Then He Ate My Boy Entrancers: More Mad, Marvy Confessions of Georgia Nicolson

by Louise Rennison

It was vair vair amusing. Jas in the nuddy-pants and bison horns, reading a book on the ginormous bed. Me adjusting the TV in the bathroom in my bison horns and nuddy-pants. Packing suitcases, applying lippy, etc. Vair vair amusing indeed. I was nearly dead with laughing.

  Loreen and Jolene and Noelene and Gaylene and all the other lenes at the hotel actually cried when we left…honestly. They were hugging us and so on. Saying “Now, you all come back to us, soon as you can, missing you already.”

  Still, as I said to Jas, “They are only human.”

  Adiós amigos, as you say in Hamburger-a-gogo land. I love you all. But I must go, as I have a Luuurve God to find.

  bum bum bum, bum-oley bum bum, and good afternoon, officer

  sunday may 29th

  11:00 a.m.

  Circling over England. Blimey, it looks like toytown.

  heathrow airport

  Home again home again jiggity jig!

  Rain rain, lovely rain.

  Vati’s ludicrous van mate has come to pick us up.

  His van has a big sticker on it that says IF YOU ARE LOOKING FOR LOVE, HAVE A LOOK AT THE DRIVER’S HORN.

  Still, no one knows me at Heathrow.

  1:00 p.m.

  As we were trying to get all our stuff in the van, a policeman came to tell us to move along because we were blocking the road.

  I beamed at him. “Good morrow, Constable, and how are you on this fine English eve?”

  He looked at me as rain bounced off his helmet.

  “I’m as well as can be expected under the circumstances, madam.”

  “We’ve just come back from Hamburger-a-gogo land and the police over there have guns. Do you have a gun concealed about your person, Officer?”

  “I very often wish I did, madam. Can you pop into your van now so that we can sort out the twelve-mile tailback you are causing?”

  Mum said, “I honestly am doing my best, Sergeant, but my husband’s comedy cowboy hat is a bit difficult to fit in anywhere without…”

  I could see that the officer was on the point of shoving Mum and the hat in the back in a quite forceful way, when Libby piped up.

  “I know a song, Mr. Bobbyman.”

  Even I have to admit that Bibs can look like an ordinary charming child sometimes, and she had her fairy crown on and a pink dress, so you could be forgiven for the mistake.

  The officer sighed and bent down to her.

  “OK, just sing me a little verse before your mummy and daddy quickly get in the van and GO HOME.”

  You never know what toddlers will remember. Libby sang her botty song to the officer. But worse, much worse than that, she sang the American version.

  She put her hands on her hips and gave her all to the constable.

  “Bum-oley, bum-oley, fanny fanny bum bum.”

  I thought he was going to faint. He tried to stop her—God knows we all did—but on it went, even when Dad put her under his arm and shoved her in the back of the van.

  “Poo poo and bummy bum bum FANNY! Pat my little fanny!”

  3:30 p.m.

  Dropped Jazzy Spazzy off at her house. She said, “It will be weird not being together, won’t it? Call me as soon as you get home.”

  I very nearly hugged her. But then I remembered we are back in Stiff Upper Lip land and I don’t want any rumors of lesbianism to spread; you never knew who might be watching.

  On the way home to our house we sang “I Was Born Under a Wandering Star.” Vati is in a remarkably good mood. I can’t believe that looking at clown cars can cheer you up, but it has.

  Mum is still full of herself because all the men across “the pond” called her “ma’am.”

  Still, it was nice of them to take me and Jas to Hamburger-a-gogo, even if I didn’t manage to find the Luuurve God.

  Of course, the plus side is that now we are back, I don’t need to see anything of them. I will be out all night and all day with my boyfriend.

  If I’ve got a boyfriend.

  I don’t even know if he is back yet.

  Oh, hello.

  Welcome back to the rack of love.

  We arrived at our gate and unpacked all our luggage.

  The van man and Uncle Eddie drove off in a squeal of tires. Uncle Eddie, still wearing his comedy arrow through the head, yelled, “Head ’em up, ride ’em out, RAWHIIIIIIDE. Yeeehaaa!”

  I saw Mr. Next Door bob down underneath his window so that we couldn’t see him.

  I also noticed that the anti-cat fence has been taken down.

  He will be thrilled with our Prat outfits. I may take them round later when he thinks we have gone to bed.

  3:45 p.m.

  Home!!! Our lovely house, surprisingly not a burnt-out wreck.

  Happy days.

  I even found myself hugging Grandad.

  No sign of his girlfriend.

  in the loo

  Ermmm…wrong about there being no sign of Maisie.

  I am not being ungrateful, but why would anyone normal knit a toilet seat cover?

  in the kitchen

  Or knit covers for the door handles?

  No sign of the kittykats.

  Mum and Dad and Libby have taken Grandvati home, so it is just me in the same bat place.

  I am going to think about all my experiences and what I have learned on my great adventure about life, love and the universe.

  I am simply going to enjoy my own mind.

  In the peace and tranquility of my own room.

  The simple joy of being alone with just my own deep inner thoughts.

  in my bedroom

  Please tell me it is not true that I now am the proud owner of knitted slippers.

  4:00 p.m.

  Rang Jas.

  “Jas.”

  “Howdy.”

  “Howdy, how are you all doing?”

  “Just fine, and how are you all?”

  “Have you heard anything from anyone?”

  “There were about ten messages from Tom. He’s having a nice time and everything, but he really misses me, and oh, he mentioned—”

  “Jas, pleased though I am for your news about wombats and so on, what I want to know is have you heard anything, you know, from the gang or anything?”

  “Georgia, I have only been in the house for twenty minutes.”

  4:30 p.m.

  Phoned Rosie.

  Rosie’s mum answered the phone.

  I said, “Is Rosie in?”

  “I’m afraid not, dear, she has gone out to homework club.”

  Sven’s snogging emporium more like.

  Tried Jools.

  Out at homework club.

  Ditto Ellen and Mabs.

  Crikey. I hope they’ve not formed a lesbian coven.

  Hummmph.

  Back from a million years abroad and the ace gang can’t even be bothered to say “welcome home.”

  Back to Stalag 14 tomorrow.

  I feel a bit sheer desperadoes because nothing has changed. No one has got in touch, so I don’t know where Masimo is. Is he back? Perhaps he has decided to stay over in Hamburger-a-gogo.

  Oh merde.

  What am I going to do all night now?

  Even the kittykats are all out, no sign of them anywhere. Once again I have dropped anchor in Poo Bay.

  8:35 p.m.

  Went round to Mr. and Mrs. Next Door. I am sure they saw me coming up their drive and pretended to be out. I heard a muffled bark from inside the house.

  They are vair vair nervous people. Still, live and let die, I say, and I posted the Prat brothers’ Elvis outfits through the postbox.

  I am sure they will love them a lot.

  Really, I am too good for this world.

  Oscar, Mr. and Mrs. Across the Road’s prepubescent sex maniac son, was on perv duty on the wall. He looked across at me as I passed and said, “Cracking tits.”

  Oh lovely.

  9:00 p.m.

  You always hear people moaning on about jet lag, don’t you? “Oooh, I had to go straigh
t to bed, I didn’t feel right for three weeks.” Namby-pambies. It’s just another form of trave…zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

  monday may 30th

  7:30 a.m.

  What happened? Did someone creep into my room with a mallet? I feel appalling. No one could expect me to go to school.

  I’ll just snuggle down and…hang on a minute, how will I find out about Masimo if I don’t go out? I must be brave for my love.

  Still no sign of the kittykats as I dashed out.

  I know they have been around, though, because all the plants are just stumps.

  8:30 a.m.

  Met Jas. She looked like death warmed up. She said, “God, I’m tired. Are you?”

  I said, “Not many, Benny. Still, we can have an afternoon nap during German.”

  stalag 14

  When me and Jas got to the school gates the ace gang were waiting for us!!!

  We had a celebratory Klingon greeting and a quick burst of disco inferno. I felt quite emotional and came over all American. I hugged Rosie, I was so pleased to see her. She shoved me off and said, “Get off me, you appalling tart. And I mean that in a loving way.”

  Oh, it is so good to get back to normal.

  english

  So much to say, so little time.

  Miss Wilson kept interrupting our chat with her so-called love of Shakespeare. For goodness’ sake. Hers is not the love that dares not speak its name, hers is the love that bangs on and on about Billy. It’s all “What ho, my lord” and “Oh look, here comes MacBeth talking total bollocks.” On the plus side, she reminded us that the Foxwoods lads are coming to help us backstage (oo-er) when we rehearse MacUseless.

  behind the five’s court

  break time at last

  Rosie said, “So, what happened? Did you find Masimo?”

  I said, “Well, in the end I thought, you know, it was a bit like uncool to get in touch, so I—”

  Jas said, “So she phoned up all these complete strangers and made an idiot of herself instead.”

  Oh, thank you, Mrs. What a Great Pal NOT.

  Actually the gang were really nice about it. Jools said, “Well, he doesn’t know you tried to find him, so he can go on thinking you are full of glaciosity.”

  And Ellen, for once, said something quite sensible. “And you are quite brown.”

  Good point, actually.

  They wanted to hear everything about our trip, so we treated them to a quick chorus from Delilah’s song, “You Are a Drunk and an Unfit Mother,” and then told them all about Hamburger-a-gogo. You know—all about the different culture, and the chance to communicate with foreign people in their own language….

  Rosie said, “Let me get this right. You went to a place that was actually called Gaylords? And you rode a bucking bronco bar stool?”

  “Yes.”

  “With horns?”

  “Yes.”

  “Please say you took photos.”

  Jas said, “Better than that. We brought you all special replica horns to wear. Look.”

  She got the gift horns out of her rukky and the ace gang tried them on.

  They were thrilled, going “Oh, wow!!!” and “Fabarooney!!!”

  They looked magnifique.

  Jools said, “We should form a band called the Bisons.”

  11:15 a.m.

  The American disco inferno bison dance is born.

  It is: foot stomp, foot stomp, arse wiggle.

  Horns to the right, horns to the left, clap!

  Foot stomp, foot stomp, arse wiggle.

  Horns to the right, horns to the left and clap!

  Ellen said, “It’s like good and everything, but bisons don’t clap, do they?”

  Good grief. If it was up to people like Ellen, The Simpsons might never exist. She’d be saying “No one has blue hair two feet high” and other gibberish.

  I said, “That is where you are vair vair wrong, Ellen. Out on the range, when a traveling circus pulls in, the bison and the rest of the prairie folk go to see it, and the biggest clappers are always the bison.”

  Ellen looked even more confused than normal. I said, “Ellen, of course they don’t clap, but neither do they do disco dancing. It’s poetic whatsit, you steaming ninny.”

  As we loped into Stalag 14 past the prison warders Wet Lindsay and Hawkeye and their guard dog, Astonishingly Dim Monica, Mabs said, “So you don’t know where Masimo is?”

  I said, “No, I don’t know whether he is back or what is happening.”

  Wet Lindsay glared at me as we went in. I think she may have lost weight whilst I have been away. It’s not a good look unless you like looking like a vair vair thin twit.

  4:00 p.m.

  Bloody sacré bleu. We’ve had our bison horns confiscated! How are we supposed to form a band now?

  I was grumbling to Jas as we slouched off home.

  “Honestly, how petty is this place? I KNEW Wet Lindsay would try something. She’s got it in for me.”

  Jas said, “We should have taken them off after German.”

  “Where is the law that says ‘Bison horns shall not be worn in the school corridors’? Tell me that. Where is that law written down?”

  “You said that to Wet Lindsay.”

  “I know I did, Jas. I was there.”

  “She said, ‘Don’t be ridiculous, there is no law written down that says don’t poo in the corridors, but we know not to do it.’”

  “I know she did, and I think it is disgusting that we have to put up with that sort of language, poo talk, from supposed Head Girls.”

  “You said that to her as well.”

  “JAS, I KNOW I said that to her. I was there!!!”

  “That’s when she gave us all bad conduct marks.”

  “Yes, well, that is typico.”

  home

  I HATE Stalag 14. They treat us like bloody children. I wanted to practice my bison dance.

  6:00 p.m.

  Mabs phoned. “Gee, I bumped into Dom and he asked if we’re going to the Stiff Dylans gig next weekend.”

  “Wowzee wow, did you ask him about Masimo?”

  “Er, no, I thought that would be uncool.”

  “Good thinking, Batwoman.”

  It is good thinking, but annoying, too, as I don’t know anything about the Luuurrve God.

  On the brighter side, there is a Stiff Dylans gig, so if nothing else it means that Masimo will be back by then.

  wednesday june 1st

  8:15 a.m.

  Something really really freaky-deaky and weird happened. The doorbell rang and everyone had already gone out so I answered it and it was the postman. He said to me, “I have a registered parcel for Miss Georgia Nicolson. Is she in?”

  I said, “Oh, come on, you know I am in, you are talking to me.”

  He is a surly old bugger. He shouldn’t really have a job with the public, unless it is the public that lives in a prison. He said in his surly, officious way, “Well, you say that, miss, but have you any way of identifying yourself?”

  Now he was really getting on my nerves. I was just about to rip the parcel out of his hands when I had a vair vair amusing idea. I said, “A way of identifying myself? Yes, I believe I have. Would you just wait a moment?”

  I came back a minute later with a mirror, looked into it and said, “Yep, it is definitely me.”

  8:40 a.m.

  In the end he handed over the parcel.

  Hmmm, what was the postmark?

  Oh. New Zealand. If Tom has sent me a copy of “You are the only fish in my sea” or some photos of wombat snot, I may go mad.

  It wasn’t from Tom.

  It was a letter from the Sex God. Robbie.

  Blimey O’Reilly’s panties.

  I had a really queasy feeling as I began to read it.

  Dear Georgia,

  It’s been a while since I wrote; I suppose I thought that you would reply and then I would write again. But you didn’t, so…Tom arrived last week and it was brilliant to see him. We’ve been
out in the bush

  [I was thinking, oh, here we go back to hugging wombats and plucking guitars in the river…but no]

  talking about home, and talking about you actually.

  Tom told me about the boy entrancer episode and your excellent dancing to “Three Little Boys.” I thought I would never stop laughing. But it made me sad, too, because you like someone else and also because I’m quite a serious person and you are, in the nicest possible way, quite possibly clinically insane, and at the very least, a handful…. I can just hear you saying oo-er to that last bit.

  I don’t know why I am writing, really. I suppose I wanted you to have a picture of me out here, which I have enclosed, and I would really like one of you sometime.

  You are always in my heart and often in my dreams.

  Robbie

  xxxxx

  Oh God.

  The photo was of him in jeans and a T-shirt sitting by a river. He was looking straight into the camera with those deep blue-black eyes that I thought I would never ever be able to look at again. He was just so…oh, I don’t know.

  8:45 a.m.

  Got to Jas in a state of shock.

  She was rambling on as usual.

  “Come on, come on, we’ll be late. What is wrong with you? You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Anyway, Tom phoned last night, he said they found this amazing mushroom that was about two feet across; it’s apparently delicious if you—”

  “Jas, I…I—”

  “And he said, do you know what, the Maoris eat the larvae of the Hu Hu bug, they are big fat white grubs and they roast them and then they eat them. Tom went to a hangi out there, he has a new Maori friend, and his traditional Maori name is Brian and—”

  “Jas, look at this.”

  Jas took the letter as we jogged along, and even she was silent.

  She finished it and then looked at me.

  “Bugger my giddy aunt.”

  For once Jas is not exaggerating.

  I just don’t know what to think. I had given up on the Sex God. I really had.

  french

  I kept looking at his photo.

  He was bloody gorgey. And I mean that most sincerely.

  But what in the name of Jas’s commodious botty huggers was I supposed to do or think?

  He hadn’t said, “Come to Kiwi-a-gogo and be mine.”

  Nor had he said, “I am coming home to get you.”