‘Knocked out by my nunga-nungas.’

Copyright

HarperCollins Children’s Books An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by Piccadilly Press Ltd 2001

Published by Scholastic Ltd 2002

This edition published by HarperCollins Children’s Books 2006

Copyright © Louise Rennison 2001

The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

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Source ISBN: 9780007218691

Ebook Edition © MARCH 2011 ISBN: 9780007397327

Version: 2017-01-11

Dedication

With love and thanks to my family – Mutti and Vati, Sophie and John, Kimmy and, of course, the magnificent three – Eduardo Delfonso Delgardo, Honor and Libbsy. To the Kiwi-a-gogo branch of the family and also in memory of Eth and Ted. Again I would like to thank my fab mates for not killing me. You know who you are: Pip “What an exciting conversion” Pringle, Jeddbox, Jimjams, Elton, Jools and the Mogul, Lozzer, Bobbins, Porky Morgan, Geff “Guildford calling”, Jo Good, Tony the Frock, Jenkins the Pen, Philip K, Kim and Sandy, Baggy Aggiss, Cock of the North and family, all my old school mates – Barbara D, Sheila R and Rosie M, etc., and thank you to Black Dog the captain. To the fabulous St Nick’s support group, in particular Aunti Haze and Doug. To the Natural Health Centre. Especial thanks again to Piccadilly – to the lovely Brenda and Jude, and Margot for selling me to Europe … and in particular to Germany: having a book called Frontal Knutschen is a marvellous thing. To my new mates at Scholastic – Nyree, and Kirsty and Gavin. And huge thanks to the truly marvy Clare Alexander and the quietly magnificent Gillon Aitken.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Return of the loonleader

Snog Fest

Away laughing on a fast camel

Big red bottomosity

Trouser snakes-a-go-go

Fish party

Keep Reading

Georgia’s Glossary

Preview

About the Author

Other Books By

About the Publisher

Return of the loonleader

Thursday October 21st 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 ostracised 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 PE 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 PE 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 RE and Miss Wilson can’t even control her tragic 70s 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 see if Miss Wilson has a nervy spaz.

Jas will be practising 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 from college 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. Goodnight. Just because Elvis Attwood, school caretaker from 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 antagonise 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 14? 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. 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.”

Bloody sacré 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.

But … na-na-na-na-na and who-gives-two-short-flying-pigs’-botties? because I live in Love Heaven.

Lalalalalalala.

I am the girlfriend of a Sex God!!!

Yesss!!! Result!!!!

8:15 p.m.

The Sex God said I should phone him from Scotland when I go up there. 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. It makes me feel sick even thinking about it. He got hold of Mum’s nip-nips(!) through her sweater and then sort of twiddled them around. He was going, “Calling all cars, calling all cars, are you receiving me?”

Like he was tuning a radio or something. With her basoomas.

Mum said, “Stop it, Bob, what are you like!”

But then they both were laughing and grappling about on the sofa. 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 goodnight.

Friday October 22nd Scotland Raining In a crap cottage in nowhere 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 Dad’s head off, steal the car and drive, drive like the wind back home. 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(l).

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 though, now 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 morgan, 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 around like a loon. His bottom is not tiny. If a very small pensioner was accidentally walking along behind him they may 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.

Wrong.

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

Oh Blimey O’ReiIley’s trousers, it was Libby, mad toddler from 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 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 marvellosos. 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 had 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 inside his furry 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 terrorise the neighbourhood 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 hell-hole.

9:35 p.m.

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.”

Vati said, “Your cousin will be here tomorrow.”

Double merde. Vati reaches alarming levels of bonkerosity sometimes. Why does he think I will be pleased to see my cousin James, also known as Pervy Jimjams, pervert extraordinaire?

12:30 a.m.

Hoot hoot. Scuffle scuffle. Root root. Good grief, it’s like a badger party out there … Oh no, no, hang on, I forgot – I am enjoying my lovely holiday. Mum was right. I am exaggerating. Something did happen at Scotland’s premier hotspot. One Jock McThick lit up a fag and had such a coughing fit that he spilt his Coke on his trousers and had to go home.

1:00 a.m.

Honestly.

I am not kidding.

1:30 a.m.

I wonder if it would be uncool to walk the forty-eight miles into town and phone the SG?

1:35 a.m.

Or walk home to England?

Sunday October 24th 10:20 a.m.

Still in Och-aye land. Tartan trousers for as far as the eye can see.

10:31 a.m.

How many hours has it been since I saw Robbie now? Hmmm, ninety hours and thirty-six minutes.

10:46 a.m.

How many minutes is that?

11:04 a.m.

Oh God, I don’t know. I can’t do multiplication very well; it’s too jangly for my brain. I’ve tried to explain this to Miss Stamp our maths Oberführer (and part-time lesbian). It is not, as she stupidly suggests, that I am too busy writing notes to my mates or polishing my nails to concentrate, it is just that some numbers give me the mental droop.

Eight for instance.

It’s the same in German. As I pointed out to Herr Kamyer, there are too many letters in German words.

The German types say Goosegot in the morning; how normal is that? In fact, how can you take a language like that seriously? Well you can’t, which is why I only got sixty per cent in my last German exam.

11:50 p.m.

I’m just going to lie in bed conserving my strength for a snogging extravaganza when I get home.

Midday

Mutti came into my room with a tray of sandwiches. I said, “Goosegot in Himmel, Mutti, have you gone mad? Food? For me? No, no, I’ll just have my usual bit of old sausage.”

She still kept smiling. It was a bit eerie actually. She was all dreamy. Wafting around in a see-through nightie. Good Lord.