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A Night Out With Georgia Quiz!

Here it is, Georgia’s quiz on how to prepare for painting le town rouge, as the French say. Possibly. I don’t know, I’ve done French for five years and I still don’t know what they are going on about. It seems mostly to do with dancing on bridges or les singes dans les arbres. (“Monkeys in trees” . . . well, you did ask.)
Anyway let’s press on.
This is the quiz.

Oh giddy god’s trousers and matching beard! Tonight is a Stiff Dylans gig. It’s already 8:00 in the morning and I am worried I won’t have enough time to cleanse and tone, apply mashedup-banana face pack, practice puckering-up exercises, get Angus out of my pants drawer and avoid talking to my dad about where I’m going. Few people know how vair vair tough it is being the girlfriend of a Luuurve God. It’s not all snogging and snacks. I must look in tip-top condition and exude sophisticosity and bon vivant, etc.

Even though I know you are all lazy kittykats and would rather lie around smearing chocolate on yourselves (oo-er) I want you to make an effort and do my little quizette. Do it because you luuurve me.

Go on.
I will luuurve you like billio if you do.

1. I want to have that glowing, just-got-to-Number 6 with just a hint of Number 7-on-the-snogging-scalewith-a Luuurve-God look. What kind of makeup shall I wear?

Boy entrancers, of course!
Oh, nothing much—just a little foundation, blush, lippy, lip gloss and a hint of eyeliner, to exude casualosity.
I am alluring as an alluring thing on allure tablets and don’t need any artificial help.

2. Oh no! I feel a lurker fiasco coming on. And it is on the end of my nose. And I don’t want the attractive (not) two-nose look. How should I banish it to buggery?

Spend the entire day cleansing and toning. With not even a snack break. (Although maybe I’ll just grab one jammy dodger to stave off scurvy.)
Put half a ton of concealer on and practice sucking in my face for subtlenosity.
Maybe if I put enough ITALIAN perfume on the lurker that my ITALIAN boyfriend got me from Pizza-a-gogo land, no one will notice . . . and the lurker will just dry up and go away. Or even if it doesn’t I will have so much perfume on that no one will get near enough to see my two noses.

3. I will probably be giving my all, disco-infernowise, all night and need to think about what to wear. Although I want to exude sophisticosity and glamourosity I do not want to show my pantaloonies to all and sundry. So what should I wear? a. b. c.

My leather miniskirt, to show off groovy and baldy bald dancing legs.
My new jeans, which, although they are so tight it takes me half an hour to zip them up and I won’t be able to go to the loo all night, do not and will not reveal my pantaloonies.
The party dress Mum bought me as punishment for being me. She says she bought it because it is lovely and so am I. But she is fibbing about the lovely bit. She made me wear it to visit the elderly mad (Grandvati and his knitted girlfriend Maisie) and when Grandvati saw me in my “lovely” dress he hid in a cupboard and said through the door, “Don’t let it hurt me, give it a drink of water.” Like I was an alien.

4. To prevent falling over and crashing about like a loon, the right footwear is crucial. Do you recommend:

High heels, though these may be a problem if I suddenly have to run off and catch a train (i.e. hide in a bush).
Fabby fab knee-high leather boots, which Dave the Laugh says make me look like a sex kitty. (How did Dave the Laugh get in here? Shut up, brain!)
Trainers, like Wild Woman of the Forest, a.k.a. Jas, wears on her nature walks. I know I never thought the day would come when I would consider wearing ludicrous outdoorcamping, snail-collecting wear. But nothing gets in the way of the disco inferno. Nothing.

5. As you know, tragedy can hit you in the face at any time. Yes, I am talking about nungas. There must be no chance of ad hoc jiggling or nip nip emergence. Obviously the first step is a firm hand in the over the shoulder boulder holder (bra) department. But hand in hand with this (if you see what I mean) I must choose the right top. Should this be:

A very tight, very low-cut top that is double cool with knobs even if on anyone else (i.e., Wet Lindsay) it might look tarty.
My new crossover top which really actually makes my nungas and my nose look quite small. Ish.
Masimo’s leather jacket. (Phwooo-ar!)

6. As we all know, there are always flies in the ointment. Usually wearing leather trousers in my vati’s case. What is it with parents? Why are they so nosy? They always want to know what you are doing and when you will be back. Why? I’m not interested in what they do. But there you have it. Life is not fair. So what are the best plans for making them shut up about stuff when you are off to meet a Luuurve God?

Say, “Mutti. Vati. I will meet the Ace Gang down at the corner and we will travel Ameobastyle (i.e., attached) all night. Goodbye.”
Bribe Jas with midget gems and the promise of a new owl for her stuffed owl collection to let me spend the night at hers. (Oh, and make sure to tell Mutti that I am staying at Jas’s when she is in a good mood—i.e., BEFORE I show her her Chanel bag which I accidentally let Sven use as a Viking hat and the feathers won’t come off.)
Give in to the elderly parent-type-loons and allow myself to be picked up by Vati in his clown car.

7. At the club, it is important to be ready for luuurve at all times.

Should I stand around looking v. groovy and batting my boy-entrancered eyes in the direction of the stage whenever possible?
Engage the gang in full-on get-down, get-upagain, sound-your-hoooorn Disco Infernosity (extra points for Viking horns and/or snot)?
Or make frequent trips to the piddly-diddly department just when the band is on a break, so that I can keep bumping into them?

8. When leaving le club, if my life is anything to go by, which it is, I may end up with one or two or more maybe-boyfriends. Or I may end up goosegogging along with Rosie and Sven snogging for England, and Jas and Hunky going on about voles. All aloney on my owney. How can I make sure I get the boy(s)?

Act very groovy and cool and say things to them like “Yeah, I’m cool, are you cool? Yeah, I’m cool” and pull away. So that the rubber band will bounce back. Although hopefully not in my eye.
Shout loudly and in an amusing way, “WELL, I’M AWAY LAUGHING ON A FAST CAMEL!” And check to see if any Sex Gods/Luurve Gods/potential lip-nibblers are following me.
When the Luurve God finally says, “I am free man for you, are you free man for me?” laugh like a drain that has jelloid pantaloonies, ask him if he’s seen the footie scores this arvie, then run like mad. To catch the nearest train. In a bush.