On Sale Now!
Love Is a Many
Trousered Thing
Watch video of Louise!
Take the HarperTeen Survey!
|
|
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 Lindsay—stick insect and general
twit—had 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,
Georgia
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
www.georgianicolson.com
|
|
