on about “tranquillity” and the simple life.

I said, “Vati, you can be as simple as you like, but I want to talk to my mates.”

He grumbled on about my constant demands. As I pointed out to him, if he would buy me a mobile phone like everyone else on the planet I wouldn’t have to bother speaking to him at all.

2:00 p.m.

I can’t stand much more of this. The whole “family” has gone on a forced march. Well, Vati called it “a little walk in the woods”. But I know about his little walks. I know exactly what will happen: the Loonleader will be all bossy and “interested” in stuff like cuckoo spit. Then he’ll lose the way and argue with Grandad about the right way home. Grandad will fall over something and Uncle Eddie will be attacked by sheep. And that will only be the high spots.

I pretended I had a headache.

Vati said to me as I lay in my pretend bed of pain, “You’ve probably given yourself eyestrain looking in that bloody mirror all the time.”

I said, “If I develop a brain tumour you will be the first person I will come to because of your great kindness and sympathosity.”

4:20 p.m.

On the edge of sheer desperadoes. Decided to go for a walk.

Arrow tried to round me up as I came out of the gate. So to make him happy I let him herd me into a hedge for a bit. Then I set off down the lane. Ho hum. Birds singing, ferrets ferreting, probably. Jock McThicks McThicking around. Good grief. Then I came across a phone box.

Uh-oh. Temptation.

The phone box was saying to me, “Come in and use me, you know you want to.”

I have been practising maturiosity by not phoning the Sex God. It seems like a lifetime since he last snogged me. My lips have definitely got snog withdrawal. I found myself trying out kissing techniques on scuba-diving Barbie last night. Which is truly sad. I wonder if Rosie is right? Her theory is that if you snog a lot your lips sort of swell up and get bigger. It makes you wonder what in the name of Slim’s pantaloons Mark the Big Gob has been doing.

I must pass by the phone box with complete determinosity.

4:30 p.m.

Brring brring.

Please don’t let it be Robbie’s mum or dad. Please don’t let me have to be normal.

Oh thank goodness, SG answered the phone. Jellyknickers all round.

He said, “Hello,” in a Sex Goddy sort of a way.

Wow!!

Then he said, “Hello,” again.

Wow.

Then I realised that normally when you phone someone you are supposed to say something. And that something is NOT “I love you, I love you!” or “gyunghf”. So I took the bullet by the horns and said, “Hi, Robbie … it’s me. Georgia.”

(Very good, I had even said the right name!!!)

He sounded like he was really pleased to hear from me. “Gee! How are you, gorgeous!”

Gorgeous, he, me called, gorgeous. Me, I.

Georgia to brain, Georgia to brain! Shut up shut up shut up!!!!!

He said again, “Gee, are you there? Are you having a good time?”

“Fantastic, if you like being bored beyond the Valley of Boredom and into the Universe of the Very Dull.”

He laughed. (Hurrah!!!)

Oh, it was so dreamy to talk to him. I told him about everything. Well, apart from being molested by my cousin. He says some talent scouts are coming to see the next Stiff Dylans gig!!

Then he said, “Look Gee, I’m really sorry but I have to go. I could talk to you all day but I have to go off to a rehearsal and I’m late now.”

Ho hum. Well I suppose this is the price I must pay for being the GIRLFRIEND OF A SEX GOD POPSTAR!!! YESSS!!

He said, in his groovy voice full of gorgeosity, “See you later. I’d like to snog you to within an inch of your life. I’ll phone you when you get back.”

OOOhhhhhh.

After he had put the phone down I stroked my T-shirt with the receiver, pretending it was him. But then I saw that one of the Jock McTavishes was waiting outside the telephone box, looking at me, so I had to pretend I was cleaning the receiver.

4:45 p.m.

Phew. To make Jock go away I have said I will go to Alldays later. Jock seemed to believe me because he said, “Awa’ the noo hoots akimbo,” or something. After he had done wheelies(!) and gone off on his bike I popped back into the telephone box to phone Jas.

“Jas, it’s me!!!! God it’s good to speak to you! What’s been happening???”

“Er … well … I got this fab new foundation; it’s got gold bits in it that make you …”

“Jas, no, no, no, be quiet, I have to tell you something.”

I told her about talking to the Sex God. “It was SO dreamy. He is going to be a HUGE popstar and then I will be richey rich rich. But still your best pal, Jas.”

She said, “Tom is thinking about doing Environmental Studies.”

I nearly said “Who cares?” but you have to be careful with Jas because she can turn nasty if she thinks you are not interested in her. I tried to think of something to say.

“Oh … er … yeah … the environment … er, that’s great, erm, there’s a lot of … er … environment here – in fact, that is all there is.”

Then I told her about the James fandango.

She said, “Erlack-a-pongoes. Did you encourage him? Maybe you gave out the wrong signals.”

“Jas, I was not in the nuddy-pants.”

“Well I’m just saying, he must have thought he could rest his hand on your basooma. Why is that? He has never rested his hand on my basoomas, for instance.”

“What are you rambling on about?”

“I’m just saying, this is not the first time this has happened to you, is it? There was Mark the Big Gob—”

“Yeah but—”

“You say it just happened. That just out of the blue he put his hand on your basooma. No one else was there so we will never really know for sure.”

“I didn’t … it was—”

“Perhaps James has heard about your reputation. Perhaps he thinks it’s all right to fondle your basoomas.”

I hate Jas. I slammed the phone down. I will never be talking to her again. I don’t forget things. Once my mind is made up that is it. The friendship is finito. She has made a mockery of a sham of my nunga-nungas. I would rather eat one of Libby’s night-time nappies than talk to Jas again.

She is an ex-best mate. Dead to me. Deaddy dead dead. For ever.

Phone box 5 mins later 4:55 p.m.

Phoned Jas. “Jas, are you suggesting I am an easy fondleree?”

“I don’t know. I might be.”

“What do you mean, you might be?”

“Well, I might be … but I don’t know what a fondleree is.”

It is like talking to the very very backward. I explained to her as patiently as I could, “Well, it’s like dumping. If you dump someone you are the dumper. And they are the dumpee.”

“What has that got to do with fondling?”

“Jas, concentrate. The verb is ‘to fondle’: I fondle, you fondle, he, she, it fondles, etc. But I am the recipient of the fondle so that makes me the fondleree.”

She wasn’t really concentrating, though, she was in a dreamworld of her own. She was probably looking at herself in the mirror in their hall … imagining she is Claudia Schiffer … Just because some absolute prat told her she looked a bit like Claudia. Yeah … Claudia with a stupid fringe.

Walked back to Cottage Crap.

My room
6:00 p.m.

Brilliant. Miles away from civilisation and my so-called mate says I am an easy fondleree … Still, she is mad as a badger, everyone knows that. I went into the kitchen for a glass of soda and James came in behind me. He said, “I’ll get a glass for you, Georgia.” Then he sort of pressed himself into me and pretended he was reaching up for a cup from the cupboard.

Good grief. He’s Stalker Cousin.

You would think that Mutti and Vati would notice but all they do is enjoy themselves and giggle.

9:00 p.m.

Sitting around in the tartan lounge in Cottage Crap. Sitting as far away as possible from James just in case he looms around me. Mutti and Vati and Grandad and Uncle Eddie are actually playing Snap. James is pretending to be reading his stupid boy comic but I bet he is secretly looking at my nunga-nungas. My breasts are making me a mockery of a sham. They are like two sticky-out beacons attracting all the sadsacks in the universe.

11:00 p.m.

Mutti came into my bedroom to get Libby out of my wardrobe. She’s made a sort of nest in there which she says is a “wee-wee house” – I think she means treehouse.

Over the shouting and biting I said to Mutti, “Do you think you could ask Dad if you and he could club together to let me have some money for breast reduction surgery?”

It took her about a year to stop laughing.

It’s pointless asking for money. I can’t get a fiver out of Dad for some decent lip gloss. He would never give me the money. Even if my breasts were so big that I had to have two servants called Carlos and Juan to carry them around for me.

Tuesday October 26th 10:00 a.m.

The postman came this morning. He didn’t have any post; he just said, “Good morning to you. Welcome to Scotland.” He was quite groovy-looking.

10:15 a.m.

Oh, Blimey O’Reilley’s pantaloons, I think I have got general snoggosity syndrome.

8:00 p.m.

James followed me around all day, waiting for an opportunity to “accidentally” touch me. I have tried hanging around with Mutti and Vati but it is too sad.

Oh, Robbie, where are you now? Rescue me from the Valley of the Loons.

9:00 p.m.

How soon can I get them to set off for home tomorrow? If we set off at dawn we could be back in Normal Land by about four p.m.

9:30 p.m.

I wonder if the Ace Gang might arrange a surprise welcome home party for me? It’s half term now so I am no longer an ostracised leper on my own. So ha-di-ha-ha. She who laughs the last laughs, erm, a lot. Slim thought she was banning me for a week but she was banning me for two weeks!!!

10:00 p.m.

In “my” bed, with usual crowd. Libby and the entire contents of her travelling toybox: scuba-diving Barbie, one-eyed Teddy, Pantalitzer, Panda the Punk (Libby shaved his head). The only difference is that to celebrate our holiday in Tartan-a-gogo Libby has replaced Charlie Horse with Jimmy. Jimmy is a haggis with a scarf on. Don’t even ask. Libby made him this afternoon and she “lobes” him.

I am sleeping in a bed with a stuffed sheep’s stomach. With a scarf on.

Wednesday October 27th 6:00 a.m.

Up and packed. I tried to get Mutti and Vati to get up and make an early start but when I went into their bedroom Vati threw his slipper at me.

9:00 a.m.

At last! Escape!!!! Soon I will be back in the arms of my Sex God. At last, at last. Thank the Lord!!! I love you, Jesus, really really I do. Uncle Eddie, James and Grandad drove off in the Loonmobile. Uncle Eddie was wearing his souvenir bagpipe hat but I didn’t care. They were goney gone gone. Hurrah hurrah!!! With a bit of luck I can avoid them for the rest of my life. Arrow looked all mournfully at Angus when we left. He will miss his furry partner in crime. Angus and Arrow, Los Dos Amigos Bonkeros. Angus didn’t even look back; he just shot into the car and started wrestling with the car rug.

11:00 a.m.

Meanwhile in my fabulous life, another eighty-five years of my parents’ company in the car home.

Libby has insisted on bringing Jimmy the haggis home with us.

1:00 p.m.

Oh good grief. Angus ate half of Jimmy when Libby had to be taken to the piddly-diddly department at the service station.

She went balIisticisimus when she found out. She hit Angus over the head with scuba-diving Barbie. I don’t think he even noticed – well, he didn’t stop purring. I nodded off for the whole of the Midlands because Dad started telling us about his hopes for the future. When I woke up I noticed that both Libby and Angus were nibbling away at Jimmy.

They are disgusting.

I sooooo hope that Robbie rings when I get home.

6:00 p.m.

Home!!!! Oh thank you, thank you, Baby Jesus. I am SOOOO happy. I will never complain about my dear little home again.

6:15 p.m.

God it’s so boring here. Nothing is happening.

6:30 p.m.

No phone calls.

All my so-called mates forgot to remember that I am not dead. Don’t they even wonder where I have been for the last five days?

7:55 p.m.

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