Dancing in My Nuddy-Pants Read online

  I ended up doing the stupid boring quiz because it insinuated itself into my brain. I am very impressionable, which is why people should be very careful about what they bother me with. For instance, when we did Treasure Island I developed a limp. Anyway, it turns out that I am a moderate Owl. On our way to Maths I said to Jas, “That means that, although I like to go to bed late and get up late, I am not very fond of field mice.”

  She said, “Your eyes are a bit owly, sort of bulgey.”

  “Oh dear, now the little Lark is going to get a duffing from the moderate Owl.” And then I biffed her over the head with my Science overall. She said I had to stop, because I was making her fringe go all wonky. And no one wants that.

  break

  I have been made hockey captain!!! Honestly, at this rate I will become a regular citizen and possibly start doing voluntary work with the elderly mad! Er no, forget that bit. I’ve just remembered the last time I went round to Granddad’s and accidentally went into his secret money drawer to borrow a few pounds for essentials. Chewing gum and so on. He had set his false teeth open as a trap. When I opened the drawer they slammed shut.

  Even though he is supposed to be deaf, Granddad heard his false teeth bang shut from the bottom of his garden. He laughed so much I thought I might have to call the emergency services. But I contented myself by hiding his pipe.

  Anyway, back to my triumph on the pitch. Miss Stamp announced that I would be captain. The ace gang were all doing the “Let’s go down the disco” dance as celebration, until Miss Stamp told them to pull themselves together and get into the showers. Which quite literally put a dampener on things.

  When we were dressed and going off to English, Miss Stamp took me to one side and said, “You have the makings of quite a good captain, Georgia. Make sure your attitude matches your hockey skills.”

  I haven’t the faintest idea what she is on about. I said to Rosie, “Is she implying that I have insufficient maturiosity?”

  Rosie said, “I don’t know…but…let’s go down the disco!”

  We did our special disco inferno dancing across the playing fields. Elvis was lurching around in his overalls. “What are you doing now? Messing about, playing the giddy goat.”

  I tried to explain pleasantly to the old maniac that we were in girlish high spirits. Pointless, though. He just went mumbling off.

  “In my new capacity as hockey captain,” I said, “I may have him confined to his hut for the foreseeable future.”

  in the front room

  7:00 p.m.

  Vati said, “I’m going to start going to the gym three times a week to get in peak physical condition for our football matches.” I didn’t laugh. He started doing a sit-up in the front room. Good grief.

  I went off into the kitchen in search of something to eat. Oh yummy, a yogurt without mold on it! Mum does not take her nurturing role very seriously. But if I complain she’ll only say something ridiculous, like “I’m at work all day. Why don’t you make something?”

  When I went back into the front room, Dad was back lying on the sofa watching TV. I asked him, “How many sit-ups did you do?”

  “Well, I think it’s a mistake to rush into things.”

  “Just the one, then?”

  He pretended to be interested in some gardening program.

  7:30 p.m.

  Mum came in from her girls’ aerobics all red and giddy. She said to Vati, “Don’t get up, Bob, try and rest yourself.” But I don’t think she meant it. I followed her into the kitchen in the hope that she might have some food hidden in her leotard. She did have a tin of beans, as it happens, so we tucked in.

  “It’s very very like Paris in our home,” I told her.

  She wasn’t paying any attention—just being red and adjusting her bra. Then she burbled on. “We had such a laugh tonight, Gee. Prue and Sandy went to this singles bar the other night and got off with a couple of Russian sailors. Sandy said Ivan could only say Nyet but that he was a really good snogger.”

  I just looked at her.

  “Mum, that is disgusting.”

  “Why?”

  “Because, well, they are mothers.”

  “I know, but they haven’t got husbands anymore. They are single women again who have children.”

  “I know, but…”

  She’d gone off on one, though. “Do you think that anyone over twenty-five should just stay in forever?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re being ridiculous.”

  “I am not.”

  “You’re a teenage prude.”

  I was thinking, A prude, am I? You wouldn’t say that if you knew the amount of lip nibbling I had done. I have been practically eaten alive by boys! But I didn’t say it.

  8:30 p.m.

  In the bath, contemplating my life as the girlfriend of a Sex God and also tip-top hockey captain.

  And also why nunga-nungas float. What is the point of that? Perhaps in prehistoric days they were used as life belts in times of flood. But if that was the case, why did they bother with Noah’s Ark? Mrs. Noah and all the women could have just floated about and everyone else could have climbed on board.

  Then I heard raised voices. Libby started shouting, “Fight, fight!”

  Vati was yelling, “I don’t watch television all the time…and what if I did, what’s wrong with that?”

  Mum yelled back, “It’s boring—that’s what’s wrong with it!”

  “Well let’s talk about bloody aerobics, then. Go on, tell me how many times you wiggled your arse in time to the music!”

  “Boring pig!”

  And then Libby started yelling, “Bad piggy, bad piggy!!”

  Sacré bloody bleu. I am going to be an orphan soon. Ah well.

  friday january 28th

  breakfast

  This not talking to each other thing is driving me to the brink of bonkerosity. How am I supposed to experience growing up if the so-called grown-ups are making me be the most grown-up?

  Mum said to me, “Would you ask your father if he would mind looking after his daughter Liberty tomorrow evening, as I have a pressing social engagement?”

  Oh, good Lord. I said to Dad, who was half an inch away fiddling with his beard, “Dad, would you mind looking after your daughter Liberty tomorrow evening, which is, incidentally, when I shall be at a pressing social engagement myself, because Mutti also has a pressing social engagement, apparently.”

  Dad went all red and trousery. He said, “This is ballocks.”

  I said to Mum, “He said this is ballocks.”

  And Dad said, “Don’t bloody swear. It’s not clever.”

  And I said, “And he said, don’t bloody swear, it’s not clever.”

  Dad started to say, “Don’t be so bl—” and then he stopped and I looked at him in a helpful way and said, “And he said, don’t be so bl—” But he walked out and slammed the door.

  Mum said, “He’s so childish.” Which is true, but I think it’s ironic that she should say it when she is wearing a T-shirt that says “Go Girl” and fluffy mules.

  saturday january 29th

  Up at the crack of 8:00 A.M. for pregig preparations.

  Vati was up as well in his ludicrous football shorts. He was being all “masculine.” Mum was still ignoring him, but I said, “Good-bye, Vati. This may be the last time I see you fully limbed.”

  He chucked me under my chin and said, “I’m in my prime, Georgia, they won’t know what hit them.” Then he strode off like he thought he was David Beckham. Which I think he does.

  I said to Mum, “Vati is very very like David Beckham, isn’t he? Apart from being porky, heavily bearded and crap at football.”

  She just tutted and did that basooma-adjusting thing she does.

  10:00 a.m.

  When I came out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel Mum was staring at me. Surely she couldn’t tell that I had used her strictly forbidden skin stuff?

  “What?” I said.

  “Your elbows
stick out a lot.”

  What fresh hell? Sticky-out elbows??? I said, “What are you talking about?”

  She was prodding my arms. “Well, they do, don’t they? I’ve never noticed them sticking out like that before. Look at mine. They aren’t like yours. Do you think you’ve dislocated them playing hockey or something?”

  Dislocated my elbows? I stormed off to my room to inspect them. Perfectly ordinary elbows. Maybe a bit sticky-outy, though.

  Phoned Jas. “Jas, do you think my elbows stick out?”

  She was, as usual, chewing something, probably her fringe. “They’ve always been a bit odd-looking.”

  Thank you, Nurse Jas. She’s too self-obsessed to bother with my elbows. She just raved on about how she and Tom have joined the Ramblers’ Association. She’s not kidding. She could ramble on for England. I didn’t know there was a special association for it.

  lunchtime

  in my bedroom

  I am having some relaxing “me” time. And me time means groovy music and an eye mask. Libby is making some earmuffs for the kittykats, out of some cotton wool, I think.

  1:30 p.m.

  Mum came in and went ballisticisimus. The cotton wool earmuffs for the kittykats are made from her new packet of tampons. She huffed off with what was left and accused me of selfishosity for not noticing. I yelled after her, “Mum, it is very hard to notice anything when you have tea bags on your eyes.”

  She came back in again to take Libby down for her bath and said, “I think we should get those elbows looked at.”

  What is she rambling on about? Get them looked at by whom? An elbowologist, no doubt.

  On the funny side, I have just looked up “elbow” in German and it is Ellbogen.

  Campingfahrt means not, as you might imagine, an unfortunate incident with Libby in a tent…. It means “camping trip.” I think I have a natural talent for languages.

  6:30 p.m.

  Mucho excitemondo and jelly knickers activity. I am a vision in black, wearing my new and groovoid boots.

  7:00 p.m.

  Met the gang at the usual place to go to the gig. Sven had his special flares on. They have a battery in them and little lightbulbs all the way down the seams. When he presses the battery his trousers light up. He really is bonkers. And huge.

  When we got to the door of the Buddha Lounge he said to the door guy, “Got evening, I am Sven and these are my chicks. Let us in, my trousers want to boogie.” And Rosie isn’t a bit embarrassed.

  We all went immediately to the loos. It was the usual scrum in there. Ellen was sooooo nervous (again), like a jelly bean on a trampoline. She kept going into a ditherspaz, saying, “I really, really rate Dave, you know.”

  We said, “We know.”

  “But I really, you know, like him.”

  “WE KNOW!!!”

  Out in the club it was heaving. We found a little corner to use as gang headquarters and had a good eyeball around. All the lads were by the bar, Dave the L (hmmm, cool shirt), Rollo, Tom, and a bunch of their friends. Oh, and Mark Big Gob was there with his rough mates. I hadn’t seen him since the telephone box incident. He deliberately looked at my nungas and licked his lips. I pity his poor tiny midget girlfriend. At least my basoomas are nicely protected in their Christmas holder. Mutti said she got it specially because it had “extra-firm control.”

  Then, from behind the stage, The Stiff Dylans came out to start their set. Groovy pajamas. Everyone went wild. The Sex God looked around and saw me (just casually flicking my hair back and exuding sophisticosity). He smiled at me and then blew me a kiss. Oh, yes! In front of everyone. Oh, yes and bon!

  10:00 p.m.

  Dancefest extraordinaire. Top fun all night. As I may have said before, Dave the Laugh is…er…a laugh. And also quite a cool dancer. Ellen doesn’t really like dancing, so when she had gone off to the ladies’ he made me do the conga with him. He made me do it to “Oh No, It’s Me Again,” which is one the Sex God composed that’s on my Chrimbo compilation tape. It’s a slow number and really serious about someone (van Gogh, I think) who wakes up and looks at himself in the mirror and says, “Oh no, it’s me again,” which is depressing. But not to Dave the Laugh, who thought it was a conga opportunity. Robbie was singing with his eyes closed (hmmm, very moody), but then during the slow guitar break he looked up and I think he caught sight of me and Dave conga dancing. He didn’t look full of happinosity. In fact, he looked a bit miffed.

  I stopped doing the conga then, but Dave shouted at me, “Don’t stop mid-conga; it’s very bad for my cong.”

  What in the name of Elton John’s codpiece is he on about? He’s naughty, though. When we were dancing he let his hands sort of drift onto my bottom. I could feel it slightly flushing. Down, bottom, down.

  Ellen still wasn’t back from the loo, so we went across to the bar to get a cold drink. He said, “I think I have got the General Horn.”

  I said, “What is that?”

  He explained that “having the Horn” means fancying people. And it’s got various stages. “You can have the Specific Horn, when you fancy one person. Then if it gets worse you get the General Horn, which is when you fancy loads of people. But worst of all is the Cosmic Horn.”

  He was really making me laugh and feel funny at the same time, but I couldn’t help asking, “What in the name of Lucifer’s bottom is the Cosmic Horn?”

  “That is when you fancy everything and everyone in the universe.”

  Blimey.

  Ellen came over then and grabbed Dave’s arm. She said, all girlie, “Dave, do you fancy going outside? I’m a bit hot.”

  Dave sort of hesitated and looked at me in a peculiar way and then said, “Me too.” And they went off. Ellen is sooo keen on him, she has no pridosity.

  I said to Jas (and Tom, as they are like Siamese twins. I wonder what happens when she goes to the loo?), “Honestly, Ellen is really uncool about Dave. She practically stalks him.”

  Jas said, “You stalked Robbie.”

  I laughed in an attractive way. “Oh Jas, I did not stalk him….”

  Jas rambled on like an unstoppable loon. “And you made me assistant stalker. Also, do you remember when you made me go round to Wet Lindsay’s house and we went and looked in her bedroom window and saw her in her thong?”

  Tom said, “You went round to Lindsay’s house and looked in her window? I didn’t know that! Does Robbie know?”

  I quickly said, “Tom, have you ever had the Cosmic Horn?”

  Just then The Stiff Dylans finished their set and came off stage. I went off to find Robbie for a snog break, but it was hopeless. There were loads of girls all crowded around him in the dressing room, and I couldn’t get near.

  He said over the top of their heads, “I’ll walk you home at the end, don’t leave.”

  midnight

  Outside the Buddha Lounge. Jas asked, “Is your vati picking you up?”

  “No,” I told her. “I’ve got a special prison pass, which means that I am allowed to get home by myself. Mostly because Mum is out and Dad can’t walk after playing football with the ‘lads.’ They only lost thirteen to zero.”

  The gang set off, a band of merry snoggers, and I was left outside by myself.

  12:15 a.m.

  Brr, quite nippy noodles. Where is he?

  I went and looked in through the doors, Robbie was talking to six girls: the rest of the band’s girlfriends, Sam, Mia and India, and another three. I recognized a couple of them because they used to be in the sixth form and had gone off to London to fashion college or something. Perhaps that explained why one (Petra) was wearing a Tibetan bonnet with earflaps. Petra had long blond hair that poked out of her bonnet (very Tibetan…not). She was swishing it about like, er, a swishing thing. Robbie was laughing with them. But as I always say, She who laughs last…er…doesn’t always get the joke.

  Why was he talking to them? Perhaps he was doing PR for his career. Or perhaps they were like those groupies I read about that used to hang ar
ound boys in groups and make little statues of their manly parts out of plaster of Paris. I didn’t see any bags of plaster, though. Although one of them did have a haversack. The plaster might be in there. Just then Robbie saw me and said, “Georgia, hi.”

  Petra looked round and said (in a bonnetty way), “Oh hi, Georgia. Long time no dig. How are you? How’s Stalag 14? Not wearing your beret?” And she laughed in a common way.

  Robbie looked a bit uncomfortable and said quite quickly, “Well, nice to see you all again. See you later. Come on, Georgia.”

  Hahahaha and double hahaha. That shut Petra up. She looked amazed to see me and Robbie walk off together.

  Robbie was a bit quiet on the way home, but when we walked through the park he got hold of me and kissed me for a really long time. I only remembered to start breathing halfway through, so I nearly passed out.

  It was like a snoggers’ rave in the park. Every bush was full of them. Mark Big Gob was there with his tiny little girlfriend. And it was very dark, but I am almost sure that he picked her up and put her on a tree stump to snog her. Either that or her legs get very fat towards the ankles.

  When we got to my gate, Robbie said, “Petra has just come back from backpacking round India and Nepal.”

  I said, “Oh, that explains the earflaps.”

  The Sex God pinched my nose. “What am I going to do with you?”

  “Take me to Hamburger-a-gogo land with you.”

  “Hmm, I wonder what your dad would say to that.”

  “He’d say ’bye and God bless all who sail in you.” SG didn’t look like he believed me. Or knew what in the name of arse I was talking about.

  1:00 a.m.

  Libby was still up when I got in. She had her pajama top on but her bottom was flowing free and wild. She is not what you would call inhibited, which is a pity. She was giving Teddy a late-night haircut. Mum said when I came in, “Come on, Libbs, it’s very late and your big sister is home now. Time for bed.”

  Libby didn’t even look up, she just said, in an alarmingly grown-up voice, “Not now, dear, I’m busy.”