7:00 p.m.
No call from the SG.
Mrs. Across the Road came over. Mutti had gone to her aerobics class. Surely it can’t be healthy for a woman of her size to hurl herself around a crowded room.
Mrs. Across the Road or “Call me Helen” is OK but a bit on the nimby girlie side. If you hit her with a hockey stick she would probably fall over. She’s fluffy and blond (not natural I think).
Vati was acting very peculiarly. He was being almost nice. And laughing a lot. And he got out of his chair. Hmmm. After she’d gone he must have said at least two hundred and fifty times, “She seems very nice, doesn’t she? Helen? Very…you know…feminine.”
Oh no.
Also he said that they are going to get a pedigree sort of boyfriend for Naomi. I said, “She won’t go out with anyone else. She loves Angus.”
Dad laughed. “You wait, there will be little Naomis running about the place before you can blink. Women are very fickle.”
I said with great dignity, “Vati, different women have different needs.”
He laughed in a most unpleasant way. “No, Georgia, all women have the same needs. They all need locking up.”
Oh, très, très grown-up, Portly One.
9:10 p.m.
Pre-gig nervosity. Not helped by the fact that when I went down on to the field to take Angus for his prison recreation period, Mark Big Gob threw a Thunderball firework at me. It exploded right in front of me. Angus didn’t even notice, but it nearly blew my lip gloss off. I wonder if Mark is quite normal in the brain department.
Oh God, I’ve just remembered it’s Bonfire Night tomorrow, an excuse for all the sad boys in the world to set fire to themselves with fireworks whilst showing off to their mates.
9:30 p.m.
Mum came in flushed as a loon. I said, “You are looking particularly feminine, Mum.” But Vati didn’t get it.
in my room
9:50 p.m.
Vati knocked on my door!!! I said, “I’m sorry, but sadly I’m not in.”
He ignored that (quelle surprise!) and came in and sat on the edge of my bed. Oh God, he wasn’t going to ask me if I was happy, was he? Or tell me about his “feelings.”
He was all embarrassed. “Look, Georgia, I know how you feel about Angus….”
“Yes. And?”
“It’s just not fair on him, being all cooped up in the house.”
“Well, that is not my idea.”
“I know, but he won’t leave that bloody Burmese alone.”
“He loves her and wants to share his life and dreams with her, maybe buy a little holiday home in Spain for those cold—”
“He’s a bloody cat!!!”
10:00 p.m.
Dad is going to take Angus to the vet’s tomorrow to have his trouser snake addendums taken away. He said, “I know you will think about this and be grown-up about it.”
I said, “Dad, as I have mentioned before, if you do this to Angus you are no longer my vati. You are an ex-vati.”
I mean it.
10:10 p.m.
Phone rang. Vati answered it, still all grumpy. I was in my room shaping the cuticles in my nails for Saturday. If I don’t start my beauty routine now I’ll never be ready in time. I heard Dad say, “I’ll see if she’s still up, it’s a bit late to call. Who shall I say it is?”
By that time I had thrown myself down the stairs and ripped the phone out of his hand. How could he be so deeply uncool?
I calmed my voice and said hello, in a sort of husky way. I don’t know why, but at least I wasn’t assuming a French accent. It was the Sex God!!! Yeahhh!!! I got jelloid knickers as soon as I heard his voice. It’s so yummy scrumboes….
He said, “Is that your dad?”
I said, “No, it’s just some madman who hangs around our house.”
Anyway, the short and long of it is that he’ll see me Saturday at the gig. He’s rehearsing so can’t see me before. C’est la vie, I think you will find, when you go out with le gorgeous popstar.
friday november 5th
bonfire night
4:00 p.m.
Some of the Foxwood lads sneaked into school today and put a banger down a loo and the loo exploded! You could hear the explosion even in the Science block. Slim was so furious that her chins practically waggled off.
6:30 p.m.
Vati has actually taken Angus to the vet. I cannot believe it. I am not speaking to him.
He said, “The vet said he would be fit as a flea on Monday, and we can pick him up then.”
Libby and me might go on dirty protest, like they do in prison. Not bother going to the loo—as a protest, just poo on the floor. Mind you, Libby is almost permanently on dirty protest so they might not notice.
8:00 p.m.
Mutti and the bloke that she sadly lives with have gone to the street bonfire. Mr. and Mrs. Next Door and Mr. and Mrs. Across the Street and the saddos from number twenty-four are all going to be there and then they are off to a party at number twenty-six. Can you imagine the fun that will be? Vati was wearing a leather cowboy hat. How tragic is that? Very, very tragic. Mutti asked me if I was coming. I just looked at Dad’s hat. Anyway, as I am not speaking to any of them I can’t reply. Dad leapt over the garden wall instead of going through the gate. Sadly he didn’t do himself a severe injury, and so he lives to embarrass me to death another day.
Angus normally loves Bonfire Night.
Does he know his bottom-sniffing days are over?
8:30 p.m.
Jools, Rosie and Jas came round. They’re all off to a bonfire party at Kate Matthews’s place. SG is rehearsing again, but we’re going to meet up later. The girls managed to find something to eat in the kitchen, which is a bloody miracle.
We sat munching and crunching our cornflake sarnies. Jools said, “I must get a boyfriend. I quite fancy that mate of Dave the Laugh’s. What is he called…is it Rollo? You know, the one that’s got a nice smile.”
He was quite cool-looking, now she mentioned it. I said, “I wonder why he hasn’t got a girlfriend. Maybe there is something wrong with him.”
Jools was all alert. “Like what?”
“Well, you know Spotty Norman who has acne of the head?”
“Rollo hasn’t got any spots.”
“He might have secret acne.”
“Secret acne?”
“Yeah, it only starts at the top of his arms.”
“Who gets acne like that?”
“Loads of people.”
“Like who?”
“Loads of people.”
Actually I noticed that Rosie had a bit of a lurker on her chin. She had been poking it about and I told her she shouldn’t do that. She should try my special lurker eradicator. You squirt perfume on the lurker. Really loads and loads and that dries it up. In theory. I used it on my nostril lurker and it worked a treat. Mind you, in the process I practically choked to death on Paloma (Mum’s).
my bedroom
10:00 p.m.
The sky is lit up with rockets from people’s firework parties. And I am alone in my room. I’m very nearly a hermitess. SG’s rehearsal has run on, so we can’t meet up. Still, I’m not going to mope round. I’m going to do something creative with poster paints.
11:30 p.m.
When Mutti and Vati came in I didn’t speak to them. I just unfurled the CAT MOLESTERS banner I had made.
saturday november 6th
11:00 a.m.
The cat molesters went off shopping.
1:00 p.m.
I’d better start my makeup soon. It’s only seven hours till the gig. But as I fully expect to be snogged to within an inch of my life, what about snogproof makeup? As Billy Shakespeare said, “To lippy or not to lippy; that is the question.”
Rang Jas. Her mum called her and she eventually shambled to the phone. I said, “Oh, glad you could make it, Jas. My eyebrows have grown to the floor in the time it took you to get here.”
Jas, as usual, took offense. “I was in
my bedroom just working something out on the computer with Tom.”
I laughed sarcastically. “Jas, you only snog in your bedroom.”
“We don’t.”
“You do. Anyway, lots of fun though this is, I want to ask you something of vital importance to the universe. Well, my universe, anyway. What do you think about lippy and snogging?”
“What?”
“Well, do you put lippy on and then do you wipe it off before lip contact, or do you let it go all over Tom’s face and Devil take the hindmost?”
2:00 p.m.
Results of lippy/snogging poll:
Jas only wears lip gloss, which she says gets absorbed in the general snogosity. Rosie says she puts on lippy AND lip gloss, then just goes for full-frontal snogging with Sven. She also says that by the end of the night he is usually covered in lippy, but he doesn’t mind and wipes it off with his T-shirt.
Good Lord.
We must remember, however, that he is not English.
The rest of the gang seemed pretty well to go along with the lip gloss absorbed into the general snogosity theory.
So lip gloss it is.
3:00 p.m.
Surrounded by hair products.
My hair will not go right. It has no bounceability. It just lies there. Annoying me with its lack of bounceability.
Sacré bloody bleu. I won’t be able to go out unless it starts bouncing about a bit. I look like a Franciscan monk. Or Miss Wilson.
I’m going to stick some of Mum’s hot rollers in it.
4:30 p.m.
On my bed in rollers. V. attractive.
Reading my book Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff for Teens to cheer me up. And calm me down.
4:45 p.m.
Hey, there is a chapter about hair! Honestly! How freaky deaky is that?
It’s called “Be OK with Your Bad Hair Day.”
5:00 p.m.
The short and short of it is that we are obsessed with our looks and imagine that other people really care about what our hair looks like.
But they don’t!!
So that is OK then. Took out my rollers.
5:10 p.m.
Vati bounced into my room (not knocking, of course) and said, “Tea is on the—what in the name of arse have you done to your head? You look like you have been electrocuted.”
I hate my dad. Twice.
5:30 p.m.
Time for my pore-tightening mask. (Because there is nothing worse than loose pores.)
I lay there with my pores tightening. In the book it recommends yoga for inner harmony. I must start doing it again.
5:35 p.m.
Mind you, the author says he is “super glad” that he took up yoga at a young age.
5:37 p.m.
Perhaps he is a “super tosser.”
5:39 p.m.
Or am I being “supercritical?”
Who knows.
Phoned Jools with my pore-tightening mask still on, trying not to crack it. Dad was pretending to be an orangutan (not much pretending needed) as a “laugh.” I ignored him. I said to Jools, “Nyut nar nu naring?”
“Purple V-necked top. Purple hipsters.”
Hmm.
Phoned Rosie, “Nut nar nu noing nid nor nair?”
“Pigtails.”
Crikey. We seem to be running the gamut of style from hippie to Little Bo Peep and beyond.
6:00 p.m.
I’ve tried on every single thing in my wardrobe. Oh buggery, I am in a state of confusosity. I wish I had a style counselor. I’m going to get one when I appear at record awards ceremonies with the Sex God. It won’t be Elton John’s style counselor. It will be someone normal. And stylish. And a good counselor.
6:30 p.m.
I’ve decided to go for the radically sophisticated look for the gig (i.e., all black). With, for special effect, black accessories (providing I can sneak out with Mum’s Chanel bag without her noticing).
6:35 p.m.
I’m wearing a V-necked black leather vest, short skirt and boots. What does that say about me? Casual sophisticate? Inner vixen struggling to get out? Girlfriend of a Sex God?
Or twit?
6:38 p.m.
I wonder what SG will be wearing. What does it matter? We are all in the nuddy-pants under our clothes.
I LOVE his mouth. It’s so yummy and sort of curly and sexy. And it’s mine, all mine!!! Mind you, I love his hair, so black and gorgey. And his eyes…that deep deep blue…mmmmm…dreams ville. And his eyelashes. And his arms. And his tongue…In fact, there isn’t one bit of him I don’t like. Of all the bits I’ve seen, anyway.
I wonder what his favorite bit of me is? I should emphasize it.
My eyes are quite nice. My nose, yes, well, we’ll just skip over that. Mouth…mmm, a bit on the generous side, but that can be a good thing.
6:45 p.m.
Phoned Jas. “Jas, what do you think is my best feature? Lips? Smile? Casual sophisticosity?”
“Well, I don’t know what to say now, because I was going to say your cheeks.”
Good grief.
6:50 p.m.
Phoned Jas again.
“What do you think on the basooma front? You know, emphasize them, do the ‘Yes, I’ve got big nunga-nungas, but I’m proud of them!’ or strap them down and don’t breathe out much all night?”
That’s when Vati went ballisticisimus about me being on the phone. “Why the hell do you talk rubbish to Jas on the phone when she is coming round here in a minute and you can talk rubbish to her without it costing me a fortune?!!!!”
It’s not me that talks rubbish. It’s him. He just shouts rubbish at me. He’s like Hawkeye with a beard.
I said to Mutti, “Why doesn’t the man you live with go for a job as a combination cat molester and teacher?”
beautosity headquarters
7:00 p.m.
Jas came round to my house for us to walk to the clock tower together. Also I needed her for a cosmetic emergency. I had forgotten to paint my toenails, and my skirt was so tight I couldn’t bend my leg up far enough to get to my toes. I suppose I could have taken my skirt off, but what are friends for?
I am too giddy and girlish with excitement to paint straight anyway. We went into the front room, which is warmer than my room. Mind you so is Siberia.
Vati was watching the news. Huh. Jas started on toenail duty. I thought a subtle metallic purple would be nice. Robbie would think that was cool if my tights fell off for some reason. Anyway, then it said on the news, “And tonight the Prime Minister has just got to Number Ten.”
I looked down at Jas and said, “Ooer.” Meaning he’d got to number ten on the snogging scale. And then we both laughed like loons.
Vati just looked at us like we were mad.
clock tower
8:00 p.m.
Met the rest of the ace gang and we ambled off to the gig. This was my first official outing as girlfriend of a Sex God. I wasn’t going to let it go to my head though.
Lalalalalalalalala. Fabbity fab fab. Eat dirt, Earth creatures.
When we got to the Buddha Lounge the first “person” I saw was…Wet Lindsay. Robbie’s ex. There is always a wet fish in every ointment. Every cloud has got a slimy lining. She has got the tiniest forehead known to humanity. She is quite literally fringe and then eyebrow. She was talking to her equally sad mates Dismal Sandra and Tragic Kate.
Every time I look at Wet Lindsay I am reminded that underneath her T-shirt lurk breast enhancers.
I said to Jas, “Do you think that Robbie knows about her false nunga-nungas?” but she was too busy waving at Tom with a soppy smile on her face.
The club was packed. I wondered if I should go find Robbie and say hello. Maybe that wasn’t very cool. Better do a bit of makeup adjusting first. Because if the talent scout was there he might be looking for girls to form a band as well. I said that to Jas. “Maybe we could be discovered, as a new girl band.”
“We can’t sing or play any instruments, and we are not in a
band.”
She is so ludicrously picky.
It was mayhem in the loos. You couldn’t get near the mirrors for love or money. The Bummers were in there, of course, larding on the foundation. Alison must use at least four pounds of it trying to conceal her huge lurkers. Or am I being a bit harsh?
No…I am being accurate. And factual.
I came out of the loos into the club. It was very dark; you needed to be half bat to find your way round. And then, shining like a shining Sex God in trousers, I saw him. Tuning his guitar. He looked up and saw me and smiled. I went over and he grabbed me and dragged me into a room. (“Oh stop it, stop it!” I yelled…not.) It was The Stiff Dylans’ dressing room. I’d never been backstage before. I suppose I will have to get used to it.
We did some excellent snogging (six and a half) but then he had to go and tune up with the rest of the band. He said, “See you on my break.”
When I went back to the loos my lip gloss had completely gone!!! Absorbed in the snoggosity.
9:00 p.m.
Yeah! What a dance fest! I was so shattered after being thrown around by Sven that I had to go and have a little sit down in an alcove with Rosie and Jas.
I could see Wet Lindsay and her wet mates dancing right in front of the stage. How desperate was that? In fact, it was all girls at the front, most of them dancing around in front of my Sex God. Smiling up at him and shaking their bums round. But he only had eyes for me. Well, he would have done, had he had a talking sniffer dog that could have come round and found me sitting in the dark behind a pillar, and gone back and told SG where I was. There was an older bloke in a suit standing by the side of the stage. I bet he was the talent scout.
I said to Jas, “Come and dance in front of the talent scout with me.”
She said, “No.”
“Jas.”
“No, and what is more…”
“What?”
“No.”
“It’s no then, is it, Mrs. Huge Knickers? Well, when I am happily being a backup dancer I will think of you packing potatoes.”
She ignored me, but as I say, In vino veritas. I don’t know why because I am really crap at Latin (according to Slim, spokeswoman for the Latin people).
Well, as usual, I would have to step boldly where no woman had stepped before. I went over and gave my all in front of the talent scout in a triumph of dance casualosity. He seemed quite impressed, but then he went off to the dressing rooms. Probably phoning his record company.
Knocked Out by My Nunga-Nungas: Further, Further Confessions of Georgia Nicolson Page 6