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The Complete Fab Confessions of Georgia Nicolson: Books 1-10
Louise Rennison
Uniquely funny teenage diaries of the irresistibly hilarious Georgia – available as a ten-book set for the very first time. Gadzooks!There are so many things very wrong with my life…• The boy I like hates me and prefers a wet weed with sticky-out ears.• My so-called ‘pet’, Angus, just spat at me.• My nose is gigantic. It must have grown overnight…• I’ve just inspected my legs. I look like I’ve got hairy trousers on.Georgia, 14 – on the verge of womanhood – desperately muddles her way through make-up disasters, rapidly expanding nunga-nungas, school (urgh), unsympathetic friends, highly embarrassing family (and pets) and, of course, BOYS.Meet the Ace Gang, the Sex God, the Italian Stallion (oo-er) and cheeky Dave the Laugh in the FAB CONFESSIONS OF GEORGIA NICOLSON.
THE COMPLETE FAB CONFESSIONS OF GEORGIA NICOLSON: BOOKS 1-10
Angus, Thongs and Full-Frontal Snogging
It’s Ok, I’m Wearing Really Big Knickers
Knocked Out by My Nunga-Nungas
Dancing in My Nuddy Pants
… And That’s When it Fell Off in My Hand
… Then he Ate My Boy Entrancers
Startled by His Furry Shorts
Luuurve is a Many Trousered Thing
Stop in the Name of Pants
Are These My Basoomas I See Before Me?
Louise Rennison
Contents
Title Page (#ua274d3ea-44a4-5da0-b06f-11dc734b6986)
Angus, Thongs and Full-Frontal Snogging (#ua5786273-f1e5-5b96-84fa-07be15732fe3)
It’s Ok, I’m Wearing Really Big Knickers (#uf9a7bca5-2862-5193-b4ab-992561b920a0)
Knocked Out by My Nunga-Nungas (#u82b05b42-e2f3-52aa-8f06-aa9b7d4314ff)
Dancing in My Nuddy Pants (#ufdd8c5af-3a5e-5b80-91b2-5a27274548c0)
… And That’s When it Fell Off in My Hand (#uad67a4b6-b486-5dba-bbce-bc7807c02798)
… Then he Ate My Boy Entrancers (#ubc83fb36-f0f6-5945-b352-f1777c2447af)
Startled by His Furry Shorts (#u426a77c9-b746-5309-b2ce-14442b44f204)
Luuurve is a Many Trousered Thing (#u7115a062-12e3-5137-82f9-60f89e0ab053)
Stop in the Name of Pants (#u8e7d5f2f-8b7c-503a-9791-62d2192dbcd9)
Are These My Basoomas I See Before Me? (#u1fa1c57d-143a-5e71-ad29-d2616531e3ef)
Copyright
About the Publisher (#u07ee98b1-7d64-5de1-93c2-5e455cdc8b4f)
To Mutti and Vati and my little sister, also to Angus. His huge furry outside may have gone to cat heaven, but the scar on my ankle lingers on. Also to Brenda and Jude and the fab gang at Piccadilly. And thanks to John Nicolson.
Contents
Title Page (#ucb202123-8a7e-53f3-b4e1-c6b1f8b02c36)
Dedication (#u1834dcf6-c311-5d6e-8929-99fa36efb41d)
La marche avec mystery
Operation sausage
Tainted love
A bit of rough
The Stiff Dylans gig
Exploding knickers
Jas must die
My dad has become Rolf Harris
The snogging report
I use it to keep my balls still
Pyjama party
The sex god has landed
Georgia’s Glossary (#ub8a6609f-7561-5c5a-bb95-068401062036)
(#ulink_58bc1521-8bc4-53bd-9d00-47aa3968ed17)
Sunday August 23rd
My Bedroom
Raining
10:00 a.m.
Dad had Uncle Eddie round so naturally they had to come and nose around and see what I was up to. If Uncle Eddie (who is bald as a coot – too coots, in fact) says to me one more time, “Should bald heads be buttered?” I may kill myself. He doesn’t seem to realise that I no longer wear romper-suits. I feel like yelling at him. “I am fourteen years old, Uncle Eddie! I am bursting with womanhood, I wear a bra! OK, it’s a bit on the loose side and does ride up round my neck if I run for the bus... but the womanly potential is there, you bald coot!”
Talking of breasts, I’m worried that I may end up like the rest of the women in my family, with just the one bust, like a sort of shelf affair. Mum can balance things on hers when her hands are full – at parties, and so on, she can have a sandwich and drink and save a snack for later by putting it on her shelf. It’s very unattractive. I would like a proper amount of breastiness but not go too far with it, like Melanie Griffiths, for instance. I got the most awful shock in the showers after hockey last term. Her bra looks like two shopping bags. I suspect she is a bit unbalanced hormonally. She certainly is when she tries to run for the ball. I thought she’d run right through the fence with the momentum of her “bosoomers” as Jas so amusingly calls them.
Still in my room
Still raining
Still Sunday
11:30 a.m.
I don’t see why I can’t have a lock on my bedroom door. I have no privacy: it’s like Noel’s House Party in my room. Every time I suggest anything around this place people start shaking their heads and tutting. It’s like living in a house full of chickens dressed in frocks and trousers. Or a house full of those nodding dogs, or a house full of... anyway... I can’t have a lock on my door is the short and short of it.
“Why not?” I asked Mum reasonably (catching her in one of the rare minutes when she’s not at Italian evening class or at another party).
“Because you might have an accident and we couldn’t get in,” she said.
“An accident like what?” I persisted.
“Well... you might faint,” she said.
Then Dad joined in, “You might set fire to your bed and be overcome with fumes.”
What is the matter with people? I know why they don’t want me to have a lock on my door, it’s because it would be a first sign of my path to adulthood and they can’t bear the idea of that because it would mean they might have to get on with their own lives and leave me alone.
Still Sunday
11:35 a.m.
There are six things very wrong with my life:
1. I have one of those under-the-skin spots that will never come to a head but lurk in a red way for the next two years.
2. It is on my nose.
3. I have a three-year-old sister who may have peed somewhere in my room.
4. In fourteen days the summer hols will be over and then it will be back to Stalag 14 and Oberführer Frau Simpson and her bunch of sadistic “teachers”.
5. I am very ugly and need to go into an ugly home.
6. I went to a party dressed as a stuffed olive.
11:40 a.m.
OK, that’s it. I’m turning over a new leaf. I found an article in Mum’s Cosmo about how to be happy if you are very unhappy (which I am). The article is called “Emotional confidence”. What you have to do is Recall... Experience... and HEAL. So you think of a painful incident and you remember all the ghastly detail of it... this is the Recall bit, then you experience the emotions and acknowledge them and then you JUST LET IT GO.
2:00 p.m.
Uncle Eddie has gone, thank the Lord. He actually asked me if I’d like to ride in the sidecar on his motorbike. Are all adults from Planet Xenon? What should I have said? “Yes, certainly, Uncle Eddie, I would like to go in your pre-war sidecar and with a bit of luck all of my friends will see me with some mad, bald bloke and that will be the end of my life. Thank you.”
4:00 p.m.
Jas came round. She said it took her ages to get out of her catsuit after the fancy dress party. I wasn’t very interested but I asked her why out of politeness.
She said, “Well, the boy behind the counter in the hire shop was really good-looking.”
“Yes, so?”
“Well, so I lied about my size – I got a size ten catsuit instead of twelve.”
She showed me the marks around her neck and waist: they are quite deep. I said, “Your head looks a bit swollen up.”
“No, that’s just Sunday.”
I told her about the Cosmo article and so we spent a few hours recalling the fancy dress party (i.e. the painful incident) and experiencing the emotions in order to heal them.
I blame Jas entirely. It may have been my idea to go as a stuffed olive but she didn’t stop me like a pal should do. In fact, she encouraged me. We made the stuffed olive costume out of chicken wire and green crêpe paper – that was for the “olive” bit. It had little shoulder straps to keep it up and I wore a green T-shirt and green tights underneath. It was the “stuffed” bit that Jas helped with mostly. As I recall, it was she that suggested I use Crazy Colour to dye my hair and head and face and neck red... like a sort of pimento. It was, I have to say, quite funny at the time. Well, when we were in my room. The difficulty came when I tried to get out of my room. I had to go down the stairs sideways.
When I did get to the door I had to go back and change my tights because my cat Angus had one of his “Call of the Wilds” episodes.
He really is completely bonkers. We got him when we went on holiday to Loch Lomond. On the last day I found him wandering around the garden of the guest house we were staying in. Tarry-a-Wee-While, it was called. That should give you some idea of what the holiday was like.
I should have guessed all was not entirely well in the cat department when I picked him up and he began savaging my cardigan. But he was such a lovely looking kitten, all tabby and long-haired, with huge yellow eyes. Even as a kitten he looked like a small dog. I begged and pleaded to take him home.
“He’ll die here, he has no mummy or daddy,” I said plaintively.
My dad said, “He’s probably eaten them.” Honestly, he can be callous. I worked on Mum and in the end I brought him home. The Scottish landlady did say she thought he was probably mixed breed, half domestic tabby and half Scottish wildcat. I remember thinking, Oh, that will be exotic. I didn’t realise that he would grow to the size of a small Labrador only mad. I used to drag him around on a lead but, as I explained to Mrs Next Door, he ate it.
Anyway, sometimes he hears the call of the Scottish highlands. So, as I was passing by as a stuffed olive he leaped out from his concealed hiding-place behind the curtains (or his lair, as I suppose he imagined it in his cat brain) and attacked my tights or “prey”. I couldn’t break his hold by banging his head because he was darting from side to side. In the end I managed to reach the outdoor brush by the door and beat him off with it.
Then I couldn’t get in Dad’s Volvo. Dad said, “Why don’t you take off the olive bit and we’ll stick it in the boot.”
Honestly, what is the point? I said, “Dad, if you think I am sitting next to you in a green T-shirt and tights, you’re mad.”
He got all shirty like parents do as soon as you point out how stupid and useless they are. “Well, you’ll have to walk, then... I’ll drive along really slowly with Jas and you walk alongside.”
I couldn’t believe it. “If I have to walk, why don’t Jas and I both walk there and forget about the car?”
He got that stupid, tight-lipped look that dads get when they think they are being reasonable. “Because I want to be sure of where you are going. I don’t want you out wandering the streets at night.”
Unbelievable! I said, “What would I be doing walking the streets at night as a stuffed olive... gatecrashing cocktail parties?”
Jas smirked but Dad got all outraged parenty. “Don’t you speak to me like that, otherwise you won’t go out at all.”
What is the point?
When we did eventually get to the party (me walking next to Dad’s Volvo driving at five miles an hour), I had a horrible time. Everyone laughed at first but then more or less ignored me. In a mood of defiant stuffed oliveness I did have a dance by myself but things kept crashing to the floor around me. The host asked me if I would sit down. I had a go at that but it was useless. In the end I was at the gate for about an hour before Dad arrived, and I did stick the olive bit in the boot. We didn’t speak on the way home.
