My Madder Fatter Diary Page 5

  Sometimes I catch myself in shop windows and I take up so much space. I see my outline. It’s not me. Wish I could take my fucking skin off. RIP IT OFF.

  One good thing – Dobber won a goldfish on Hook-a-Duck. Yes she is 18. We don’t care. We’ve called it Silk Cut!

  Tuesday 27.3.90

  8.55 p.m.

  I resent you at the moment, diary. I didn’t want to write you.

  Fate, once encouraged, can twist horribly and vengefully. Now that does sound melodramatic but it’s true. Battered Sausage is going out with Jasmine Bobbs.

  You know FULL well how I feel.

  The winner takes it sodding all.

  Wednesday 28.3.90

  8.25 p.m.

  Silk Cut died today. Fair fish never last long. In fact my sugar dummy has lasted longer – which is a bloody miracle.

  I’m so pissed off.

  Thursday 29.3.90

  9.54 p.m.

  I should be at a party. I’m ill. I can’t get out the house tonight. I’m saying it’s a sore throat. It’s not.

  I want to sit down with Battered Sausage and talk to him.

  Dear Battered Sausage,

  Forget all the bravado. All the lads, everything and just get in touch with what you actually FEEL! DO YOU ACTUALLY GIVE A SHIT?!

  I feel numb in life. I want out of this town. I want out of my bad points. Angry, angry, angry, ANGRY and very paranoid. Feel my mental condition slip – No, I don’t. Probably all this is normal A level syndrome.

  No it’s not. I’M A MESS.

  Friday 30.3.90

  Late.

  Went down the Vaults. Battered Sausage and Jasmine all loved up. I feel like a spare part. Like the pantomime horse from Rentaghost.

  Haddock won his girlfriend a cuddly poodle thing at the fair. Apparently he’s good at throwing balls in buckets or something. They were taking the piss but it was sweet. It was funny. It was Haddock.

  And then he disappears into the night. No, I’ll walk my own way home thanks Haddock. Actually I’ll go down the Meadows and listen to Kate Bush. ‘Cloudbusting’ in the dark. It works. Then I will come home to write this and eat CRAP.

  Diary – I feel so lonely I could die.

  Shit – now I sound like Elvis. He ate himself to death too. The difference is he’d had sex and a career before he did.

  Saturday 31.3.90

  4.35 p.m.

  Dobber is doing the 24 hour famine for World Vision. Apparently a normal person can fast for a day safely. A NORMAL PERSON. What’s one of those? She wanted to know if I thought Snakebite was included on the fast. Er . . . yes!

  So we’re not going out tonight.

  On days like this ‘Bedsitter’ by Soft Cell IS my life. I am fooling myself I’m having fun a lot of the time but inside . . . I’m going. I can feel myself going.

  Sunday 1.4.90

  10.19 p.m.

  It’s kicked off in London about the poll tax. Humungous riots – THATCHER, WE ARE NOT PAYING. I feel sorry for the police horses but that’s the price you pay for having eyes on the side of your face. You are handy to the law.

  I would love to go down and join them but I know I’d have a panic attack. St. John Ambulance probably have enough to cope with without me having a turn.

  Monday 2.4.90

  6.39 p.m.

  I hate Thatcher but at the same time how do you get this confidence that she has? The confidence to always just do what the hell you like. She doesn’t seem to care that everyone wants to blow her up. I’m worried about EVERYTHING. Who is the psycho? Is it me or her?

  Mum says I could be prime minister if I wanted to be. Mum, I can’t leave the house properly most days. Haven’t you noticed? How could I nip abroad to sort things out with my head. ‘Miss Earl – Mr Bush will see you now about the crisis!’ ‘Hang on – let me check the iron is off for the 36th time.’ It wouldn’t work would it?!

  It is sweet she has faith in me though.

  Tuesday 3.4.90

  12.38 a.m.

  ‘My Dedication’ has just been on the radio. I can feel everything slipping away. Friends, school, the pub . . . it’s all going.

  Numb – that’s how I feel. Bloody numb.

  Revision.

  VOID

  Great big void

  Pray for its temporary stay

  I just need to be with you.

  I remember the good times

  I thought they were bad

  Let me hold onto them

  And you

  And life

  Wednesday 4.4.90

  6.34 p.m.

  Mort is getting us a special yearbook printed – we’ve all got a load of questions to fill out with stuff like Pet Hates, Pet Likes, What Will You Miss Most About School, What Will You Miss Least About School and What is Your Greatest Achievement. As this yearbook will be around for eternity I am going to be bloody careful about what I write!

  10.56 p.m.

  It’s taken me an hour to fill out my nickname section!

  Thursday 5.4.90

  4.56 p.m.

  What is my greatest achievement? I asked this in the common room today. Mort said it is definitely getting sent to the deputy headmistress for answering the question ‘What are guerrilla tactics?’ with ‘Throwing bananas’! YES!

  What will I miss least about school? Honestly just the lasagne.

  6.38 p.m.

  Yes Mum, I am still filling in this yearbook. I know this is hard for you to understand but it’s actually vitally important that I get this right.

  Going to put the time I went into the lunch queue twice and had 4 fishcakes and loads of other stuff for a greatest achievement. It is legendary!

  Friday 6.4.90

  7.33 p.m.

  Handed my yearbook thing in today. Mine was a bit long but now I’m wondering why I mentioned the fishcake thing. WHY? I don’t want to be remembered as the fat jokey one. That’s got to stop. I don’t have to be that anymore. It can be OVER. I think that’s the scary thing though. I don’t know what else I can be.

  Oh shut up Rae.

  ‘My World’ by Secret Affair. Impossible to feel bad listening to this though I’m giving it a good try.

  Saturday 7.4.90

  11.22 p.m.

  Haddock asked me tonight if I had mentioned him in my yearbook. WEIRD!

  Er . . . He didn’t mention me in his last year! What is my greatest achievement? Not jumping on top of Haddock every time I see him and licking him to death like an excited Alsatian.

  No I didn’t write that but it’s true!

  I have mentioned him but I’m not telling him that.

  Sunday 8.4.90

  9.24 p.m.

  I had a terrible panic attack today. All this talk of yearbooks just reminds me it’s nearly the end and I’ve got to go in hospital. I ended up in the field down the back listening to the Good Morning, Vietnam soundtrack feeling the white flashes in my head and my heart stopping and everything shutting down. Felt better after Louis Armstrong. It is a wonderful world but that’s hard to remember sometimes.

  Oh diary, I am a mess. I’m a mess in a mess. I know you’re sick of the self-pitying crap but who else can I tell? No-one wants to know.

  Monday 9.4.90

  11.26 p.m.

  Spoke to Mort for ages today. She totally understands. She’s going to try to ring the printers to see if she can get it taken out. Mort gets it. Mort ALWAYS gets it.

  Tuesday 10.4.90

  10.15 p.m.

  I just made the GREATEST compilation tape called Dusk.

  ‘Love and Affection’ – Joan Armatrading

  ‘Stay With Me Till Dawn’ – Judie Tzuke

  ‘My Oh My’ – Sad Café

  ‘The Man With The Child In His Eyes’ – Kate Bush

  ‘Night Owl’ – Gerry Rafferty

  And loads of other great stuff. How do you get a job putting records together? ‘Now That’s What I Call Music’ NEED ME! Mum always says it’s who you know. How do you meet people in th
e know? Not by sitting in your bedroom on Edinburgh Road without a bloody home phone.

  Mort couldn’t get hold of the printers.

  Wednesday 11.4.90

  4.58 p.m.

  The printers are committed. So forever I will be the fishcake girl.

  Great.

  Thursday 12.4.90

  Asked my mum today if I could have a year off. The answer is ‘No’. A big loud ‘No’. Apparently we can’t afford it. We can afford tattoos but not the break I need after all the pandemonium (thank you Milton for something). Also, it’s not so much the money but the fact I need to get away and start again. If I stay here it’s bad for me. That’s true – but no-one has noticed I can’t actually travel anywhere.

  Friday 13.4.90

  3.29 p.m.

  Mum doesn’t want me here so she can have a Moroccan love palace harem.

  No. I don’t want to write. I’m sick of writing it.

  Saturday 14.4.90

  11.38 p.m.

  Conversation between me and Haddock tonight –

  HADDOCK: Are you alright?

  ME: Yes. Why?

  HADDOCK: Because you don’t seem yourself.

  ME: You know. Stuff.

  HADDOCK: It’ll work out.

  ME: Will it? You’re sure of that are you?

  HADDOCK: No. But why shouldn’t it? You’re funny. You know loads about stuff. You’ve been through all sorts of shit and come through it.

  ME: You might be right.

  I don’t believe that for a second BUT this is why I love him.

  All this whilst Battered Sausage was talking about ‘muffs’.

  Sunday 15.4.90

  9.25 a.m.

  I dreamt about Haddock last night. Someone stroked my hair and I looked round and he was there. Smiling, eyebrow ten foot in the air.

  His eyebrow wasn’t detached from his face by the way. It was just high.

  Sorry if I seem cross and mardy

  I’m frustrated, I need tongue, too lardy.

  WHY CAN’T I BE NORMAL?!

  I’ll write in blue ink

  All the things I wanted to say but couldn’t

  The blue and the red

  The good I felt will be useless fuel

  I want to give in but I can’t. I won’t.

  Monday 16.4.90

  5.43 p.m.

  I don’t think I’ve ever been so unhappy at home. My mum is a constant bitch. Totally oblivious to everything I am going through. It’s so uncomfortable. I spend all my time upstairs. She is so selfish.

  I’ve nothing or rather no-one to live for. There are shallower and nastier people than me. Why am I the one that is lonely?! All this shit – when will this end? I know I sound like a crappy sympathy merchant but how can I be when no-one will ever see this?!

  I’m so fucking repulsive. Oh that’s a load of rubbish as well. People are in immeasurably worse difficulties than me. I just feel so used all the time. Like the eternal agony aunt with just a desk and a cup of tea and NO BLOODY SEX. I must be worthless. I can’t do anything and then I punch myself and hit myself. Why not? I deserve it.

  I’m a mutant. I’m so ungrateful but I can’t control it. I’m loud and funny but men always hate me before they like me. I’m a monster. I’m abnormal.

  Look, how would you feel if all your friends, even your mum, had somebody to love. Always the fat gooseberry. I must be deficient. I should sleep.

  Tuesday 17.4.90

  9.12 p.m.

  That last entry didn’t make me seem terribly well did it? Sometimes I’m not at the moment.

  Wednesday 18.4.90

  2.02 p.m.

  I’m trying to revise whilst Paula Abdul is on TV flirting with a cartoon cat. More people trying to sleep with drawings! Try a real person! You might like it.

  ‘Opposites Attract!’ – No they don’t Abdul.

  Thursday 19.4.90

  7.32 p.m.

  Mrs Bark is attempting to remove a dead hedgehog from the patch of grass outside our house whilst I listen to ‘All of My Heart’ by ABC.

  She’s just called to her husband to get a shovel. Mrs Bark – you’re ruining MY SONG!

  Friday 20.4.90

  11.45 p.m.

  Haddock told me tonight he used to have trouble getting off with people unless he was pissed.

  The thing is, a lot of people think Haddock is a right cold bastard. He’s not. Actually people think that mainly because he’s so fit – they assume he can’t be lovely. It’s like when people assume stuff about me. I get fat prejudice – he gets fit prejudice.

  I can’t feel sorry for him though. I’d kill to be him. No – I’d kill to be with him.

  Saturday 21.4.90

  1.12 a.m.

  Haddock had been crying tonight. There’s no hope if someone who looks and acts like him is miserable with the love thing too. He was sniffing with a snot bubble.

  MUCUS

  Red with pain

  You can have my tissues

  To mop up your issues

  Hanky no panky

  Forget your worst and terrible fears

  Don’t care about your snot

  If that’s the worst you’ve got

  Your mucus is not detriment to me.

  Sunday 22.4.90

  4.31 p.m.

  Hello diary, last bastion of sanity in a world gone completely stark raving mad.

  Well, big event, I’m going in hospital on May 1st and they are going to put me to sleep.

  The letter came yesterday but Mum hid it because she wanted me to have a lovely Saturday night after the revising. That was quite nice I suppose if slightly still treating me LIKE I AM BLOODY 7.

  Major phobia about the anaesthetic. Mum is going to ring up and ask if I can just be sedated. Yes – that would be good. I’d rather be in pain than asleep.

  No I can’t cope but there’s a party at Fig’s tonight. The last big one before all the exams.

  Monday 23.4.90

  10.12 p.m.

  Usual. I am always dumped unceremoniously in the kitchen reading the Daily Mail eating choc ices. Still it was a good laugh. Had vodka and didn’t give a shit much after that. Why can’t they just give me some Smirnoff in hospital?

  Tuesday 24.4.90

  11.01 p.m.

  Have to have anaesthetic. No way out. Mum did try.

  Weird evening, weird day but BRILLIANT.

  The day was beautiful. Sunny – it makes such a difference. We had a massive water fight at school with all the classics. Then I went to ring up Mort but she was engaged so I rang up Dobber. There were stupid cows at 63401 so I went down 62929. Rang up Mort, talked to her for YONKS. Then I saw this bloke on a bike right outside the box and I thought ‘you rude berk sod’ but it was HADDOCK!! Come to see me! To deliver a note! HEART STOPPAGE! He came to look for me. Mum told him where I was.

  THEN as soon as I got in the door Battered Sausage knocked. He was in a really good mood.

  School classic. Battered Sausage and Haddock Classic. Why do I have A levels and a tumour up my arse?

  Wednesday 25.4.90

  8.13 p.m.

  Mum has bought me some pyjamas from Bewise. They are blue and white striped old man pyjamas. It’s better than a nightshirt with Betty Boop on it!

  She’s also bought me a washbag for the hospital. I know she is just trying to be nice but I’m frightened to death. I’d rather just forget it’s happening.

  Thursday 26.4.90

  5.21 p.m.

  Diary, I am going to Olivers tonight because I might be dead next week and I want to have some more SHIMMIES!! Plus Haddock is coming out. I’m not missing out on that!

  I might leave a note – if I do go into a coma just bring Haddock’s arse to the bed and I will recover.

  Friday 27.4.90

  2.48 a.m.

  WHAT A NIGHT!

  Oh it was brilliant. Everyone was at Olivers. It was WELL funny! Ronni was pissed and during Bizz Nizz’s ‘Don’t Miss The Party Line’ she shouted ‘Hey DJ �
�� WHERE’S THE BASS?’ at COMPLETELY the wrong moment. EVERYONE looked. Then Battered Sausage was going mad to Snap’s ‘The Power’ and making us all go on the floor laughing. Haddock danced all night – even to ‘Kingston Town’ by UB40. NO-ONE can dance well to that – HE CAN! He is ‘Black Velvet’ by Alannah Myles. He is Elvis before the cheeseburgers. I am Elvis after.

  Saturday 28.4.90

  Midnight

  My life is like a Carry On film at the moment. Just not a funny one.

  Hospital tomorrow. Shit. Today.

  Sunday 29.4.90

  9.32 p.m.

  Here I am in Stamford hospital.

  I really don’t think I can go through with this. I am convinced I am going to die. It’s agony. I just had a look at my medical records at the end of my bed. I am described by one doctor as a ‘curious girl’. What that’s got to do with rectal problems I don’t know. Same with my mum’s tattoo. Doctors have a God complex.

  I want to run away. Maybe I’ll have a painful tummy and bum but at least I won’t be dead.

  Monday 30.4.90

  7.39 p.m.

  I know this is weird but I have had the most amazing day. I’ve had to be weighed (don’t ask – BAD BAD BAD) BUT first Battered Sausage came to see me and stayed and chatted for ages. THEN HADDOCK came to see me with a plastic plant he had bought from the shop where he works. He said ‘This crap will last longer than flowers.’ Then he had to go again because he was working. Now all the REAL plants are being taken out but MY one stays because it can’t produce carbon dioxide and it’s PERFECT.

  10.15 p.m.

  Long entry – morbid in places but it’s all there.

  Rae Earl emotionally checking in.

  Let’s go through everyone shall we.

  MUM

  Sometimes I ‘hate’ her but all the time I love her. Never have I met someone with such force of character. You have fought through so much. Looked after me in times when I was unbearable. I trust you and I love you. Simple as that.

  Dear Haddock,

  Well my friend, time for some honesty. You are –

  1) One gorgeous person

  2) GORGEOUS looking. Honestly Haddock YOU ARE GORGEOUS. YOU ARE THE HORN.