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Love Is a Many
Trousered Thing

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Bonjour, matey-type mates. It is me here. In person(ish).

August, as we know, is a time for lolling about like a lolling thing in a bikini. But not if you live in Billy Shakespeare land where it has rained so much that the ducks are wearing welligogs. (Please don't start saying you don't know what welligogs are, ducks don't either as they can't speak, but they are still wearing them. So join in).

Now as you know, I don't complain or gossip about people very much, but blimey O'Reilly's trousers, you lot are making a fuss and kafuffle about David Beckham coming over to your land to kick a ball about and show off. He's just a footballer for Heaven’s sakes. Actually he's not even that now, he is a SOCCER player, who doesn't even go to the loo, he goes to the REST ROOM. By the way, how many different haircuts can one bloke have in a month? A LOT is the answer in his case. Personally I think he only came over to Hamburger-a-gogo land to avoid the rain as it spoils his hair. That is what I think.

Also, I thought that Wet Lindsaystick insect and general twithad the knobbliest knees known to humanity, but I was wrong. Victoria Beckham takes the biscuit, knobbly knees wise...if only she ate biscuits. Also, and forgive me if I am right, but there is a suggestion of the goldfish about her.

Anyway, it is vair vair childish to rave on about what you imagine it would be like to snog a goldfish and so on, so onto more serious things. Have you bothered to read my latest diary, Love Is a Many Trousered Thing yet? Or have you just been too BUSY lying around in the rays of that mysterious yellow thing in the sky that I once saw last March?

For those of you who have read Love Is a Many Trousered Thing (the vair vair clever and groovy amongst you), isn't it typical that once you have one Luuurve God in your hand another Sex God turns up? Especially when you thought the Sex God had gone off to snog wombats in Kiwi-a-gogo land. Add to that having to look at teachers in the nuddy pants and Rosie in her beard and the whole thing becomes a facsimile of a shambles of a fiasco. And then there is always the Dave the Laugh snoggability factor.

Sometimes I get so vair tired and think, “no, I will not tell my little pals about what is happening to me,” but then I think, “but I luuuuurve them, I must go on."

And on.

And on.

Loads of luurve,

P.S. And don't forget (in between your busy tanning schedule) to enter the sweepstakes to win a signed copy of my new diary, at www.georgianicolson.com!

P.P.S. And guess what, there is going to be a film made of my diaries.

P.P.P.S. Imagine, ME on the big screen.

P.P.P.P.S. Imagine Angus on the big screen...

P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. Imagine how thrilled my vati will be to see his never very small bottom transferred to 20 feet high.

Crikey, I've even alarmed myself now.


The Confessions of Georgia Nicolson
by Louise Rennison