Are These My Basoomas I See Before Me

  Louise Rennison

  Are These My Basoomas I See Before Me?

  Final Confessions of Georgia Nicolson

  In memory of the original Luuurve God

  with the big fat red Yorkshire legs:

  Big Fat Bobbins.

  This is dedicated to you all.

  I quite literally love you all.

  P.S. I hope I love you as much as you love me.

  But I can’t worry about that now because that is life, isn’t it?

  P.P.S. Perhaps I love you more than you love me, which is a bit mean as I am bothering to dedicate this book to you.

  Contents

  A Note from Georgia

  You Know You Luuurve It, You Cheeky Fräulein!

  Elepoon in Your Nick-Nacks

  Fire!!! I’ll Take You to Burn!

  Suddenly He Got his Maracas Out

  My Tights Runneth Over

  How to Make Any Twit Fall in Love with You

  Slim’s Snogging Lecture

  Sven Finds His Inner Woman (Unfortunately)

  I May Have a Slight Fence Burn

  Whey—Heyyyy!!

  Just Call Me Pongo

  Twits in Tights Fiasco

  Rom and Jul: The Tragedy (You’re Not Kidding, Mate)

  Great Mates Scale

  Glossary

  About the Author

  Other Books by Georgia Nicolson

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  A Note from Georgia

  Dear little chumettes,

  As our lederhosen friends say, “Now ist zer time to say guten Tag.” I don’t know why they say it, but they do. And frankly, I love them for it. Alright, Germany may not be Billy Shakespeare land but any country that says spangelferkel instead of sausage is top with me, comedywise…although not holidaywise.

  Where was I? Oh yes, saying good-bye. As you know, I have been working like a bee (two bees) to once more give you my all (oo-er) creativitosity-wise. And here it is, my final oeuvre. (Now you are being silly, you know I don’t mean “here is my final egg,” so stop messing about.) And you will be pleased to know, I think I have pulled it off (oo-er). Stop it.

  So this is my final (boohoo) diary. It is, of course, packed with the usual combination of sophisticosity and snot dancing. But be warned, there are some exciting additions—Melanie’s nunga-nungas make a big and unexpected appearance, as well as other twits in tights, etc.

  Some of you will laugh, some of you will cry, some of you may have a little accident in the piddly-diddly department. I don’t know.

  But I care.

  A LOT.

  I do.

  And even though I am away laughing on a fast camel, you will always feel my luuurve.

  Are you feeling it yet?

  I am.

  P.S. I mean it about luuurving you all, little chums.

  P.P.S. I am giving you telepathic hugs.

  P.P.P.S. But not in a telepathically lezzie way.

  P.P.P.P.S. And remember my advice to see you through the Georgia-less days ahead…

  Snog on, snog on,

  With hope in your heart,

  And you’ll never snog alone,

  You’ll never snog…alone.

  you know you luuurve it, you cheeky fräulein!

  sunday september 18th

  9:00 a.m.

  Why? Oh why oh why?

  9:02 a.m.

  Why me?

  9:03 a.m.

  And I’ll just say this. Why?

  9:04 a.m.

  One minute, I am the girlfriend of a Luuurve God, skipping around like a Sex Kitty on kittykat tablets and the next minute I am at Poo College, in Pooford. Doing a degree in poonosity and merde.

  9:10 a.m.

  Masimo, my Pizza-a-gogo Luuurve God, stropped off with the megahump last night. Not even stopping to say good-bye-io, or whatever they say in Pizza-a-gogo land. I may never know now.

  9:12 a.m.

  Why? Why oh why oh why?

  9:13 a.m.

  Just because I did a bit of harmless twisting with Dave the Laugh at the Stiff Dylans’ gig.

  That’s all.

  9:15 a.m.

  Is doing the twist such a crime?

  Why would you get the Humpty Dumpty about that?

  9:16 a.m.

  He doesn’t even know about the accidental snogging-Dave-the-Laugh-in-the-Forest-of-Red-Bottomosity incident. Which I will never be mentioning this side of the grave.

  9:17 a.m.

  If he gets the numpty about a bit of twisting, what number on the Having the Hump Scale would he get to for accidental snogging?

  9:18 a.m.

  Perhaps Masimo has only got the overnight hump with me and he will be calling me soon.

  9:30 a.m.

  Oh joy unbounded. My vati has come barging into MY room. Which to be frank isn’t big enough for him and his bottom.

  I am pretending to be asleep.

  thirty seconds later

  The gros vater said, “Quickly, quickly rise and shine.”

  I said, “Erm…Vati…it is Vati, isn’t it? Can you go away and I will pretend I haven’t noticed you breaking into my room without permission. Which incidentally you will never get. Good-bye.”

  He came over and ruffled my hair, which is technically assault. I could get on the blower to ChildLine.

  Dad was still going on and on in his dadtastic way. As he ripped back my curtains, nearly blinding me, he was rubbing his hands together and saying, “Come on, let’s have some family fun. Put your wellies on—we’re off to the bird sanctuary.”

  That woke me up. He is deffo getting madder by the minute. And also he is wearing tight jeans. Surely there is some sort of law about that.

  I said, “Dad, I am far too busy to go and look at budgies. Besides, I have seen one.”

  He didn’t take any notice and went off. “I’ll be revving up the funmobile. See you in five.”

  He was whistling, “Sex bomb, sex bomb, I’m a sex bomb.”

  Pornographic whistling. I will probably be scarred for life.

  five minutes later

  Oh, the embarrassmentosity of having a dad. He is revving up his clown “car.” It sounds like a fat bloke revving up a sewing machine. Which it is really. He has painted a racing stripe down the side of his three-wheeled Robin Reliant. Even Grandad overtook the clown car the other day, and he wasn’t even on his bike. He was just walking quite briskly. That is how pathetico the Robin-mobile is.

  one minute later

  Anyway, how can I be expected to go look at budgies when I may once more be a dumpee on the rack of luuurve?

  four minutes later

  Mum came mumming in.

  I said, “Before you start, I’m not coming to look at budgies and that is le fact.”

  She said, “Hang on a minute, what are you doing here?”

  I said, “Er, I live here.”

  She said, “You were supposed to be staying at Jas’s, though.”

  “Well…she was a bit…tired.”

  “You fell out then?”

  “Maybe.”

  “What did you do to upset her?”

  Oh, that’s nice, isn’t it? Nice and supportive.

  “It was Saint Jas’s fault actually, if you must know. She was the one who told me to do something when Masimo and Dave the Laugh nearly had fisticuffs at dawn. And then when I did do something, she got the megahump and a half with me and stropped off.”

  Mum came and sat on the edge of the bed. Oh Lord, now she had gotten interested. Drat.

  She said, “Dave and Masimo were fighting?”

  “Sort of.”

  “W
hy?”

  “I don’t know. Because I did a bit of ad hoc twisting with Dave, and Masimo got the hump.”

  “So what did you do to stop them?”

  “Well, I stepped in the middle of them and told them not to be silly.”

  Mum looked at me. “What did you actually say?”

  “Stop in the name of pants.”

  Mum just looked at me again. She is like a Seeing Eye dog.

  I bumbled on. “But then Rosie started singing that crap song from The Sound of Music—‘The hills are alive with the sound of PANTS, with PANTS I have worn for a thousand years.’ And the ace gang joined in and…”

  “And?”

  “Then Masimo just looked at me and he walked off. And not in a good way. In a having a full Humpty Dumpty way.”

  10:30 a.m.

  The budgie lovers’ “advice” is: “Don’t be such a childish arse in future.”

  Thank you for that.

  10:40 a.m.

  At least I have the house to myself for a mope-a-thon. The Swiss Family Mad have roared off down the drive at three miles an hour. They’ll be at the end of our street by tomorrow if they’re lucky and have a following wind.

  10:45 a.m.

  I’m not phoning Jas because she was so grumpy with me last night for no reason.

  five minutes later

  I think I may hate her actually.

  two minutes later

  So in a nutshell. My so-called bestie hates me and thinks I am the Whore of Babylon and my boyfriend may hate me, even though he doesn’t know the reason why he should hate me.

  six minutes later

  It is sooo boring moping.

  11:10 a.m.

  Masimo still hasn’t phoned me. I can’t stand this silence a moment longer. I am going to call an emergency ace gang meeting.

  11:30 a.m.

  Rang Jools, Ellen, Rosie, Mabs and Honor.

  11:45 a.m.

  I have arranged to meet the ace gang, with the exception of you know who, at two p.m. in the park. I wanted to meet at mine, but the rest of them want to watch the footie match. They are obsessed with boys.

  11:50 a.m.

  I am just going to tell them all the whole truth and see what they say. Just come clean about the whole situation. Make a fresh start with my bestie mates. Truth is, after all, the cornerstone of friendship.

  11:52 a.m.

  Well, when I say the whole truth, I will obviously not be mentioning the thing that I am not mentioning this side of the grave. And which I have forgotten about, to tell you the truth.

  1:30 p.m.

  I am working my way through the famous “losing it” scale. I have gone from merely having a spaz attack to being now on the edge of a complete nervy b. What if Masimo is actually at the footie match and ignores me?

  What can I do?

  I ask myself the question, “What would Baby Jesus do in these circumstances?”

  one minute later

  Of course! I must make myself irresistible to the Luuurve God by applying as much mascara as is humanly possible.

  1:32 p.m.

  When I went into the bathroom, Angus was sitting on the loo seat. He just looked at me when I came in and then half shut his eyes, like a half-wit cat.

  I said, “Oy, what are you doing in here?”

  He yawned and then he put his paw on the loo handle. Like he was flushing it.

  What fresh hell? Surely he isn’t pooing in the loo?

  He jumped down and skittered off at about a million miles an hour.

  How weird.

  I wonder if being run over has affected his brain?

  Mind you, I read about the Moscow State Circus and they’ve got some cats who can pull a carriage and play chess at the same time.

  Maybe I could get Angus a job in the Russian circus displaying his pulling-the-loo-handle skills.

  The Russian volk might quite like that.

  You never know.

  1:40 p.m.

  Oh, bloody hell, he’s been in my makeup bag again.

  Why would a cat eat lip gloss?

  1:45 p.m.

  OK, I am ready to get entrancing and alluring. I am wearing jeans and a skinny jummie, and because I am off to watch a footie match, I’ve put my hair into a little ponytail. Très sportif. It gives me a casual, sporty air.

  I may wear my shades to add to my mysterious “uuumph” quality.

  1:46 p.m.

  Just a hint of “uuumph” but not “uuumphy” in the “oy, you slaaaag” sort of way.

  2:10 p.m.

  When I arrived at our usual meeting place underneath the big chestnut tree, Sven and Rosie were there. Practically eating each other. Do they ever stop snogging?

  Rosie knew I was there because she waved her hand at me.

  Eventually, I went “Helllooo” for a bit until they came up for air.

  Rosie took out her chuddie and said, “Bonsoir, sensation seeker.”

  Sven leapt to his feet and picked me up (thank God I had my jeans on) and started carrying me around singing, “Oh ja, oh ja! The hills are alive wiv zer pants, hahaha, oh ja pants!!!”

  I said to Rosie, who was reapplying her lippy, “Rosie, make him put me down….”

  Rosie said, “Down, boy.”

  He put me down and licked Rosie’s face before he ambled off like Lug the Larger to the footie field.

  I said to her, “How does this happen? One minute I’ve got more boyfriends than I can shake a stick at and the next minute I am the Leper of Rheims.”

  Rosie looked at me and put her armey around me. “Would you like to sit on my knee for a bit? You like that.”

  I just looked at her.

  five minutes later

  Jools, Mabs, Hons and Ellen arrived.

  The meeting began with the official passing around of the midget gems. Then we discussed how to make Masimo stop having the hump and start having the Horn.

  twenty minutes later

  This is our cunning plan.

  I have to be nice.

  That is it.

  I have to be nicey girl on legs for as long as it takes to make Masimo luuurve me again.

  The ace gang is going to help by only saying really, really nice things about me.

  There was a bit of a verging on the “mentioning the thing that I will not be mentioning this side of the grave” when Ellen said, “Masimo, I mean, he, like…well, he got the hump when…er…the twisting, or maybe Dave the Laugh or something…erm.”

  Jools said, “Ah yes, he didn’t like you dancing like a fool with Dave the Laugh, did he?”

  Mabs said, “It’s his hot Pizza-a-gogo blood. They get vair jealous.”

  Rosie said, “You might have to eschew Dave the Laugh with a firm hand for a bit.”

  OK, well, I can knock it on the head laaarfwise with the Hornmeister.

  It’s a shame.

  But ho hum, pig’s bum.

  two minutes later

  But what if I don’t even get the chance to be nicey-nice girl?

  What if Masimo doesn’t get in touch with me again?

  I fear the tensionosity will drive me to not only having a complete nervy b., but I might also go ballisticisimus.

  2:45 p.m.

  The lads are arriving, getting their boots on and shouting WUBBISH. They don’t seem to be able to just say “Hello” to one another. It’s all “Aaaaaaah, you’re shit!” and “On my head” and “Hello, you complete tosser.” Quite, quite weird. No sign of Dave the Laugh—perhaps he’s not playing today. Just as well really.

  2:50 p.m.

  Sven has put two footballs down the front of his shirt and is swaying around like a girl. A girl nearly two meters tall, with massive hairy legs and the beginnings of a goatee.

  Rosie said, “I think I’m on the turn. Svenetta is bringing out my inner lesbian.”

  Oh good, everyone has gone bonkers. Excellent.

  I said, “Rosie, will you promise not to mention your inner lezzie if Masimo turns up?”
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  Rosie winked at me. “I’ll try, but don’t you start waggling your nungas about, you little minx.”

  Do you see what I mean? This is exactly what I am trying to avoid.

  five minutes later

  Dom, Edward, Rollo, Declan, Sven and two of the Stiff Dylans are all running around “limbering up.” Meanwhile, it’s Cosmetic Headquarters behind our tree. In principle, I think you should be loved for yourself and your soul shines through even if you haven’t got mascara on. I know this is what Baby Jesus says and he is renowned for never having worn mascara. So, in principle, I think you should just be yourself, but in practice, I am applying just a tad more mascara.

  Speaking of which, Ellen is in such a ditherama about seeing Declan that she has actually got some mascara on her teeth. How?

  two minutes later

  Jas ’n’ Tom have turned up.

  Oh yes. Here comes Miss Prissy Knickers herself. And her boyfriend, Hunky. She caught sight of us and shouted over, “Hi, Rosie, hi, Ellen, Mabs, Jools, Hons…”

  She deliberately didn’t say hello to me. How childish.

  Two could play at that game.

  I shouted out, “Hi, Hunky!” Tom waved at me and went off.

  Then I noticed that Jas was not alone. She had brought two of her stuffed owls with her. And they had got little football hats and scarves on.

  How pathetico.

  I shouted, “Hello, owls!”

  Hahahaha. I had said hello to her owls and she couldn’t stop me.

  Yessssss! One–nil to me!!!!!!

  nearly kickoff

  The other team was from St. Pat’s and quite fit boys as it happens. If you like quite fit boys.

  I was just having a midget gem to calm me down and my back was to the road when I heard a scooter approaching. It might be the Luuurve God. I got immediate knee tremblers and jelloid knickers. But I must not expose my jelloid knickers—I must exude sophisticosity. How do you do sophisticosity without turning round?

  Perhaps if I tightened my bum-oley muscles that might make for a better profile rearwise?

  No, that might look like I needed a poo.