Dancing in My Nuddy-PantsLouise Rennison
Dancing in My Nuddy-Pants
Confessions of Georgia Nicolson
Once again, this work of geniosity is dedicated to my lovely family (whom I lobe very much) and my beyond marvy mates. To Mutti, Vati, Soshie, John, Eduardo delfonso delgardo, Honor, Libbs, Millie, Arrow and Jolly, Kimbo, the Kiwi-a-gogo branch, Salty Dog, Jools and the Mogul, Big Fat Bob, Jimjams, Elton, Jeddbox, Lozzer, Mrs. H, Geoff, Mizz Morgan, Alan “it’s not a perm” Davies, Jenks the Pen, Kim and Sandy, Black Dog, Downietrousers and his lovely fiancée, Andy Pandy, Phil and Ruth, Cock of the North and family, Lukey and Sue, Tony the Frock, Ian the Computer, the Ace Gang from
Parklands, St Nicks.
Much love and thanks to the the fabulous
Clare (the Empress) and to Gillon, as always.
And with lots of love to my new family in Hamburger-a-gogo land and the HarperCollins crew. Especial thanks to Alix Reid and Tara and the very talented design and marketing types who have made me the HUGE (but charmingly modest) person I am today. And finally, Dancing in My Nuddy-Pants is dedicated to the lovely people who have read my books and written to tell me how much they aime them.
I love you all.
A Note from Georgia
She Who Laughs Last Laughs the Laughingest
School Panto Fiasco
(a.k.a. complete prats in tights)
Furry Baby Jesuses
The Cosmic Horn
Go Forth, Georgia, and Use Your Red Bottom Wisely
About the Author
Other Books by Georgia Nicolson
About the Publisher
A Note from Georgia
Hello, my gorgey little chums,
It’s me here writing to you once again from the seat of civilization (and no, I do not mean the lavatory…or rest room as you lot alarmingly call it). What I mean is I am writing to you from my bedroom to welcome you to another exciting(ish) diary of my fabulous life. Within these pages I run the gamut of emotions from A to—er—C, with just a dash of heavy snogging. You will laugh, you will cry, you will plead that you have a headache, but you know in the end you will have to read my book. And so you should, because as you know by now I am a naturally shy person and not one to dance around in the nuddy-pants for no good reason. Besides, it has taken me minutes…er…no, hours to write this diary for your enjoymentosity.
I do it only because I love you.
I mean this with deepest sinceriosity.
Which is not an easy thing to say. You try it and see.
Some complete fool (my vati) says that in Hamburger-a-gogo land “fanny” means bottom.
This can’t possibly be true. Teeheeee heeee.
It is true, isn’t it?
Do you know what “fanny” means in English?
I do; however it is a secret I will take with me to the grave.
she who laughs last laughs the laughingest
sunday november 21st
I’ve just seen a sparrow be quite literally washed off its perch on a tree. It should have had its umbrella up. But even if it had had its umbrella up it might have slipped on a bit of wet leaf and crashed into a passing squirrel. That is what life is like. Well, it’s what my life is like.
Once more I am beyond the Valley of the Confused and treading lightly in the Universe of the Huge Red Bottom. What is the matter with me? I love the Sex God and he is my only one and only, but try telling that to my lips. Dave the Laugh only has to say, “You owe me a snog,” and they start puckering up. Well, they can go out on their own in the future.
I wonder why the Sex God hasn’t phoned me? The Stiff Dylans got back yesterday from their recording shenanigan. Maybe he got van lag from traveling from London? Or maybe he has spoken to Tom and Tom has just happened to say, “Oh Robbie, we all went to a fish party last night and when we were playing Truth, Dare, Kiss or Promise your new girlfriend Georgia accidentally snogged Dave the Laugh. You should have been there, it was a brilliant display of red-bottomosity. You would have loved it!”
Oh God. Oh Goddy God God. I am a red-bottomed minx.
On the other foot, no one saw me accidentally snog Dave the Laugh, so maybe it can be a secret that I will never tell. Even in my grave.
But what if Jas has accidentally thought about something else besides her fringe and put two and two together vis-à-vis Dave the Laugh, and blabbed to her so-called boyfriend Tom.
She is, after all, Radio Jas.
I would phone Jas but I am avoiding going downstairs because it’s sheer bonkerosity down there. Mr. and Mrs. Across the Road have been over at least a trillion times saying, “Why? Oh why???” and, “How?” and occasionally, “I ask you, why? And how?”
At least I am not the only red-bottomed minx in the universe, or even in our street, actually. Naomi, the Across the Road’s pedigreed sex kitten is pregnant, even though she has been under house arrest for ages. Well, as I have pointed out to anyone who can understand the simplest thing (i.e., me and…er…that’s it), Angus cannot be blamed this time. He is merely an innocent stander-by in furry trousers.
I was forced to go downstairs in the end to see if I could find a bit of old Weetabix to eat. Fortunately Mr. and Mrs. Across the Road had gone home. However, the Loonleader (Dad) was huffing and puffing about trying to be grown-up, twirling his ridiculous beard and adjusting his trousers and so on.
I said, “Vati, people might take you more seriously if you didn’t have a tiny badger living on the end of your chin.”
I said it in a light-hearted and très amusant way, but as usual he went sensationally ballistic. He shouted, “If you can’t be sensible, BE QUIET!”
Honestly, the amount of times I am told to be quiet I might as well have not wasted my time learning to speak.
I could have been a mime artist.
I mimed wanting to borrow a fiver but Mutti pretended she didn’t know what I wanted.
Mr. and Mrs. Across the Road came around again with the backup loons (Mr. and Mrs. Next Door). I thought I had better sneak down and see what was going on. No sign of Angus, thank the Lord. I don’t think this is his sort of party (this being a cat-lynching party).
Mr. Across the Road is a bit like Vati, all shouty and trousery and unreasonable. He said, “Look, she’s definitely, you know, in the…er, family way. The question is, who is the father?”
Dad (the well-known cat molester) said, “Well, as you know, we took Angus to the vet and had him…er, seen to. So there is no question in that department.”
Mr. Across the Road said, “And they were…dealt with, were they? His…well…I mean they were quite clearly…er, snipped?”
This was disgusting! They were talking about Angus’s trouser snake addendums, which should have remained in the privacy of his trousers. They rambled on for ages, but as Gorgey Henri, our French student teacher, would say, it is “le grand mystère de les pantaloons.”
Which reminds me, I should do some French homework so that I stay top girl in French.
This is my froggy homework: “Unfortunately whilst staying in a gîte, you discover that your bicycle has been s
tolen. You decide to put an advert in the local paper. In French, write what your advert would say.”
My advert reads, “Merci beaucoup.”
Still no call from SG. I am once more on the rack of love.
“Why did you say ‘what’ like that?”
“You know, sort of…funny.”
“I always say ‘what’ like that, unless I’m speaking French; then I say ‘quoi?’ or if it’s German I say—”
“Jas, be quiet.”
“Don’t start again, let me get to my nub.”
“Sorry, go on then, get to your nub.”
“Well, you know when we were playing Truth, Dare, Kiss or Promise…”
She started laughing in an unusually annoying way, even for her—sort of snorting. Eventually she said, “It was a laugh, wasn’t it? Well, apart from when you made me put all those vegetables down my knickers. There’s still some soil in them.”
“Jas, now or any other time is not the time to discuss your knickers. This is a situation of sheer desperadoes, possibly.”
“Well, I haven’t heard from the Sex God and I thought maybe…”
“Oh, didn’t I tell you last night? He told me to tell you to meet him by the clock tower. He has to help his olds unpack some stuff for the shop this afternoon. Apparently they are going to sell an exciting new range of Mediterranean vine tomatoes that—”
“Jas, Jas. You are obsessed by tomatoes, that is the sadnosity of your life, but what I want to know is this: WHAT TIME did Robbie say to meet him at the clock tower?”
She was a bit huffy with me but said, “Seven thirty.”
Oh, thank you, thank you. “Jas, you know I have always loved you.”
She got a bit nervous then. “What do you want now? I’ve got my homework to do and—”
“My petite amie, do not avez-vous une spaz attack, I’m just saying that you are my number-one and tip-top pal of all time.”
“And what do you want to say to me?”
“No, you want to say how much you love me aussi.”
“Say it, then.”
There was a really long silence.
“Jas, are you there?”
“Come on, ours is the love that dares speak its name.”
“Do I have to say it?”
“Thanks. See you later, lezzie.” And I put down the phone. I am without a shadow of doubtosity VAIR amusant!
Just enough time for a beauty mask to discourage any lurking lurkers from rearing their ugly heads, then in with the heated rollers for maximum bounceability hairwise. And finally, a body inspection for any sign of orangutanness.
Now, a few soothing yoga postures to put me in the right frame of mind for snogging. (Although I bet Mr. Yoga says, “Avoid headstands whilst using hair rollers, as this causes pain and crashing into the wardrobe.” Only he would say it in Yogese, obviously.)
Uh-oh, I feel a bit of stupid brain coming on. Think calmosity.
Fat chance. I was just doing “down dog” when Libby burst in and started playing the drums on my bottom, singing her latest favorite, “Baa, Baa, Bag Sheet,” that well-known nursery rhyme. About a bag sheet that baas. “Baa, Baa, Bag Sheet” has replaced “Mary Had a Little Lard, Its Teats Was White Azno,” which she used to love best.
No sign of Angus. The loons are still having a world summit cat meeting downstairs. I heard clinking from the kitchen, which means that the vino tinto is coming out.
Usual dithering attack about what to wear. It’s officially dark so I need to go from day to evening wear. Also it’s a bit nippy noodles.
So I think black polo neck and leather boots…(and trousers of course). And for that essential hint of sophisticosity I might just have to borrow Mum’s Paloma perfume. She won’t mind. Unless she finds out, of course, in which case she will kill me.
Mum has got a plastic rain hat in her bag! How sad it would be to see her in it.
Still, on the plus side it means that she is taking a more reasonable attitude towards her age. Hopefully it means that she will be throwing away her short skirts and getting sensible underwear.
Oh, hang on, it’s not a rain hat; it’s a pair of emergency plastic knickknacks for Libbs. Fair enough, you can never be too careful vis-à-vis emergency botty trouble and my darling sister.
Sex God, here I come!!!
I didn’t bother to interrupt the loon party; I just left a note on the telephone table:
Dear M and V,
I hope the cat-lynching party is going well. I have found a bit of old toast for my tea and a Jammy Dodger to avert scurvy and gone out. Remember me when you get a moment.
P.S. Gone to meet Jas. Be back about 9 P.M. Hahahaha, très amusant(ish).
As I came into the main street I could see the Sex God was waiting for me by the clock tower. I ducked into a shop doorway for a bit of basooma adjusting and lip gloss application. Also, I thought I should practice saying something normal so that even if my brain fell out (as it normally does when I see him) my mouth could carry on regardless. I thought a simple approach was best. Something like, “Hi” (pause, and a bit of a sexy smile, lips parted, nostrils not flaring wildly), and then, “Long time no dig.”
Cool—a bit on the eccentric side, but with no hint of brain gone on holiday to Cyprus.
I came out of my shop doorway and walked towards him. Then he saw me. Oh heavens to Betsy, Mr. Gorgeous has landed.
He said, “Hi, Georgia” in his Sex-Goddy voice and I said, “Hi, Dig.”
He laughed. “Always a bit of a tricky thing knowing what you are talking about at first, Georgia. This usually makes it better….” And he got hold of my hand and pulled me towards him. Quick visit to number four on the snogging scale (kiss lasting three minutes without a breath). Yummy scrumboes and marveloso. If I could just stay attached to his mouth forever I would be happy. Dead, obviously, from starvation, but happy. Dead happy. Shut up, brain, shut up! Brain to mouth, brain to mouth: Do not under any circumstances mention being attached to his mouth forever.
The Sex God looked at me when he stopped his excellent snogging. “Did you miss me?”
“Is the Pope a vicar?” I laughed like a loon at a loon party (i.e., A LOT).
He said, “Er no, he’s not.”
What are we talking about? I’ve lost my grip already.
Luckily SG wanted to tell me all about London and The Stiff Dylans. We went and had a cappuccino at Luigi’s. As I have said many times, I don’t really get cappuccinos. It’s the Santa Claus mustache effect I particularly want to avoid. Actually, I have perfected a way of avoiding the foam mustache: what you do is drink the coffee like a hamster. You purse your lips really tightly and then only suck through the middle bit. Imagine you are a hamster having a cup of coffee at Hammy’s, the famous hamster coffee shop. Shut up, brain, shut up!!!
The Sex God told me all about an agent-type person offering them a record deal and them staying in this groovy hotel with room service and looking around London.
I said, in between sips of hamster coffee, “Did you see the Changing of the Gourds?”
He said, “Changing of the Gourds?”
Oh no…I had forgotten to unpurse my hamster lips.
“Guards. The Cha
nging of the Guards.”
He really didn’t seem to mind that he had a complete idiot for a girlfriend because he leaned over the table and kissed me. In public! In the café! Like in a French film. Everyone was looking. Of course then it meant that I had to nip off to the loos for emergency lip gloss application. It’s very hard work being the girlfriend of a Sex God.
We left Luigi’s and walked towards my house hand in hand. Thank goodness Robbie is tall enough for me. I don’t have to do the orangutan lolloping along that I had to do with Mark Big Gob. I think that must mean that we are perfect partners, because our arms are the same length.
When we reached the bottom of my street I said to the Sex God that it would be better if he wasn’t exposed to my parents because of the Angus fandango.
He asked me what had happened and I said, “Well, in a nutshell, Naomi is pregnant and the finger of shame is pointing towards Angus, even though he is, well, you know…not as other men in the trouser snake addendum department.”
When I eventually managed to tear myself away, SG gave me a really amazing number six with a dash of six and a quarter (tongues with lip nibbling). I managed to not fall over and I waved at him very nearly like a normal person when he went home. I like to think I handled the whole incident with sophisticosity.
That is what I like to think.
SG is meeting me on Tuesday after Stalag 14. Hurrah!
Everything is going to be fabbity fab fab and also possibly bon. Forevermore.
Wrong. Vati had his usual outburst of insanity when I let myself in.
“You treat this house like a bloody hotel!”
As if. The sanitary inspectors would close the place down if they saw the state of my room. What decent hotel has a toddler pooing in its closets?
Mutti was wearing what I think she imagines is a sexy negligee. I tried to ignore it and said, “What happened at the cat-lynching party?”
“Well, even though Mr. and Mrs. Across the Road think in principle Angus should be made into a fur handbag, they had to admit that he must be innocent of Naomi’s pregnancy.”