‘Luuurve is a many trousered thing…’. Louise Rennison
With deep luuurve to all the usuals. I’m not saying I’m bored with
you, or that you are all usual because, believe me, you’re not.
Anyway, can we get on?
p.s. Thank you and blimey to Mr Urrrrr.
Contents
Title Page Hoooooorrrrn!! Snot Disco Dancing Return Of The Hornmeister, Quickly Followed By The Luuurve God The Piddly-Diddly Department Of Life Blah, Blah, Rubbish, Rubbish, Dribble, Dribble, Arse! Tent Head Groove On Groovsters! Georgia’s Glossary Also By Louise Rennison A Note from Georgia Copyright About the Publisher
Saturday July 16th
11:45 p.m.
Run away, run away!!!
Pant, pant, pant.
And double pants.
How in the name of God’s novelty undercrackers and matching toga have I ended up running along the streets at midnight?
I’ll tell you how. You wait ages for a Sex God to come along and then two come along at the same time. Where is the sense in that? If it is all part of Big G’s divine plan, all I can say is this, “Keep it simple, Big G, just give me one Sex God to eat at a time. And then if I am not full up I’ll have another one. Thank you. Regards to Baby Jesus.”
That is all I am saying. Inwardly, obviously, as I am nearly dead with trying to run in my high-heeled boots. I may have to lie down in a ditch in a minute.
11:50 p.m.
I had to stop and sit in the hedge by the park. I’m so out of breath. Hurrah, I am sitting in the dark like a panting vole in a skirt.
Three minutes later
Pant, pant. So this is a brief résumé of Vole Girl’s evening:
Scene 1
A top night at the Stiff Dylans gig, including an excellent Viking disco inferno dance* in honour of Rosie and Sven’s forthcoming (well, in eighteen years time) wedding and Sven arriving in furry shorts.
*Note to the dim – and I mean this in a loving way – the Viking disco inferno dance goes stamp, stamp to the left, left leg kick, kick, arm up, stab, stab to the left… and HOOOOOOORN!
As the pièce de whatsit, Masimo, lead singer and Luuurve God that I have been dreaming of and longing for, asked me to go outside, and said, “So, Signorína Georgia, I am free man for you. If you still want for us to go out?”
Keep in mind that he said it in his gorgey porgey Pizza-a-gogo land accent. Looking at me like I was a Sex Kitty.
Scene 2
Just as I was experiencing Swoon City and melty pantaloonies a car pulled up and Robbie the original Sex God got out.
The one who had left me and gone to Kiwi-a-gogo land. To snog marsupials and so on for the rest of his life.
Not.
Scene 3
After a moment of silence I said in a quick-thinking and casual way, “Oh, hello, Robbie, do excuse me, I have a train to catch and time and tide wait for no man.” And walked quickly off before breaking into a slight trot. Then a light gallop. Then I ended up in the hedge and that is where all this started.
In conclusion I would say that after queuing up at the cake shop of luuurve for ages I have accidentally bought two cakes.
And I am sitting in a bush.
11:56 p.m.
Oh, yet more marvellous, marvellous news, the Blunder Boys are lurking around in the park. Probably setting fire to themselves and practising being crap. Which they needn’t bother doing as they are top at it anyway.
They’ll sense I’m here in a minute and come looming out at me. The Blunder Boys have got radar for girls within half a mile.
Thirty seconds later
Mark Big Gob (who lives in my street and who I accidentally snogged once, and who has the largest lips known to humanity) larged out of the gloom and saw me panting in the hedge. He was looking at my nungas, which were heaving up and down. Stop heaving and retreat into your over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder, you stupid nungas!
Mark said, “I see you are all pleased to see me, girls.”
How repellant is he? I ignored him and got up with a dignity-at-all-times sort of attitude. As I was brushing past him, he said, “Steady darlin’, you nearly knocked me over.”
The rest of the trainee idiots had sidled up by then and they sniggered and choked on their fags. Still, on the bright side cigarettes stunt your growth, so with a bit of luck most of them will remain about three foot eight.
Mark Big Gob said, “I see you’ve got the Horn. Is it for me?”
Is he mad? Is he implying that I have got the Horn for him? I would rather plunge my head into a bucket of whelks than let him anywhere near me. I can’t believe that his hand once rested on my basooma. And that his enormous gob had squelched around my face. Erlack. If anything, he gave me the Anti-Horn.
Sadly, it was then I realised that in fact he was right, I did have the horn. Horns actually. I was still carrying my Viking bison horns that I had worn to rehearse Rosie’s wedding dance.
Still, what is so very unusual about that?
Five minutes later
Quite a lot, actually, when you think about it.
Which I won’t.
Oh double merde and ordure and poo.
12:15 a.m.
Got to my street. My tootsies are killing me. The light is still on in the front room. Oh noooo. That means the terminally insane (Mutti and Vati) are still up. I must avoid them at all costs. I can’t speak to them. Not now. Not any time if I have my way.