On the Bright Side, I'm Now the Girlfriend of a Sex God
Page 1
Dedication
To my dear family: Mutti, Vati, Sophie, Libbs, Hons, Eduardo delfonso delgardo, John S. Apee, Francesbirginia and especially Kimbo. Thank you all for not killing me yet. Also dedicated to my mates: Salty Dog, Jools, Jeddbox, Badger, Elton, Jimjams, Jenks, Phil, Bobbins, Lozzer, the Mogul, Fanny, Dear Geff, Mrs. H., Porky, Morgan, Alan D., Liz G., Tony G., Psychic Sue, Roge the Dodge and Barbara D. and the Ace Crew from school, Kim and Cock of the North xxxxxxAn especial thank you to John, the Pope. Where would I have been without your wise advice—“Stop making such a fuss and just get on with it, you silly girl!”?
P.S. And two hurrahs and a fabbity fab fab to Alix and the glorious HarperCollins gang. I love you all . . . honestly.
Contents
Dedication
A Note from Georgia
july
august
september
october
Georgia’s Glossary
Excerpt from Knocked Out by My Nunga-Nungas
About the Author
Praise for The Confessions of Georgia Nicolson
By Louise Rennison
Back Ads
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
A Note from Georgia
Hello, my little American chums! Since Angus, Thongs + FFS, I have been to visit your country. I liked it a lot, but I’ll just say this—grits. What were you thinking of? I suppose you might say Beefeaters in reply. And I am in cahoots with you there—what the Tower of London guards have got to do with eating beef beats me. But as I have said many, many times, much of life is a mystery to me. Like my grandad’s gigantic shorts, for instance. Or parents.
I hope you aime the next bit of my diary as much as you did Angus. As usual I have had to do a bit of a glossary for the slightly dim among you. I must say I am surprised that you don’t know that in England fag can mean “cigarette” as well as “homosexual.” Hence lighting a fag is not the cruel practice you might think.
Anyway, I’m exhausted now, so I must be going. I have a very busy schedule of . . . er . . . stuff to do. Good-bye, my tiny friends. Or as you say over there, Adios, smallus amigos.
Love,
PS. Cahoots means “in agreement.” If I have to explain everything we’ll be here all day, and I really need to go to the piddly diddly department.
P.P.S You don’t know what the piddly diddly department is either, do you? Good Lord.
P.P.P.S. I love you all. Honestly.
july
the sex god has landed . . .
sunday july 16th
my room
6:00 p.m.
Staring out of my bedroom window at other people having a nice life.
Who would have thought things could be so unbelievably pooey? I’m only fourteen and my life is over because of the selfishosity of—so-called—grown-ups. I said to Mum, “You are ruining my life. Just because yours is practically over there is no reason to take it out on me.”
But as usual when I say something sensible and meaningful she just tutted and adjusted her bra like a Russian roulette player. (Or do I mean disco thrower? I don’t know and, what’s more, I don’t care.)
If I counted up the number of times I’ve been tutted at, I could open a tutting shop. It’s just not fair. . . . How can my parents take me away from my mates and make me go to New Zealand? Who goes to New Zealand?
In the end, when I pointed out how utterly useless as a mum she was, she lost her rag and SHOUTED at me.
“Go to your room right now!”
I said, “All right, I’ll go to my ROOM!! I WILL go to my room!! And do you know what I’ll be doing in my room? No you don’t, so I’ll tell you! I’ll be just BEING in my room. That’s all. Because there is nothing else to do!!!!!!”
Then I just left her there. To think about what she has done.
Unfortunately it means that I am in my bed and it is only six o’clock.
7:00 p.m.
On the bright side, I am now the girlfriend of a Sex God.
7:15 p.m.
On the dark side, the Sex God doesn’t know his new girlfriend is going to be forced to go to the other (useless) side of the universe in a week’s time.
Oh Robbie, where are you now? Well, I know where you are now actually, but is this any time to go away unexpectedly on a footie trip?
7:18 p.m.
I can’t believe that after all the time it has taken to trap the SG, all the makeup I have had to buy, the trailing about, popping up unexpectedly when he was out anywhere . . . all that planning gone to waste. I finally get him to snog me (number six) and he says, “Let’s see each other but keep it quiet for a bit.” And at that moment, with classic poo timing, Mutti says, “We’re off to New Zealand next week.”
My eyes are all swollen up like mice eyes from crying. Even my nose is swollen. It’s not small at the best of times, but now it looks like I’ve got three cheeks. Marvelous. Thank you, God.
9:00 p.m.
I’ll never get over this.
9:10 p.m.
Time goes very slowly when you are suicidal.
9:15 p.m.
I put sunglasses on to hide my tiny mincers. They are new ones that Mum bought me in a pathetic attempt to interest me in going to Kiwi-a-gogo land. They looked quite cool, actually. I looked a bit like one of those French actresses who smoke Gauloises and cry a lot in between snogging Gerard Depardieu. I tried a husky French accent in the mirror.
“And zen when I was, how you say? une teenager, mes parents, mes très très horriblement parents, take me to Nouvelle Zelande. Ahh merde!”
At which point I heard Mum coming up the stairs and had to leap into bed. She popped her head round the door and said, “Georgie . . . are you asleep?”
I didn’t say anything. That would teach her.
As she left she said, “I wouldn’t sleep in the sunglasses if I were you; they might get embedded in your head.”
What kind of parenting was that? Mum’s medical knowledge was about as good as Dad’s DIY. And we had all seen his idea of a shed. Before it fell down on Uncle Eddie.
Eventually I was drifting off into a tragic sleep when I heard shouting coming from next door’s garden. I looked out of my window and saw the lights on in Mr. and Mrs. Next Door’s greenhouse. They were banging and shouting and throwing things about. Is this really the time for noisy gardening? They have no consideration for those who might want to sleep because they have tragedy in their life.
mucho excitemondo
police raid
12:10 a.m.
When the doorbell rang I shot out of bed and looked down the stairs. Mum had opened the door wearing a nightdress that you could quite easily see through. Even if you didn’t want to. Which I certainly didn’t. There was a policeman standing at the door, holding a sack up in front of him at arm’s length and his trousers were shredded round the ankles.
“Is this your bloody cat?” he inquired, not very politely for a public servant.
Mum said, “Well, I . . . er.”
I ran down the stairs and went to the door.
“Good evening, constable. This cat, is it about the size of a small Labrador?”
He said, “Yes.”
I nodded encouragingly and went on, “And has it got tabby fur and a bit of its ear missing?”
PC Plod said, “Er . . . yes.”
And I said, “No, it’s not him then; sorry.”
Which I thought was very funny. The policeman didn’t.
“This is a serious business, young lady.”
Mum was doing her tutting thing again,
and combining it with head shaking and basooma adjusting. I thought the policeman might be distracted by her and say, “Go and put some clothes on, madam,” but he didn’t; he just kept going on at me.
“This thing has had your neighbors penned up in their greenhouse for an hour. They managed to dash into the house eventually but then it rounded up their poodles.”
“Yes, he does that. He is half Scottish wildcat. He hears the call of the wilds sometimes and then he—”
“You should keep better control of it.”
He went moaning on in a policemany way until I said, as patiently as I could, “Look, I’m being made to go to Whangamata by my parents. It is at the other, more useless, side of the universe. It is in New Zealand. Have you seen Neighbours? Is there nothing you can do for me?”
My mum gave me her worst look and said, “Don’t start, Georgia; I’m not in the mood.”
The policeman didn’t seem in the mood either. He said, “This is a serious warning. You keep this thing under control. Otherwise we will be forced to take sterner measures.”
I didn’t say anything as I took the wiggling sack; I just looked ironically at his chewed trousers.
As soon as he left, Mum went berserk about Angus. She said, “He’ll have to go.”
I said, “Oh yes, perfect, just take everything that I love and destroy it. Just think of your own self and make me go halfway round the universe and lose the only boy I love. You can’t just leave Sex Gods, you know, they have to be kept under constant surveillance and . . .”
She had gone into her bedroom.
Angus strolled out of the bag and strutted around the kitchen looking for a snack. He was purring like two tanks. Libby wandered in all sleepy. Her nighttime nappy was bulging round her knees. The last thing I needed was a poo explosion at this time of night so I said, “Go tell Mummy about your pooey nap-naps, Libby.”
But she just said, “Shhh, bad boy,” and went over to Angus. She kissed him on the nose and then sucked it before she dragged him off to bed.
I don’t know why he lets her do anything she likes with him. He almost had my hand off the other day when I tried to take his plate away and he hadn’t quite finished.
monday july 17th
11:00 a.m.
I am feeling sheer desperadoes. It’s a day and a half now since I snogged the Sex God. I think I have snog withdrawal. My lips keep puckering up.
I HAVE to find a way of not going to Kiwi-a-gogo land. I went on hungerstrike this morning. Well, apart from a Jammy Dodger.
2:00 p.m.
Phone rang.
Mum yelled up at me, “Gee, will you get that, love? I’m in the bath.”
I pretended not to hear.
Dragged myself up from my bed of pain and went all the way downstairs and picked up the phone.
I said, “Hello, Heartbreak Hotel here.” All I could hear was crackle, crackle, surf, swish, swish. So I shouted, “HELLO, HELLO, HELLO!!!!”
A faraway voice said, “Bloody hell!”
It was my father, or Vati as I call him. Phoning from New Zealand. He was, as usual, in a bad mood.
“Why did you shout down the phone? My ears are all ringing now.”
I said, reasonably enough, “Because you didn’t say anything.”
“I did; I said hello.”
“Well, I didn’t hear you.”
“Well, you can’t have been listening properly.”
“How can I not listen properly when I am answering the phone?”
“I don’t know, but if anyone can manage it, you can.”
I put the phone down because he can grumble on like that for centuries if you let him. I shouted, “Mutti, there is a man on the phone. He claims to be my dear vati but I don’t think he is because he was quite surly with me.”
Mum came out of the bathroom with her hair all wet and dripping and in just a bra and pants. She really has got the most gigantic basoomas. I’m surprised she doesn’t topple over.
I said, “I am at a very impressionable age, you know.”
She gave me her worst look—again—and grabbed the phone. As I went through the door I could hear her saying, “Hello, darling. What? I know. Oh I know. You needn’t tell me that . . . I have her all the time. It’s a nightmare.”
That’s nice talk, isn’t it?
As I point out to anyone who will listen (i.e., no one), I didn’t ask to be born. I am only here because she and Vati . . . urgh . . . anyway, I won’t go down that road.
in my room
2:10 p.m.
I could hear her rambling on to Dad, going, “Hmmm—well I know, Bob . . . I know . . . Uh-huh . . . I KNOW . . . I know. Yes . . . I know . . .”
In the name of pantyhose, what are grown-ups like? I shouted down to her, “Break the news to him gently that I’m definitely not in a trillion years coming.”
He must have heard me because even upstairs I could hear muffled shouting from down the other end of the phone. It’s the kind of thing that will cost me hundreds of pounds in therapy fees in later life. (Should I have a life, which I don’t.)
2:30 p.m.
Playing sad songs in my bedroom, still in my jimjams.
Mutti came into my room and said, “Can I come in?”
I said, “No.”
She came anyway and sat on the edge of my bed and put her hand on my foot. I said, “Owww!!!”
She said, “Look, love, I know this is all a bit complicated, especially at your age, but this is a really big opportunity for us. Your dad thinks he has a real chance to make something of himself over in Whangamata.”
I said, “What’s wrong with the way he is now? Quite a few people like fat blokes with ridiculous mustaches. You do.”
She came on all parenty then. “Georgia, don’t think that rudeness is funny because it isn’t.”
“It can be.”
“No it isn’t.”
“Well you laughed when Libby called Mr. Next Door ‘nice tosser.’”
“Libby is only three and she thinks that tosser is like Bill or Dad or something.” Then she tried again. “Can’t you see this trip as an exciting adventure?”
“What, like when you are on your way to school and then suddenly you get run over by a bus and have to go to hospital or something?”
“Yes, like when . . . NO! Come on, Georgie, try to be a pal, just for me.”
I didn’t say anything.
“You know that your dad can’t get a job here. What else is he supposed to do? He’s only trying to look after us all.”
After a bit she sighed and went out.
Life is très merde and double bum. Why doesn’t Mutti understand I can’t leave now? She can be ludicrously dim. I certainly didn’t get my intelligence from her. Sadly I did get the orangutan eyebrow gene. She has to do a lot of plucking to keep her eyebrows apart and she has selfishly passed it on to me. Since I shaved mine off by mistake last term they seem to have gone even more haywire and akimbo. The shaving has encouraged them to grow about a meter a week. If I left them alone I’d be blind by October. Jas has got ordinary eyebrows; why can’t I?
Also, while I am on the subject, I think I have inherited her breast genes. My basoomas are definitely growing. I am very worried that I may end up with huge breasts like hers. Everyone notices hers.
Once, when we were on the ferry to France, Dad said to Mum, “Don’t stand too near to the edge, Connie; otherwise your chest might be declared a danger to shipping.”
5:00 p.m.
I’ve just had a flash of whatsit!! It’s so obvious, I am indeed a genius! Simple pimple. I’ll just tell Mum that I’ll stay behind and . . . LOOK AFTER THE HOUSE!! The house can’t just be left empty for months because . . . er . . . squatters might come in and take it over. Anarchists who will paint everything black, including, probably, Mr. and Mrs. Next Door’s poodles. They’ll be begging for Angus to come back.
Excellent, brilliant fabulosa idea!! Mum will definitely see the sense of it.
I’ll
promise to be really mature and grown-up and responsible. I mainly want to stay in England because of the terrifically good education system. That is how I will sell it to Mutti.
“Mutti,” I will say. “This is a crucial time in my schooldays; I think I may be picked for the hockey team.”
Thank goodness I didn’t bother Mum with my school report from last term. I saved her the trouble of reading it by signing it myself.
5:05 p.m.
You would think that Hawkeye (headmistress, a.k.a. the Oberführer) could think of something more imaginative to write than, “Hopelessly childish attitude in class.” Just because she caught me doing my (excellent) impression of a lockjaw germ.
5:10 p.m.
I could have groovy parties that everyone would really want to come to. I’m going to make a list of all the people I will ask to the parties:
First—Sex Gods
Robbie . . . er, that’s it.
Second—the Fab Gang
Rosie, Jools, Ellen, and, I suppose, Jas if she pulls her pants up and makes a bit more effort with me. She has been a bit of a Slack Alice on the pal front since she’s got Tom.
Third—Close Casuals
Mabs, Sarah, Patty, Abbie, Phebes, Hattie, Bella . . . people I like for a laugh but wouldn’t necessarily lend my mum’s leather jacket to . . . then acquaintances and fanciable brothers.
5:23 p.m.
I tell you who I won’t be asking—Nauseating P. Green, that’s who. She is definitely banned. If I am made to sit next to her again next term I will definitely kill myself. Why is she so boring? She breeds hamsters, for heaven’s sake. What is the matter with her?
Who else will be on the exclusion list? Wet Lindsay, Robbie’s ex. It would be cruel to invite her and let her see Robbie and me being so happy and snogging in front of her. Also she would kill me and that would spoil the party atmosphere.
Who else? Oh, I know, Jackie and Alison, otherwise known as the Bummer Twins.