Louise Rennison
Love Is a Many Trousered Thing
Confessions of Georgia Nicolson
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
A Note from Georgia
Hoooorn!!!
Snot Disco Dancing
Return of the Hornmeister, Quickly Followed by the Luurve God
The Piddly Diddly Department of Life
Blah, Blah, Rubbish, Rubbish, Dribble, Dribble, Dribble, Arse!
Tent Head
The New and Improved Snogging Scale
Glossary
About the Author
Other Books by Georgia Nicolson
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
A Note from Georgia
Dearest international and marvy chummly wummlies,
Yes, once again I have given you my all (oo-er), so here is Love Is a Many Trousered Thing. And it is, believe me.
I wanted it to be called Trouser Snakes-a-gogo! but the grown-ups said that was too rude. I had the same trouble with And That’s When It Fell Off in My Hand—the Hamburger-a-gogo “grown-ups” said that was too rude.
I said, “How do you mean? Do you mean that you think it might be something about a boy’s trouser-snake addenda?”
And they said, “Yes.”
And I said, “But if that came off in your hand, that would not be a comedy diary, that would be a medical book.” But you can’t tell people.
So you see how vair, vair tiring the whole thing can be. But I struggle out of my bed of pain again only because I luuurve you all so much.
Lots of kisses, but not in a lezzie way,
P.S.
You will also notice that Jas has introduced the idea of virtual upper-body fondling to the snogging scale. This is typical of what I have to put up with.
P.P.S.
If you have a Jas in your life, EAT HER––it’s the only sensible thing to do.
P.P.P.S.
Even though I’m vair, vair tired, it’s come to my attention that there are some people who haven’t read my diaries before and keep asking me stuff about the ace gang, and the snogging scale, and disco inferno dancing. So for those vair, vair lazy people, I’ve added some lists of things at the back of the book.
hoooorn!!!
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-heel 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 honor of Rosie and Sven’s forthcoming (well, in eighteen years’ time) wedding, Sven arriving in furry shorts and, 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 cakeshop of luuurve for ages I have accidentally bought two cakes.
And I am sitting in a bush.
11:56 p.m.
Oh yet more marvelous, marvelous news, the Blunderboys are lurking around in the park. Probably setting fire to themselves and practicing 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 Blunderboys 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 repellent 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, then.”
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 had 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 realized 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 p.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 anytime if I have my way.
I snuck really really quietly through the front door and stashed my horns in a secret place where they will never be found (the ironing basket).
Aaahh. Safely in. Now quietly, quietly up the stairs to my room. Quietly, quietly like a little mousie. Mousie girl opening little doorsies. Shhhhh. Shhhh. Nearly safe. Quietly into the room like a quiet thing on quiet tablets. No sign of the furry freak brothers, a.k.a. my cats Angus and his cross-eyed son Gordon, thank the Lord.
As I opened my bedroom door Gordy’s face appeared upside down an inch away from my fringe. I looked in
to his mad cross-eyes. Why does he do that—lurk on top of the door like a bat? He did a little croaky noise and licked my face with his horrid rough tongue. I managed not to cry out or be sick.
12:25 a.m.
There is a half-eaten mouse on my pillow.
12:30 a.m.
Oh God that means that Gordy licked my face after he had crunched up the mousey head. I am almost bound to get the Black Death.
Nothing nicer than a few pustulating boils when you have boyfriend trouble.
one minute later
Crept downstairs to get rid of the mousey. I had it on a piece of cardboard. When I say mousey, what I mean is two ears and a bit of tail. Too crunchy for Gordy’s delicate little murderer’s gob, I suppose.
As I was going back upstairs, Mutti called out from the front room, “Is that you, Gee?”
I said, “No,” and went up to get into my snuggly bed of pain.
one minute later
In bed under the sheets of life. Can’t be bothered getting undressed as I’m so full of confusiosity.
five minutes later
I’d better make an effort though and at least take my boots off. My feet are probably all swollen from my mad running and I don’t want to have them surgically removed again.
(The boots, I mean, not my feet.)
Anyway, the nub and gist is that I have accidentally acquired two Luuurve Gods.
I may never sleep again.
one minute later
I won’t have time to sleep if I’ve got two boyfriends.
Teeheeee…Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
sunday july 17th
7:00 a.m.
Woke up from a dream where Dr. Clooney was looking at my head and saying, “I have never seen anything like it, her head is one enormous boil!” and for a minute forgot that I had two boyfriends.
I checked in the mirror and there has been no pustulating boil extravaganza, so I seem to have escaped catching the Black Death from Gordy’s little mousey snack, thank the Lord. Although my head seems to have exploded, hairwise. I may have to iron it.
7:35 a.m.
Crept downstairs and made some toast and tea. I must keep my strength up. There was snoring coming from every room. Mum had made Dad sleep in the spare room because of his snoring and she was louder than him! I must be kind, though, she probably has difficulty breathing because of the weight of her enormous nungas. If mine grow as big as hers, I will definitely donate them to some charity.
It was a nice day. The birds were humming and the bees a-singing and I could see Angus the furry Luuurve Machine lolling around in the morning sun with Naomi. They are very much in love if the amount of bum-oley licking is anything to go by.
five minutes later
Back in my bed with snacksies.
I must consult with a book of wisdomosity.
five minutes later
This double boyfriend fandango is not mentioned in Mutti’s book How to Make Any Twit Fall in Love with You.
three minutes later
Maybe Robbie and Masimo will have to have fisticuffs at dawn to decide who gets me. Who knows what the right etiquette is in this scenario.
one minute later
One thing is for sure. I will not be asking Dave the Laugh, my Horn Adviser and occasional snoggee, to the fight. He will only think it is a laugh and start shouting out stuff like, “Hit him with your handbag, Masimo,” or “Mind the hair, love.”
Anyway, Dave is too busy to give me advice these days. He will be with his “girlfriend.”
I wonder—what number they have got up to on the snogging scale?
Shut up, brain! I don’t want to think about Dave—he is an ex-snoggee. And just a mate. I have enough to worry about without Dave popping up all the time—oo-er.
7:55 a.m.
This does mean that I am going to have to be on high beauty and glamorosity alert at all times. One of my multi boyfriends may be so driven by snognosity that he rushes round here first thing in the morning. I must be prepared. But no one must know. I must exude glamour but in a natural just-tumbled-out-of-bed way.
Soooo just a hint of foundation, touch of bronzer, lippy, mascara and tiny bit of eyeliner. Which I like to think looks like I have a touch of the Egyptian in my genes.
That is what I like to think.
8:00 a.m.
Now what to wear?
Nightwear or daywear?
What would you wear if you had unexpectedly woken up to the doorbell ringing and you didn’t know who it was, but you suspected it might be a Luuurve or a Sex God?
8:01 a.m.
Not Teletubbies pajamas, that is le fact.
8:06 a.m.
A leatherette skirt and T-shirt that exude casualosity?
Yep.
8:12 a.m.
I took a peek out of the front window. No sign of any Sex or Luuurve Gods. The reverse, in fact, because I was alarmed to see Mr. Across the Road in his garden in a shortie dressing gown. I hope he is not going to become a homosexualist in his twilight years. Then Mrs. Across the Road came out in a massive pair of pajamas. Was there the suggestion of a small mustache on her upper lip? Maybe that’s what happens in the end when people are married: They change sex. My dad is certainly on the turn, but on the other hand no man alive has developed nunga-nungas like Mum.
8:30 a.m.
Why hasn’t Jas phoned?
You would think that Radio Jas would have been on the airwaves of life wanting to know what happened to me and also wanting to report what had happened after I had left the gig. I suppose I will just have to wait until she wakes up, or the rest of the ace gang wake up to let me know what is going on. I must use the steely discipline for which I am world renowned.
8:35 a.m.
That’s it, I can’t stand it anymore. Crept out of the house. I won’t leave a note because no one will notice I am missing for hours. The last thing I want is a cross-examination from Herr Vati. Or Mum being “interested.”
outside on the drive
Angus was still lying on his back on the wall whilst Naomi licked his face and then started in on his bum-oley. How disgusting. Kittyporn first thing in the morning.
Also, they are both covered in what looks like snot.
Oh, Blimey O’Reilly’s trousers, it isn’t snot; it’s frogspawn. They have been maurauding about in Mr. and Mrs. Next Door’s new marine conservation area. Known to other normal people as a bucket with disgusting tadpoles and slime and so on in it. The Prat brothers, also known as Mr. Next Door’s annoying and useless toy poodles, were on marine conservation life-guard duty, so all Angus had to do was duff them up a bit, round them up into their kennel, and then it was a night of splashing around in the bucket to his heart’s content.
The Next Doors will go absolutely ballistic; they always do about the least thing. Mr. Next Door has been hovering on the edge of a nervy spaz for the last year and this might drive him over the edge and into the rest home. His shorts will probably explode with the tension. Which is no bad thing, unless I happen to be around at the time and am exposed to the sight of his huge bottom looming about.
I said to Angus, “You are soooo bad, Angus, and in for big trub. That is a fact. Au revoir, dead kitty pal.”
I’m sure he understands every word I say because he got idly to his feet, stretched and nudged Naomi off the wall. He treats his girls rough. Naomi leapt back on the wall and arched her back and raised her hackles, making that really mad screechy noise that Burmese cats do. She was spitting at Angus and teetering backward and forward. Really, really mad. Angus was frightened. Not. When she got near enough, he biffed her with his paw and she disappeared over the wall again. You had to laugh.
Not for long, though, because after he had rolled about on the lawn to get rid of the frogspawn, he began stalking me.
Oh no, not today, my furry friend, I am not having him tagging along with me all day causing mayhem and eating anything that moves. I said, “Clear off, Angus, stay there. Sit. Sit.”
>
I even threw him a stick to distract him and he ran bounding off after it, but then came back to trail along behind me.
I started running. He started running. I hid behind a wall. His head loomed over the wall at me.
In the end, to give him the hint, I threw stones at him—some of them quite big.
five minutes later
This is hopeless.
He doesn’t care about having stones thrown at him at all. He is senselessly brave.
one minute later
He is trying to catch the stones in his mouth.
one minute later
He’s just slightly dazed himself by heading one of them.
in jas’s garden
9:00 a.m.
No sign of Jas being up and her curtains are drawn. Damny damn damn. She is so lazy, snoozing in Pantsland. I don’t want to arouse any interest in the elderly mad by ringing the bell. Even though Jas’s m and d are on the whole more acceptable than most in that they provide snacks and Jas’s dad doesn’t speak, they are still technically in the elderly loon category.
three minutes later
How can I get Jas to get up without ringing the doorbell?
one minute later
Oh here we are! There is a ladder in the shed, I can use my initiative and Girl Guide training (which I haven’t got and never will have) and use the ladder to make a small fire to send smoke signals past her bedroom window. Shut up, brain.
five minutes later
It must be a child’s ladder, as it only reaches to just above the lounge window. I would have to have orangutan arms on stilts to reach Jas’s window. Poo and merde.
two minutes later
As I was looking up wondering how to make my arms grow, something bit my ankle really viciously. Angus was on the ladder with me, looking at me and playfully biting my legs. Ouch, bloody ouch.
I reached down to strangle him and I was just saying, “You bloody furry freak, I’ll kill you when I get down from here” when I saw Jas’s dad standing on the garden path with his paper, smoking his unlit pipe. He was looking at me. Like I was Norma Normal.