Then He Ate My Boy Entrancers: More Mad, Marvy Confessions of Georgia Nicolson

Then He Ate My Boy Entrancers: More Mad, Marvy Confessions of Georgia Nicolson

by Louise Rennison

ISBN: 9780060589370

Publisher HarperTeen

Published in Children's Books/Literature & Fiction, Children's Books/People & Places, Teens/General, Teens/Social Issues, Children's Books/Series, Teens/Literature & Fiction, Teens/Authors, A-Z

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Sample Chapter

saturday may 7th
10:05 a.m.

Sun shining like a big yellow shining . . . er, warmey planet on fire thing.


I am quite literally not wandering lonely as a clud, in fact I am treading lightly in the Universe of the Very Nearly Quite Happy.

10:10 a.m.
Something full of miraculosity has happened. My vati, world renowned fool and paid up member of the Big Twit club, has for once in his entire life accidentally done something good. We are going to Hamburger-a-gogo land in two weeks! Honestly.

And guess who is there already? Besides a lot of people in huge psychedelic shorts and that bloke who is half chicken, half colonel. I’ll tell you who is there, the Luuurve God is there!!! Masimo, the Italian stallion has gone to visit his olds, leaving me, his new, lurker-free nearly girlfriend back here in Billy Shakespeare land. So he thinks! Imagine how thrilled he will be when I pop up and say “Howdy!” Or whatever it is they say over there.

Let the overseas Snog Fest begin!

10:15 a.m.
The only fly in the ointmosity of life is that Vati is making us go to some crap clown-car convention.

10:20 a.m.
And Uncle Eddie, the baldest man on the planet, is coming with us.

10:25 a.m.
Still, with a bit of luck they will both be arrested for indecent exposure when they don their leather motoring trousers.

10:30 a.m.
Filled with the joie de vivre that is so much a part of my attractive but modest personality, I phoned my bestest pally.

“Jas, it is mich, your sehr guttest pally; I am calling you mit wunderbarnews!”

“Oh God. Look, it’s only a week till Tom leaves and we were just sorting out my—”

“Jas, I cannot waste time discussing your knicker collection; that is between you and Tom . . . quite literally . . . hahahahaha. Do you get it? Do you get it? Knickers . . . between you and Hunky . . . do you . . .”

But as I should have known from long and tiring experience, it is useless to waste my wit on Jassy. So I cut to my nub and gist.

“I am going to Hamburger-a-gogo land to meet Masimo the Luuurve God of the Universe and Beyond. And back.”

“No you’re not.”

“I am.”


I explained to Jas about the trip and the “Howdy!” business and everything, but as usual she displayed cold waterosity.

“Where is Masimo going to be in Hamburger-a-gogo land?”


“You don’t know, do you?’

“Well, not yet, but . . .”

“He could be anywhere.”

“I know, but how big can America be???”

“It’s huge.”

I laughed. Nothing was going to spoil my peachy mood, let alone swotty nit-picking from Ms. Big Pantaloonies.

I said, “Is it as huge as your gym knickers?”

There was silence.

“Jas, come on, be happy for me.”

“It’s all very well for you, you can just fancy anyone, but it’s different with Tom and me—he’s off to Kiwi-a-gogo and I will be left here all on my owney.”

Oh good grief.

Hunky is going to the Land of the Big White Clots for only a couple of weeks, but I am still going to have to listen to her moaning and rambling on about the twig-collecting years. However, before she could start raving on about mollusks and cuckoo spit, I had a flash of inspirationosity.

“Jas, listen, I have a plan of such geniosity that I have even surprised myself, and might give myself some sort of award.”

She didn’t even say “What is it?” There was just silence.

I said, “Aren’t you even going to ask me what it is, Jas?”

“It’s bound to be stupid.”

“Oh cheers, thanks a lot. Well, I won’t bother you with it, then. Even though it involves you and your happiness and is très bon and also vair vair gut. Au revoir. Bonne chance.”

And I put the phone down. Even Jas cannot spoil my mood. Lalalalalalala.

11:00 a.m.
Better start planning my wardrobe for the Luuurve trail. What do the Hamburgese wear? Cowboy hats, I suppose.

11:10 a.m.
From what I hear, the Hamburgese are a bit strict hygiene-wise. It is to be hoped the customs man doesn’t glance inside Libby’s bag and find her nighttime blankie, otherwise we will all be buggered.

Oh, so many things to worry about, I think I will have a little zizz to relax myself and then plan my cosmetic routine.

11:11 a.m.
Fat chance.

“Gingey! Gingey, it’s meeeeeeee!!! I have just been to the lavatreeeeee!”

My darling sister has kicked open my bedroom door. Hurrah.

11:13 a.m.
Oh good, and she has her “fwends” with her, Scuba Diving Barbie, Charlie Horse, a parsnip and cross-eyed Gordy. Gordy is under house arrest because he has not had the immunization injections he needs before he is set loose into the wild jungle world of our street. I’d like to see the germ hard enough to take him on.

As they all snuggled comfortably into my bed the phone rang downstairs and Dad answered it.

Vati yelled up: “Georgia, quickly, one of your mates wants to talk rubbish with you for an hour or two on her father’s phone.”

He has not got the flare of charm, my vati; but on the other hand, what he has got are my tickets to paradise. I must remember that, however ludicrous he is, he has bought me a passage to the Luuurve machine.


I shouted down: “Thank you, Papa, I’ll be down immediately and perhaps later I will entertain you with my piano playing.”

We haven’t got a piano, but it is the thought that counts.

11:15 a.m.
It was Jazzy Spazzy . . . tee-hee. I knew she would crumble and want to know my plan.

I said, “So, now do you want to know what my plan is?”

“If you like.”

“No, Jas, you are still not showing enthusiosity. Try harder.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can: gird your loins and so on, laugh and the world laughs at you. Come on, you do really want to know my plan, especially as it concerns you, my little hairy pally.”

“I’m not hairy.”

“Have it your own way, but don’t go near any circuses.”

“Shut up. Go on, then, tell me your plan. Although unless you are going to give me the money to go to Kiwi-a-gogo with Tom, I don’t—”

“Jas, forget about Hunky, he will be too busy lying around in streams with Robbie and hugging marsupials to get up to anything. This is about you and me on the road.”

“What road?”

“OK, this is it: when I go to Hamburger-a-gogo . . . you come with me! Do you see??? Driving across America, you and me. We will be like Thelma and Louise!!!”

“We’re not called Thelma and Louise.”

“I know that, I am just saying we will be LIKE THEM”

“And we’re not American.”

“I know that, but I—”

“And neither of us can drive.”

Oh dear God.

I said, “Jas, your spaceship has arrived; please get in.”

12:00 p.m.
Finally Jas has perked up. She wants to come to Hamburger-a-gogo land A LOT. So now all we have to do is get our parents to let us. We have a two-pronged plan.

Prong One is a charm offensive on our muttis and vatis to persuade them to let Jas come to America with me. (And also to give her sqillions of squids for spenderoonies.) We are going to be really nice and sweet and listen to them ramble on about the Beatles. I’ve been practicing my pleading and they would have to be made of stone not to give me the entire contents of their wallets. However, if that fails and they say no, we launch Prong Two: Relentless Moaning. You know the kind of thing.

“All my other friends are allowed to take a mate on holiday with them. How come I am the ONLY person in the Universe who is not allowed to take a mate on holiday? Why is it just me? Why? Why oh why oh why?”


“It is sooo unfair.”


9:10 p.m.
Outside the front-room door.

Right, this is it. I had my old Teletubbies jimjams on for maximosity on the lovablenosity front.

Mutti and Vati were on the sofa curled round each other, I could clearly see Mum’s knickers. Erlack. And the curtains were open, anyone could see in. A fat bloke passing by might think it was a brothel for the porkier gentlemen. I was going to say that, but then I remembered my prongs. So I said, “Good evening, Mother, Father.”

Vati said, “How much?” without even looking at me. I laughed attractively.

“Oh, Papa, this is not a material matter, it is to do with friendship and love and—”

Mum said, “I don’t care how many of your friends have had their navels pierced; you are not.”

“But I—”

But she was still rambling on.

“Ditto tattoos.”

“But I . . . “

Vati joined in.

“And no, you cannot have a flat in Paris and a manservant to help with your homework.”

Oh, how I nearly laughed. Not. I thought about telling Dad that Rosie said he looked like a brothel madam in his flying helmet and leather jacket, but then I remembered my charm prong and forced a little grin to play around my mouth.

“You two!!! Always kidding about, you cheeky minxes! Anyway, all it is really is that, well, you know, Jas is all miz because of Tom going to Kiwi-a-gogo and, well . . . You know she is my pal, and . . . well, it would be nice for me if you know . . . Anyway, can she?”

Vati said, “Can she what? Move in? Levitate? What?”

I bit the whatsit.

“Can she come with us to Hamburger-a-gogo land?”

10:00 p.m.
Both of our parents have said yes. Unbelievable. Actually, I am not that amazed that Jas’s parents said yes because they are on the whole not entirely mad. But my parents? Weird.

It is a miracle for which I would normally thank Jesus—he does seem to be coming up trumps lately. Sending me a replacement Luuurve God after Robbie went off to Kiwi-a-gogo land to snog possums and so on. As I say, I would normally thank him personally by laying gifts at his feet—or foot, actually, because one of his feet snapped off—however, there is a bit of a problem. Libby has been rifling around in my room and she has nicked my statue of him. I’m afraid Jesus is not quite himself since. The last time I saw him he had a frock on and Libby was calling him Sandra, Barbie’s new bestest pal.

I don’t think God will hold it against us, as he is, after all, a merciful God.

10:10 p.m.
Unless you happen to be that snake in the Garden of Eden. Snakey only asked “Anyone fancy a bit of apple?” and then God made him crawl around on his belly for eternity. Seems a bit harsh. (Although, as I pointed out to Miss Wilson in our interesting talks in R.E., if you were a snake in the first place being made to crawl around on your belly for the rest of your days doesn’t actually seem that bad. Almost like being a snake in fact. I mean this with all reverencosity. I just have a lively mind.)

Oooohhhhh, I am so excited I can’t wait to tell the ace gang.

I even kissed my own father AGAIN. This is twice in two days. I must be a bit feverish.

In my bedroom
Libby, Gordy, Sandra and Barbie are all snoozing. They look so lovely and cozy. Our Lord, now heavily rouged, is next to Libby’s feet. I don’t know why she likes to sleep upside down. Perhaps because it is very scary waking up to see Gordy looking cross-eyed at you.

I looked out the window as I did my alternate-nostril breathing.

It is vair vair calming. You pinch one nostril closed and then breathe in through the other one and then hold your breath and then let the pinched up one go and breathe out of that. And then you . . . well, anyway, all I can say is that Lord Buddha did it and he didn’t just do it for nothing.

one minute later
I hope it is not like body-building. I don’t want to be really calm and have massive nostrils.

two minutes later
For once Mr. Next Door has done something nice. He has built a sort of anti-cat fence on the top of his wall made out of barbed wire. Angus will really like it. He gets a bit bored with leaping down onto the Prat Poodles and riding them round. He is the sort of cat who needs a bit of a challenge.

ive minutes later
Oh, here comes Supercat with Naomi. As usual with his head up her bottom.

one minute later
Aha! He has removed his head and he has seen the new fencey. He luuurves the fencey.

four minutes later
Old Nimble Paws did this beyond-fabby thing. He did a vertical jump! From standing on the wall he just shot straight up in the air and over the fence.

five minutes later
Angus is really getting into it now. He leaps over the anti-cat fence and then comes back into our garden by hurling himself through Mr. Next Door’s rhododendron bush.

Excellent! He has made it into a track-and-field event. It is quite literally the Cat Olympics.

five minutes later
I would prefer it if Naomi stuck to the usual giving of medals ceremony rather than licking Angus’s trouser-snake area, but there you are—that is appalling furry tarts for you.

Excerpted from "Then He Ate My Boy Entrancers: More Mad, Marvy Confessions of Georgia Nicolson" by Louise Rennison. Copyright © 2005 by Louise Rennison. Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher. Excerpts are provided solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
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