‘Stop in the name of pants!’

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‘Stop in the name of pants!’
Louise Rennison

Sound the Cosmic Horn for bestselling author Louise Rennison’s ninth book of confessions from crazy but loveable teenager Georgia Nicolson!Now that Georgia has finally won over gorgey Masimo, the Italian Stallion, her old friend and lip-nibbling partner Dave the Laugh has popped up again. Will Georgia go to Pizza-a-gogo land to visit dreamy Masimo? Or could her perfect boy be closer than she thinks. A Sex Kitty’s life is never simple…More hilarious confessions from our fave teen drama queen, Georgia Nicolson.

To my groovy and fabby and marvy family and mates (including my extended family at HarperCollins and Aitken Alexander).

‘Stop in the name of pants!’ – my latest work of geniosity – is dedicated especially to absent mates. Who have selfishly gone off to have fun. (Yes, you know who you are, Jeddbox and Elton.)

And also to absent mates who aren't really absent but lurking about somewhere pretending to be absent.

Contents

Title Page (#ufb20a3be-57f7-5f43-bcb5-36deb3eff905)Dedication (#udc7c1213-21ef-5f3b-9455-7e9fcd291bb0)A Note from Georgia (#u20edc347-c37f-5a01-b599-142cd8d6c9e9)Deep In The Forest Of Red-Bottomosity (#ua7c17ae2-690a-5492-a99f-f782633542e8)Once More Into The huffmobile (#u8bc76132-440f-5a93-a699-85a3c2178a5c)The Turbulent Washing Machine Of luuurve (#litres_trial_promo)Viking Hornpipes a-gogo!!! (#litres_trial_promo)Big Furry Paw Of fate (#litres_trial_promo)Why can’t Everyone Just Speak English? (#litres_trial_promo)Hark! What Owl Through Yonderwindow breaks? (#litres_trial_promo)Fisticuffs At dawn (#litres_trial_promo)Georgia’s Backing Dancer Portfolio (#litres_trial_promo)The Having-The-Hump Scale (#litres_trial_promo)Georgia’s Glossary (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

A Note from Georgia (#u52209833-7262-5f17-9903-f05347df338e)

Dear chums, chumettes and, er… chummly wummlies,

I write to you from my bed of pain. Once again I have exhausted myself with creativitosity writing ‘Stop in the Name of Pants!’ I am having to lie down with a cup of tea and a Curly Wurly. But that is how vair vair much I care about you all, my little pallies. I am a fool to myself, I know.

I ask only one thing in return and that is this. All of you must dance the Viking disco hornpipe extravaganza in classrooms and recreation facilities throughout the world. It doesn't matter if there are only two or three of you, just stand up proudly, get your horns and paddles out (oo-er) and dance!!!

Loads and loads of deep luuurve,

Georgia

xxx

p.s. Some of you don't know what the Viking disco hornpipe extravaganza is, do you?

p.p.s. Please don't tell me you didn't know that Vikings had discos.

p.p.p.s. Or that they shouted “Hooooorrrn!!!”

p.p.p.p.s. For those of you who haven't bothered to keep up with my diaries because you are just TOO BUSY, I have put instructions for the dance at the back near the glossary.

p.p.p.p.p.s. What have you been TOO BUSY doing?

p.p.p.p.p.p.s. I suppose you have been TOO BUSY to even know what the having-the-hump scale is as well.

p (x7). s. So I have included that at the back too. My so-called friend Jas (who has the hump pretty much all of the time) would be at number four with you by now (cold-shoulderosity work).

p (x8). s. I really luuurve you and do not mind that you are lazy minxes. That is your special charm. Pip pip. x

Deep in the forest of red-bottomosity (#u52209833-7262-5f17-9903-f05347df338e)

Saturday July 30th

Camping fiasco

11:30 p.m.

In my tent of shame.

Again.

The rest of my so-called pals are still out in the woods with the lads and I have crept back to the campsite aloney. I can hear snoring from Miss Wilson’s tent and also Herr Kamyer’s. I bet there will be a deputation of voles coming along shortly to complain that they can’t get any sleep because of the racket.

11:32 p.m.

I’m going to forget about everything and just go to sleep in my lovely sleeping bag. On the lovely soft ground. Not. It’s like sleeping on an ironing board. And I do know what that is like actually.

11:33 p.m.

I said coming on this school camping trip would be a fiasco of a sham and I was not wrong.

11:34 p.m.

I was right.

11:35 p.m.

I wonder what the others are doing?

11:36 p.m.

Anyway, the main thing is that I am now, officially, the girlfriend of a Luuurve God. And therefore I have put my red bottom behind me with a firm hand. I will never again be found wandering lonely as a clud into the cakeshop of luuurve. Or picking up some other éclair or tart or fondant fancy. Ditto Eccles cakes and Spotty dick or… shut up, brain.

11:37 p.m.

So, speaking as the official girlfriend of a Luuurve God who has put my red bottom behind me with a firm hand and who will never be wandering around looking for extra cakes, can someone tell me this…

How in the name of God’s pantyhose have I ended up snogging Dave the Laugh?

Also known as Dave the Tart.

Two minutes later

Oh goddy god god. And let us face facts. It wasn’t just a matey type snog. You know, not a – “It’s all right, mate, I’m just a mate accidentally snogging another mate” – sort of snog.

It was, frankly and to get to the point and not beat around the whatsit, a “phwoooaar” snogging situation.

Thirty seconds later

In fact, it was deffo number four and about to be number five.

Four seconds later

Anyway, shut up, brain, I must think. Now is not the time for a rambling trip to Ramble Land. Now is the time to put my foot down with a firm hand and stop snogging my not-boyfriend Dave the Laugh.

One minute later

I mean, I am practically married to Masimo the Luuurve God.

Ten seconds later

Well, give or take him actually asking me to marry him.

Five seconds later

And the fact that he has gone off to Pizza-a-gogo land on holiday and left me here in Merrie but dangerous England to fend for myself. Being made to go on stupid school camping trips with madmen (Miss Wilson and Herr Kamyer).

He has left me here, wandering around defenceless in the wilderness near Ramsgate, miles away from the nearest TopShop.

Three seconds later

And how can I help it if Dave the Laugh burrows into my tent? Because that is more or less what happened. That is le fact.

I was snuggling down under some bit of old raincoat (or sleeping bag, as Jas would say in her annoying oooh isn’t itfun outdoors sort of way). Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, I was snuggling down earlier tonight after an action-packed day of newt drawing when there was a tap-tap-tapping on the side of the tent. I thought it might have been an owl attack but it was Dave the Laugh and his Barmy Army (Tom, Declan, Sven and Edward) enticing us into their tent with promises of snacks and light entertainment.

Four seconds later

I blame Dave entirely for this. He and I are just mates and I have a boyfriend and he has a girlfriend and that is that, end of story. Not. Because then he comes to the countryside looking for me and waving his Horn about.

We were frolicking around in the lads’ tent, and Dave and me went off for an innocent walk in the woods. You know, like old matey-type mates do. But then I put my foot down a bloody badger hole or something and fell backwards into the river. Anyway, Dave was laughing like a loon for a bit before he reached down and put his arms around me to lift me up the riverbank and I said, “I think I may have broken my bottom.”

And he was really smiling and then he said, “Oh bugger it, it has to be done.”

And he snogged me.

When he stopped I pushed him backwards and looked at him. I was giving him my worst look.

He said, “What?”

I said, “You know what. Don’t just say ‘what’ like that.”

“Like what?”

I said, with enormous dignitosity, “Look, you enticed me with your shenanigans and, erm, puckering stuff.”

He said, “Erm, I think you will find that you agreed to come to my tent in the middle of the night to steal me from my girlfriend.”

I said, “It was you that snogged me.”

He looked at me and then he sighed. “Yeah, I know. I don’t feel very good about this. I’m not so… well, you’re used to it.”

My head nearly exploded. “I’m USED to what??”

He looked quite angry, which felt horrible. I’d seen him angry with me before and I didn’t usually like what he had to say. He went on: “You started all this sounding the Horn business ages ago, using me like a decoy duck and then going out with Robbie, then messing about with me and then going out with Masimo. And then telling me that you felt mixed up.”

I just looked at him. I felt a bit weepy actually. I might as well be wet at both ends.

My eyes filled with tears and I blinked them away and he just kept on looking at me. I couldn’t tell what he was thinking. Maybe he had had enough of me and he really hated me.

Then he just walked away and I was left alone. Alone to face the dark woods of my shamenosity and the tutting of Baby Jesus.

Ten seconds later

And I didn’t even know which way the tent was.

The trees looked scary and there was all sorts of snuffling going on. Maybe it was rogue pigs. Pigs who had had enough of the farm life, fed up with just bits of old potato peelings to eat and nowhere to poo in privacy. Maybe these ones wanted a change of menu and had made a bid for freedom by scaling the pigpen fence late at night. Or perhaps they were like the prisoners of war in that old film that Vati’s always rambling on about. The Great Escape. When the prisoners dug a tunnel under the prison fence.

That’s what these pigs must have done. Tunnelled out of the farm to freedom.

There was more snuffling.

Yes, but now they were hungry. Runaways from the farm just waiting to pounce on some food. If they found me, they would think of me like I thought of them. As some chops. Some chops in a skirt. In sopping knickers in my case. Out here in the Wild Woods the trotter was on the other foot.

I could climb up a tree.

Could they climb trees?

Could I climb trees?

Oh God, not death by pig!!!

The scuffling got nearer and then a little black thing scampered out of the undergrowth. It was a vole. How much noise can one stupid little mousey thing make? A LOT is the answer.

I should make friends with it really, because with my luck I will be kidnapped by voles and raised as one of their own. On the plus side, I would never have to face the shame of my red-bottomosity, just spend my years digging and licking my fur and being all aloney on my owney.

Like I am now.

Dave appeared out of the darkness in front of me. I ran over to him and burst into tears. He put his arm around me.

“OK, Kittykat, I’m sorry. Come on, it’s all right. Stop blubbing. Your nose will get all swollen up and you’ll collapse under the weight of your nungas and I can’t carry all of you home.”

It was nice in the forest now. I could see the moon through the trees. And my hiccups had almost gone. As we walked along he smiled at me and stroked my hair. Oooh, he was nice.

He said, “We haven’t done this luuurve business before, so we are bound to be crap at it. I do feel bad about Emma, but that is not your fault. That is my fault. We can put away our Horns and be matey-type mates again. Come on. Cheer up. Be nasty to me again, it’s more normal. I like you and I always have and I always will.”

I sniffed a bit and gave him a brave, quivering but attractive smile. I kept my nostrils fully under control so that they didn’t spread all over my face. As we walked along I could hear little squelching noises coming from the knicker department. With a bit of luck you couldn’t hear it above the noise of rustling voles (also known as my nearly adopted family).

Dave said, “Is that your pants squelching, Gee? You should change them when we get back. You don’t want to get pneumonia of the bum-oley on top of everything else.”

We walked back through the trees in the light of the jolly old big shiny yellow thing, and no, I do not mean an illuminated banana had just appeared, although that would have been good.

Then everything went horrible again; there were some hideous noises coming from the left of us…

“Tom, Tom. over here. I think I’ve found an owl dropping.”