My Madder Fatter Diary (19 page)

Friday 2.11.90

9.23 p.m.

I needed sleep. I was gone last night. No energy these days for anything. Here’s what really happened . . .

I got to Hull (panic attack at railway station but got through it by breathing and listening to ABC’s ‘Look of Love’). Firstly met up with this professor bloke who said there’s no way you can get in here with those grades. I said ‘My teacher has written a letter – I was ill before my A levels.’ He said he’d go and see if the special admissions officer was in. She was, by TOTAL luck (I TOLD YOU, DESTINY!) She’s called Patsy Stoneman and we just got on brilliantly. I saw
Ulysses
by James Joyce on her bookshelf and I said ‘I’ve read that.’ Actually I’ve just read the back of it and a bit of it but we talked about that and Orwell. It was AMAZING, we talked about books for TWO hours. I told her about my life. I didn’t tell her about the psychiatric ward. There was only really Reader’s Digest books in there – it wasn’t exactly relevant. She was lovely and at the end I’m sure she said ‘I think we can offer you a place here despite your grades.’ I’m sure she said that.

Now I’m thinking that she didn’t but not even I could have misheard that?!

Could I? I had nothing to eat all day and things only made a bit of sense after the Super Noodles.

I think I’ve done it. A fuck up out-of-the bag epic.

Saturday 3.11.90

12.32 p.m.

No Hull offer yet but even if she’d posted it first class it probably still wouldn’t get here today.

Sunday 4.11.90

10.13 a.m.

No Hull offer!

11.01 a.m.

Mum has reminded me it’s Sunday. Lazy post office bastards – some of us are on tenterhooks here. It can’t be that hard to pedal round on a bike with letters!

Monday 5.11.90

8.59 a.m.

No Hull offer AGAIN. Perhaps somebody who had read bloody
Ulysses
all the way through came in after me and my place has gone to them.

I’ve just got to get on with it now. I can’t wait by the letterbox everyday – it will send me mental again. And it’s freezing because Mum won’t put the heating on. A homemade draft excluder in the shape of a sausage dog made from old tights is NOT ENOUGH to stop us freezing to death!

Tuesday 6.11.90

11.10 p.m.

It’s impossible to know where to start. There is nothing yet everything to write. I’ve gone over it 1000 times in my mind but as usual when it comes to writing it down I seem to have forgotten what I want to write.

I’ll start from where it ALL must start from.

Self love is the absolute core. YOU MUST LOVE YOURSELF.

This is not a suicidal entry. I am ‘down’. I am ‘sad’ but I feel, above all the confusion, curiously positive. There is a bit to love – just at the moment there is more to detest.

1) I hate myself for the betrayal of my sex. There seem to be 3 genders – male, female and RAE. I have to be at the centre of things. I have to cause a stir. I know I’ll never be a wallflower but it’s overpowering. I’m too much. Like a massive stinking bright flower. I HATE writing it but I’m not a girl and I want to be. I have this vision – she’s not perfection but she’s Rae and she’s a girl too! And she’s strong and if you fancy me GOOD but if you don’t – bollocks!

2) I hate myself for my weak screwed-up-ness. Sometimes I think it’s major enough to warrant more help. The terrible thoughts. I bash myself to pieces in order that the physical pain will replace the nasty voices in my head. But I’m cut and bruised. It’s not right. The compulsions – checking the gas, checking the tins so nobody has tampered with them. It’s ridiculous I KNOW! The hypochondria. I shouldn’t know so much about botulism. The hypochondria, the worrier, the neurotic. All these things partly inherited. Can I blame anyone though? Anyway, it’s there. Messing up good days and making bloody bad days shitter.

3) I hate the way I look. It’s an ugly thing. Uncared for, grossly fat and I’m NOT happy with it. I binge ALL the time. I’m out of control. I hate the fact I couldn’t get into a bed naked and say ‘Look, this is me mate and I LIKE IT!’, which brings me conveniently on to sex . . .

4) Sex. I hate myself because I’m frigid. When really in my head I do it several times an hour! I haven’t snogged anyone for nearly 2 years. That’s NOT NORMAL. And the one person I did snog felt sorry for me. Well sod that! FUCK YOU DEAR!

I feel as though a lot of things have messed me up. The event when I was 12 is just a part of it. The psychiatrists always go to that but I was mad before that. I’ve always felt wrong. Perhaps I’m a man in a girl’s body. I’m a total bloody gay if I am. I think I would be a better gay man than a girl. I liked my mum’s homosexual second husband’s wardrobe more than my own for a start!

My mum is mad but she’s had a life of TOTAL shit and now she’s getting reborn. Just her adolescence is crashing head on into mine. She’s not a raver. She doesn’t go out and never drinks but men love her. And she swings from total neuroticness to pompous extreme self confidence. She’s either Freddie Mercury or that woman from the psychiatric ward with an itchy skirt. It’s all fucked.

Wednesday 7.11.90

4.23 p.m.

I had an appointment at the hospital today. My ovaries are still a mess but the doctor was really sweet and from Sri Lanka. He said ‘I am not saying you are terribly fat (I am) but I think losing weight would really help your condition.’

I’m getting Christmas over – then I’m losing weight. If I do get into Hull I’m not far away from you know who. Chocolate Brazils or . . . there’s no contest! Plus if I CAN lose weight I think it will slightly piss off Mum because she can’t!

Thursday 8.11.90

9.34 p.m.

The pop Guf is NOT empty! EMF are BLOODY AMAZING – in fact they are UNBELIEVABLE!! HA HA HA! What a song!

Paul Gascoigne, however, really needs to stick to football and crying because ‘Fog on the Tyne’ is UTTER shit.

Friday 9.11.90

7.12 p.m.

I start work on Monday. I’m totally wound up about it but it could be a laugh. It IS The Body Shop. Anita Roddick is always cool on TV – it’s probably going to be a doss.

The rumour is Battered Sausage is out tomorrow. I feel nervous about going out but I’m doing it.

Saturday 10.11.90

11.25 p.m.

I went to the Vaults. I saw the familiar back in an Aran cardigan (WHY does he wear those?). Battered Sausage was back and I had a blind panic but I ignored it. Then he dragged me into the bogs because he needed a serious chat. This ended up being about his problems with women and his weight gain. He said ‘Rae – how do I lose weight?’ WHY IS HE ASKING ME?! Do I look like I’m a slim success?!

Then he’s back to Exeter again. Everyone’s spread out. Gone. Me still here. Trapped totally by my own crapness and choice.

Sunday 11.11.90

7.58 p.m.

I just had a massive
argument with Mum. She said ‘Good luck for tomorrow.’ I shouted ‘I don’t need your bloody sarcasm thank you!’ Apparently SHE says she wasn’t being sarcastic. Balls. Yes she was. She thinks I won’t be able to do it but I bloody will. In fact I could end up managing a Body Shop and doing my degree at the same time. It would be nice if someone in my family actually had some FAITH in me. Whatever I do I’ll just be the nuts one. I could become prime minister and Stamford would still say ‘She went a bit funny when she was a teenager you know.’ OH SOD OFF – I’m RUNNING THE COUNTRY AND STOPPING WARS.

Well I’m not – I’m just stacking shelves with patchouli oil but that’s not the point.

Monday 12.11.90

9.45 p.m.

That was HARD. Like really HARD. I think I must have burned a million calories today. Easily. Thank GOD The Body Shop is next to McDonalds. I had 9 Chicken McNuggets at lunch, milkshake, large fries and an apple pie. I NEEDED IT!

Basically my job involves going up 2 massive flights of stairs, getting the stock and putting it on the shelves. People really have got to stop buying camomile shampoo. I fetched it about 10 times! The shop is busy all day. Everyone seems nice enough but you NEVER stop and it’s a bit boring. OK, Mum was right. It’s TOTALLY boring. And customers are snappy to you and treat you like shit. Dear woman whose life apparently depends on her getting cruelty free mascara – I’ve got 3 A levels! You don’t need to explain things to me like I’M STUPID. I’m glad rabbits haven’t been hurt in the cosmetic process either but what about cruelty to humans – The Body Shop need a lift! I bet rabbits would find it easier hopping up the flights of stairs to the stock.

I seriously think I’ve damaged my back.

Tuesday 13.11.90

10.12 p.m.

There was a kiwi fruit lip balm crisis today. Me and Maria who I work with got kind of told off for not ‘replenishing quickly’ enough BUT the Mama Toto range was running very low and there were pregnant women everywhere. We decided stretch marks came first.

Mum just asked me how it’s going. I told her ‘Great!’ I lied. It’s doing my head in. No-one actually needs lip balm. JUST BLOODY LICK THEM! It doesn’t taste of fruit but it moisturises them.

Apparently Geoffrey Howe has made some bizarre speech about cricket which basically was saying Thatcher is a dictator bitch who doesn’t listen to anyone. How thick is he that he has just realised that?

I’d like to see how long Maggie lasts dealing with the Peterborough public’s cosmetic needs. I smell constantly of Fuzzy Peach. I had McDonalds again – mainly to get over smelling of fruit.

Wednesday 14.11.90

7.40 a.m.

Oh nightmare it’s work.

I never thought I’d ever hate passion fruit cleansing gel but now I do.

11.01 p.m.

Someone plays with us.

Everything I wished he’d said to me

He has said to her with such accuracy

It’s almost spiteful

I don’t mean heavy sighs of I love you

Things more intimate, exclusive.

Don’t ask. I’m too tired or pissed off to explain. And I smell of Dewberry.

Thursday 15.11.90

10.32 p.m.

I think I’m going to hand my notice in tomorrow. There have to be better jobs than this.

I’m on a complete downer. I have no desire to do or be anything really. I just can’t face putting out anymore novelty soaps of blue whales.

By siding with Haddock’s girlfriend I’ve totally lost him as a friend forever.

Jive Bunny and the Mastermixers on
Top of the Pops
tonight finished me off. It was like a sign. You’re beaten Rae. ‘Let’s Swing Again’. When will it ever end?! I think cosmetic experiments should be done on Jive Bunny. I’d shop there. I’d buy everything.

Friday 16.11.90

10.35 p.m.

I handed my notice in. The manager was really lovely and said ‘But Rae you’re a lovely person to have around.’ I told her I’d found a better job meat packing (lie!) and it was a shame as I’d really enjoyed working there (lie!) and now what the HELL do I tell my mum.

Saturday 17.11.90

10.50 a.m.

Where the hell am I?

I’ve got an interview at the University of Sheffield. I better go. I still haven’t heard from Hull.

7.23 p.m.

Told Mum tonight I had handed my notice in as I thought I could get a better job. She didn’t say anything. She just started whistling. That means she’s so angry she can’t form words.

Oh sod off. Bet I can get a better job.

Sunday 18.11.90

9.03 p.m.

So everyone in Stamford knows
I left The Body Shop. Too much hard work for not enough dosh after 16 goes on train fares. Plus 2 flights of stairs 30 times a day could give me an injury that could last for life!

People stand judgemental on me. What the HELL has this got to do with them?! Unless they pay for my food, AKA my mother.

Monday 19.11.90

6.37 p.m.

I couldn’t see any better jobs at the Jobcentre today.

QUOTE OF THE BLOODY DAY

‘Rae – you don’t understand I need a cuddle.’

OF COURSE I UNDERSTAND.

All my friends think I am a weak cow that can’t stick at anything.

They are a bit right.

All my friends think I don’t need love and hugs and sex.

They ARE SO TOTALLY WRONG it actually scares me.

I used to love my Body Shop Japanese wash grains. Now they are a gritty sink reminder of failure.

Tuesday 20.11.90

9.12 p.m.

Dear Haddock,

I wish I was you. Actually nice and good looking and you just don’t think that you are. You stick at crap jobs. You travel. You sort yourself out.

Don’t change. I know I’ve buggered things up but wherever you end up don’t change. What you’ve got inside perhaps needs an untangle but don’t destroy it or cover it up with man crap because you’re special and different. Don’t bugger it up mate because you’re just gold underneath it all. You’re fantastic at rugby but don’t become a lad. Please don’t get into anal chugging. Your arse is too magnificent to spoil.