On the Bright Side, I'm Now the Girlfriend of a Sex God Read online

  physio • A sort of massage. Short for physical therapy. For instance if you had a muscle that really, really hurt and that you wanted left alone. A cruel person (Miss Stamp) would insist on giving you a violent pummeling to make it better. Ha.

  rate • To fancy someone. Like I fancy (or rate) the Sex God. And I certainly do fancy the S.G. as anyone with the brains of an earwig (i.e., not Jas) would know by now. Phew—even writing about him in the glossary has made me go all jelloid. And stupidoid.

  R.E. • Religious education.

  Reeves and Mortimer • Are a comedy double act. They are very mad indeed. But I like them.

  rucky • A rucksack. Like a little kangaroo pouch you wear on your back to put things in. Backpack.

  shirty • Flustered and twitchy and coming on all pompous.

  Slack Alice • A Slack Alice is someone who is all stupid and nerdy. The sort of person who is always pulling their panties up because they are too big (i.e., Jas).

  snogging • Kissing.

  spot • Officially a blocked pore that gets all red and inflamed and sometimes has a white top on it. In reality something you get every time you need to look your best. You never get spots in concealed places—they are always on your nose or chin or on a sticky-out bit. Americans call them “zits” and I hope against hope this has nothing to do with the noise they make when you pop them.

  umby • Umbrella. Also “brolly.” Mary Poppins used to say “gamp” for umbrella. But what I say to that is—who cares?

  wet • A drippy, useless, nerdy idiot. Lindsay.

  whelks • A horrible shellfish thing that only the truly mad (like my grandad, for instance) eat. They are unbelievably slimy and mucuslike.

  Excerpt from Knocked Out by My Nunga-Nungas

  october

  return of the loonleader

  thursday october 21st

  my room

  1:00 p.m.

  Looking out of my bedroom window, counting my unblessings. Raining. A lot. It’s like living fully dressed in a pond.

  And I am the prisoner of whatsit.

  I have to stay in my room pretending to have tummy lurgy so that Dad will not know I am an ostracized leper banned from Stalag 14 (i.e., suspended from school). I’m not alone in my room, though, because my cat, Angus, is also under house arrest for his love romps with Naomi the Burmese sex kitten.

  2:00 p.m.

  They’ll be doing P.E. now.

  I never thought the day would come when I would long to hear Miss Stamp (Sports Oberführer and part-time lesbian) say, “Right, girls, into your P.E. knickers!”

  But it has.

  3:30 p.m.

  All the ace gang will be thinking about the walk home from school. Applying a touch of lippy. A hint of nail polish. Maybe even mascara because it is R.E. and Miss Wilson can’t even control her tragic seventies hairdo let alone a class. Rosie said she was going to test Miss Wilson’s sanity by giving herself a face mask in class and seeing if Miss Wilson had a nervy spaz.

  Jas will be practicing her pouting in case she bumps into Tom.

  3:50 p.m.

  How come Jas got off with cloakroom duty and I got banned? I am a whatsit . . . a scapethingy.

  4:10 p.m.

  Robbie the Sex God (MY NEW BOYFRIEND!!! Yesss and three times yesss!!!!!) will be going home now. Walking along in a Sex Goddy sort of way. A walking snogging machine.

  4:30 p.m.

  Mutti came in. “Right, you can start making your startling recovery now, Georgia.”

  Oh cheers. Thanks a lot. Good night.

  Just because Elvis Attwood, school caretaker from the Planet of the Loons, tripped over his own wheelbarrow (when I told him Jas was on fire), I am banned from school.

  Mutti rambled on, although she makes very little sense since Vati got home. “It’s your own fault. You antagonize him and now you are paying the price.”

  Yeah, yeah, rave on.

  4:45 p.m.

  Phoned Jas.

  “Jas.”

  “Oh hi, Gee.”

  “Why didn’t you phone me?”

  “You’re phoning me. I would have got the engaged tone.”

  “Jas, please don’t annoy me. I’ve only been speaking to you for two seconds.”

  “I’m not annoying you.”

  “Wrong.”

  “Well, I’ve only said about two words to you.”

  “That’s enough.”

  Silence.

  “Jas.”

  Silence.

  “Jas, what are you doing?”

  “I’m not annoying you.”

  She drives me to the brink of madnosity. Still, I really needed to speak to her so I went on, “It’s really crap at home. I almost wish I hadn’t been banned from school. How was Stalag fourteen? Any goss?”

  “No, just the usual. Nauseating P. Green smashed a chair to smithereens and back.”

  “Really?! Was she fighting with it?”

  “No, she was sitting on it having her lunch. It was the jumbo-sized Mars bar that did it. Everyone was killing themselves laughing. The Bummer Twins started singing ‘Who ate all the pies’ to her, but Slim, our beloved headmistress, heard them and gave us a lecture about mocking the unfortunate.”

  “Were her chins going all jelloid?”

  “Yeah. In fact, it was Chin City.”

  “Fantastic. Are you all missing me? Did anyone talk about me or anything?”

  “No, not really.”

  Charming. Jas has a lot of good qualities though, qualities you need in a bestest pal. Qualities like, for instance, going out with the brother of a Sex God. I said, “Has Hunky, I mean, Tom, mentioned anything that Robbie has said about me?”

  “Erm . . . let me think.”

  Then there was this slurp-slurp noise.

  She was making slurping noises.

  “Jas, what are you eating?”

  “I’m sucking my pen top so I can think better.”

  Sacré bloody bleu, I have got le idiot for a pal. Forty-nine centuries of pen sucking later she said, “No, he hasn’t said anything.”

  7:00 p.m.

  Why hasn’t Robbie mentioned me? Hasn’t he got snogging withdrawal?

  8:00 p.m.

  I can hear Vati singing “If I Ruled the World.” Good Lord. I have only just recovered from a very bad bout of pretend lurgy. He has no consideration for others.

  8:05 p.m.

  The worsterosity of it is that the Loonleader (my vati) has returned from Kiwi-a-gogo land and I thought he would be there for ages. But sadly life was against me and he has returned. Not content with that, he has insisted we all go to Och Aye land to “bond” on a family holiday.

  However . . . nananana and who-gives-two-short-flying-pigs’-botties? Because I live in Love Heaven.

  Lalalalalalala.

  I am the girlfriend of a Sex God!!

  8:15 p.m.

  The Sex God said I should phone him when I get back from Scotland. But there is a fly in his ointment . . . I am not going to Scotland!!! My plan is this, everyone else goes to Scotland and . . . I don’t! Simple enough, I think, for anyone to understand.

  operation explain-brilliant-not-going-to-scotland plan to mutti and vati

  8:30 p.m.

  The olds were slumped in front of the TV canoodling and drinking wine. They are so childish. I had to leave the room in the end because Dad did this really disgusting thing. They were laughing and grappling about on the sofa and they did number five on the snogging scale (open-mouth kissing). Honestly. I mean it. There might even have been a suggestion of six (tongues). Erlack a pongoes!!!! Libby was there as well. Laughing along. It can’t be healthy for a toddler to be exposed to porn.

  I’m sure other people’s parents don’t do this sort of thing. In fact, some of my mates are lucky enough to have parents that are split up. I’ve never really seen Jas’s dad. He is usually upstairs or in his shed doing some DIY. He just appears now and again to give Jas her pocket money.

  That is
a proper dad.

  11:00 p.m.

  Before I went to bed I explained to the elderly snoggers (from outside the door just in case they were touching each other) that I will not in a zillion years be going on the family excursion to Scotland tomorrow and said good night.

  friday october 22nd

  scotland

  raining

  10:30 p.m.

  I have come on holiday by mistake.

  This is the gorgeous diary of my fantastic family holiday in Och Aye land. Five hundred years driving with a madman at the wheel (Dad) and another two mad things in a basket (Angus and Libby). After two hours of trying to find the cottage and listening to Vati ramble on about the “wonderful countryside,” I was ready to pull his head off, steal the car and drive, drive like the wind. The fact that I can’t drive stopped me, but actually I’m sure that once behind the wheel I could pick it up. How difficult can it be anyway? All Dad does is swear at other cars and put his foot down on some pedal thing.

  Finally arrived at some crap cottage in the middle of nowhere. The nearest shop is twelve hundred miles away (well, a fifteen-minute walk). The only person younger than one hundred and eighty is a half-witted boy (Jock McThick) who hangs around the village on his pushbike (!)

  In the end out of sheer desperadoes I went outside after supper and asked Jock McThick what him and his mates did at nights. (Even though I couldn’t give two short flying sporrans.) He said, “Och.” (Honestly he said that.) “We go awa’ doon to Alldays, you ken.” (I don’t know why he called me Ken but that is the mystery of the Scottish folk.) It was like being in that film Braveheart. In fact, in order to inject a bit of hilariosity into an otherwise tragic situation I said when we first saw the cottage, “You can tak our lives, but you cannae tak our freedom!!”

  1:15 a.m.

  It’s a nightmare of noise in this place, hooting, yowling, snuffling . . . and that’s just Vati! No, it’s the great Scottish wildlife. Bats and badgers and so on . . . Haven’t they got homes to go to? Why do creatures wake up at night? Do they do it deliberately to annoy me? At least Angus is happy here, now that he is not under house arrest. It was about one A.M. before he came in and curled up in his luxurious cat headquarters (my bed).

  saturday october 23rd

  10:30 a.m.

  Vati back as Loonleader with a vengeance. He came barging into “my” (hahahahahaha) room at pre-dawn, waggling his new beard about. I was sleeping with cucumber slices on my eyes for beautosity purposes so at first I thought I had gone blind in the night. I nearly did go blind when he ripped open my curtains and said, “Gidday, gidday, me little darlin’” in a ludicrous Kiwi-a-gogo twang.

  I wonder if he has finally snapped? He was very nearly bonkers before he went to Kiwi-a-gogo land and having his shoes blown off by a rogue bore can’t have helped. But hey, El Beardo is, after all, my vati and that also makes him vati of the girlfriend of a Sex God. So I said quite kindly, “Guten morgen, vati. Could you please go away now? Thank you.”

  I think his beard may have grown into his ears however, because he ignored me and opened the window. He was leaning out, breathing in and out and flapping his arms round like a loon. His bottom is not tiny. If a very small pensioner was accidentally walking along behind him they might think there had been an eclipse of the sun.

  “Aahh, smell that air, Georgie. Makes you feel good to be alive, doesn’t it?”

  I pulled my duvet round me. “I won’t be alive for much longer if that freezing air gets into my lungs.”

  He came and sat on the bed. Oh God, he wasn’t going to hug me, was he? Fortunately Mutti yelled up the stairs, “Bob, breakfast is ready!” and he lumbered off. Breakfast is ready? Has everyone gone mad? When was the last time Mum made breakfast?

  Anyway, ho hum pig’s bum, I could snuggle down in my comfy holiday bed and do dreamy-dreamy about snogging the Sex God in peace now.

  10:32 a.m.

  Wrong.

  Clank, clank. “Gergy! Gingey!! It’s me!!”

  Oh Blimey O’Reilly’s trousers, it was Libby, mad toddler from the Planet of the Loons. When my adorable little sister came in I couldn’t help noticing that although she was wearing her holiday sunglasses she wasn’t wearing anything else. She was also carrying a pan. I said, “Libby, don’t bring the pan into . . . ”

  But she ignored me and clambered up into my bed, shoving me aside to make room. She has got hefty little arms for a child of four. She said, “Move up, bad boy. Mr. Pan tired.”

  Then she and Mr. Pan snuggled up against me. I almost shot out of bed, her bottom was so cold . . . and sticky . . . urghh.

  What is it with my room? You would think that at least on holiday I might be able to close my door and have a bit of privacy to do my holiday project (fantasy snogging), but oh no. There will probably be a coachload of German tourists in lederhosen looking round my room in a minute.

  I’m going to go and find the local locksmith (Hamish McLocksmith) and get two huge bolts for my door and you can only get in by appointment.

  Which I will never make.

  11:00 a.m.

  Libby has clanked off with Mr. Pan, thank the Lord. I don’t like to be near her naked botty for long, as something always lurks out of it.

  I think Mum and Dad are playing catch downstairs. I can hear them running up and down and giggling, “Gotcha,” and so on. Sacré bloody bleu. Très pathetico. Vati’s only been back for eighty-nine hours and I feel more than a touch of the sheer desperadoes coming on.

  11:10 a.m.

  Still, who cares about his parentosity and beardiness? Who cares about being dragged to the crappest, most freezing place known to humanity? I, Georgia Nicolson, offspring of loons, am, in fact, the GIRLFRIEND OF A SEX GOD. Yessssss!!!! Fab and treble marvelloso. I have finally trapped a Sex God. He is mine, miney, mine, mine. There is a song in my heart and do you know what it is? It is that well-known chart topper “Robbie, oh Robbie, I . . . er . . . Lobbie You!!! I Do I Do!!!”

  1:00 p.m.

  Hung around sitting on the gate watching the world go by. Unfortunately, it didn’t. All that went by were some loons talking gibberish (Scottish) and a ferret.

  Then Jock McThick or whatever his name is loomed up on his bike. He has an unfortunate similarity to Spotty Norman, i.e., acne of the head. This is not enhanced by him being a ginger nob. Jock said, “Me and the other lads meet oop at aboot nine just ootside Alldays. Mebbe see you later.”

  Yeah right, see you in the next life, don’t be late. Nothing is going to make me sadly go and hang out with Jock and his mates.

  8:59 p.m.

  Vati suggested we have a singsong round the piano tonight and started off with “New York, New York.”

  9:00 p.m.

  I took Angus for a walk to check out the nightlife that Jock McThick told me about. Angus is the only good thing about this trip. He’s really perked up. I know he longs for Naomi the sex kitten in his furry inside brain, but he is putting a brave face on it. In fact, he is strutting around like he owns Scotland. This is, after all, his birthplace. He can probably hear the call of the Scottish Highlands quite clearly here. The call that says, “Kill everything that moves.” There were four voles all lined up on the doorstep this morning. Mum said she found a dead mouse in her tights. I didn’t ask where she had left them. If I ask her anything she just giggles and goes stupid. Since Dad came home her brain has fallen out.

  Angus has made a new furry chum. None of the other local cats will come near our cottage. I think there was a duffing-up challenge last night. The black-and-white cat I saw in the lane yesterday has quite a bit of its ears missing now. Angus’s new mate is a retired sheepdog called Arrow. I say he is retired, but sadly he is too barmy and old to know that he is retired, so he keeps rounding things up anyway. Not usually sheep though . . . things like chickens, passing cars . . . old Scottish people doing their haggis shopping. Angus hangs out with Arrow and they generally terrorize the neighborhood and lay waste to the wildlife.


  9:30 p.m.

  It’s quite sweet and groovy walking along with Angus and Arrow. They pad along behind me. At least I have got some intelligent company in this lonely Sex Godless hellhole.

  When the three of us got to Alldays, Scotland’s premier nightspot, I couldn’t believe it.

  Alldays turns out to be a tiny twenty-four-hour supermarket.

  Not a club or anything.

  A bloody shop.

  And all the “youth” (four Jock McThicks on bikes) just go WILD there. They hang around in the aisles in the shop, listening to the piped music! Or hang about outside on their pushbikes and go in the shop now and again to buy Coca-Cola or “Irn-bru”!

  Sacré bloody bleu and quel dommage.

  midnight

  That was it. The premier nightspot of Scotland.

  I said to Mutti, “Have you noticed how exceptionally crap it is here?”

  And she said, “You have to make your own fun in places like this. You have to make things happen. Anyway, you do exaggerate.”

  12:30 a.m.

  Hoot hoot. Scuffle scuffle. Root root. Hey, Mutti is right, it is FANTASTIC fun here!! There’s an all-night party going on right outside my window!!! I would join in, but sadly I am not a badger.

  About the Author

  LOUISE RENNISON is the best selling and award-winning author of the angst-filled Confessions of Georgia Nicolson. Louise lives in Brighton, the San Francisco of England (apart from the sun, Americans, the Golden Gate Bridge, and earthquakes).

  You can visit georgia online at

  www.georgianicolson.com

  Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.