Copyright

      Angus, thongs and full-frontal snogging was first published in Great Britain by Piccadilly Press Ltd in 1999, then by HarperCollins Children’s Books in 2005

      Copyright © Louise Rennison 1999, 2000.

       All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

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

      ISBN-13: 978-0-00-727467-3

      ISBN-10: 0-00-727467-X

      Ebook Edition © 2010 ISBN: 9780007427277

      Version: 2016-02-16

      To Mutti and Vati and my little sister, also to Angus. His huge furry outside may have gone to cat heaven, but the scar on my ankle lingers on. Also to Brenda and Jude and the fab gang at Piccadilly. And thanks to John Nicolson.

      Contents

       Cover

       Title Page

      Copyright

      La marche avec mystery

      Operation sausage

      Tainted love

      A bit of rough

      The Stiff Dylans gig

      Exploding knickers

      Jas must die

      My dad has become Rolf Harris

      The snogging report

      I use it to keep my balls still

      Pyjama party

      The sex god has landed

      Georgia’s Glossary

      Further Confessions of Georgia Nicolson

       About the Publisher

      La marche avec mystery

      Sunday August 23rd

      My Bedroom

      Raining

      10:00 a.m.

      Dad had Uncle Eddie round so naturally they had to come and nose around and see what I was up to. If Uncle Eddie (who is bald as a coot – too coots, in fact) says to me one more time, “Should bald heads be buttered?” I may kill myself. He doesn’t seem to realise that I no longer wear romper-suits. I feel like yelling at him. “I am fourteen years old, Uncle Eddie! I am bursting with womanhood, I wear a bra! OK, it’s a bit on the loose side and does ride up round my neck if I run for the bus... but the womanly potential is there, you bald coot!”

      Talking of breasts, I’m worried that I may end up like the rest of the women in my family, with just the one bust, like a sort of shelf affair. Mum can balance things on hers when her hands are full – at parties, and so on, she can have a sandwich and drink and save a snack for later by putting it on her shelf. It’s very unattractive. I would like a proper amount of breastiness but not go too far with it, like Melanie Griffiths, for instance. I got the most awful shock in the showers after hockey last term. Her bra looks like two shopping bags. I suspect she is a bit unbalanced hormonally. She certainly is when she tries to run for the ball. I thought she’d run right through the fence with the momentum of her “bosoomers” as Jas so amusingly calls them.

      Still in my room

       Still raining

       Still Sunday

       11:30 a.m.

      I don’t see why I can’t have a lock on my bedroom door. I have no privacy: it’s like Noel’s House Party in my room. Every time I suggest anything around this place people start shaking their heads and tutting. It’s like living in a house full of chickens dressed in frocks and trousers. Or a house full of those nodding dogs, or a house full of... anyway... I can’t have a lock on my door is the short and short of it.

      “Why not?” I asked Mum reasonably (catching her in one of the rare minutes when she’s not at Italian evening class or at another party).

      “Because you might have an accident and we couldn’t get in,” she said.

      “An accident like what?” I persisted.

      “Well... you might faint,” she said.

      Then Dad joined in, “You might set fire to your bed and be overcome with fumes.”

      What is the matter with people? I know why they don’t want me to have a lock on my door, it’s because it would be a first sign of my path to adulthood and they can’t bear the idea of that because it would mean they might have to get on with their own lives and leave me alone.

      Still Sunday

       11:35 a.m.

      There are six things very wrong with my life:

      1. I have one of those under-the-skin spots that will never come to a head but lurk in a red way for the next two years.

      2. It is on my nose.

      3. I have a three-year-old sister who may have peed somewhere in my room.

      4. In fourteen days the summer hols will be over and then it will be back to Stalag 14 and Oberführer Frau Simpson and her bunch of sadistic “teachers”.

      5. I am very ugly and need to go into an ugly home.

      6. I went to a party dressed as a stuffed olive.

      11:40 a.m.

      OK, that’s it. I’m turning over a new leaf. I found an article in Mum’s Cosmo about how to be happy if you are very unhappy (which I am). The article is called “Emotional confidence”. What you have to do is Recall... Experience... and HEAL. So you think of a painful incident and you remember all the ghastly detail of it... this is the Recall bit, then you experience the emotions and acknowledge them and then you JUST LET IT GO.

      2:00 p.m.

      Uncle Eddie has gone, thank the Lord. He actually asked me if I’d like to ride in the sidecar on his motorbike. Are all adults from Planet Xenon? What should I have said? “Yes, certainly, Uncle Eddie, I would like to go in your pre-war sidecar and with a bit of luck all of my friends will see me with some mad, bald bloke and that will be the end of my life. Thank you.”

      4:00 p.m.

      Jas came round. She said it took her ages to get out of her catsuit after the fancy dress party. I wasn’t very interested but I asked her why out of politeness.

      She said, “Well, the boy behind the counter in the hire shop was really good-looking.”

      “Yes, so?”

      “Well, so I lied about my size – I got a size ten catsuit instead of twelve.”

      She showed me the marks around her neck and waist: they are quite deep. I said, “Your head looks a bit swollen up.”

      “No, that’s just Sunday.”

      I told her about the Cosmo article and so we spent a few hours recalling the fancy dress party (i.e. the painful incident) and experiencing the emotions in order to heal them.