My Madder Fatter Diary (22 page)

8.25 p.m.

Yes Mum, I am upstairs because I don’t want to watch the bloody
Birds of a Feather
Christmas special.

Wednesday 26.12.90

10.11 p.m.

I really feel like the fat old aunty who is there when there are problems then rejected when life gets good again. I’m taking up bloody knitting and getting into Cliff.

No I’m not getting into Cliff. No-one is getting into Cliff! HA HA HA!!

I think me and Cliff Richard have more in common than me and Madonna and Kylie. Especially now Kylie is sexy as hell and Madonna is taking over French hotels with orgy parties. Meanwhile me and Cliff are eating a box of Roses and watching
Noel’s Christmas Presents
– which was the loveliest thing ever.

Thursday 27.12.90

11.10 p.m.

I’ve sent my UCCA thing in to accept my offer at Hull. I am now absolutely neurotic that I have ticked the ‘You reject the offer’ box BUT I haven’t. I checked it at least 1000 times and got stuck by the main post office letterboxes. An old man said to me ‘Just send it love.’ It’s all right for him to say, he hasn’t got a fucked mind.

That’s bad. That old man was probably in the war and never got a chance to doss at uni. He’s probably got a B.A. in killing Germans and still has nightmares about their dead faces. My great granddad did. War is shit. I don’t know why we still do it.

Friday 28.12.90

11.47 p.m.

I’m feeling so mad tonight. I’m trying to make sense of it.

Part of it is still leaving school.

Things were so different there. It was such security and such a laugh. It was friendship – it was just brilliant. Sometimes I think I had too much fun – it makes it harder. I’ve just spent the night with a load of my old school mates. It reminds you what you had everyday. I just took it all for granted.

And then there’s the really mad stuff. When I’m with NORMAL people, when I’m sitting with them I wonder what they do in secret.

How many of them, how many people of my age, IN FACT ANY AGE beat themselves up in order to stop God punishing them or to stop bad stuff happening.

I’m worried that I might really hurt myself and then people might think, when I’ve had a stroke or something, that someone else has beaten me up. But they haven’t. If you’re reading this and I’m dead know I’ve hit myself for years. It’s my fault I’ve had a brain haemorrhage or a stroke.

How many people check food for being poisoned, wash their hands 100 times, think their thoughts can hurt people, think their lack of prayer causes misery, are so paranoid that they think that everyone is scheming to get them.

Is all this shit just me? Or do I just hide it the best and not get locked away?

I’m all over the place.

At the same time though I’m happy, I’m me. Lots of girls I know don’t know shit about music. What’s the point?

I’m so fat. External exterior shows a complete lack of love. I think I do have a slow metabolism. But let’s not get too technical. I’m a fucking pig.

All of this is predictable shit you’ve heard all before. I’m bored too. I have bored myself senseless. Fundamentally I’m a twat.

Where is this all going? Rae Earl – who the hell is she and where is she going?

Saturday 29.12.90

10.34 p.m.

My stars said that I shouldn’t think so much. So I won’t. Goodnight.

Sunday 30.12.90

9.35 p.m.

I rang Mort tonight. She told me she’s going abroad on a trip all round South Africa. God I will miss her. It feels like my leg is being cut off. I can’t imagine not being able to go down the phone box and ring her up to make sense of all this shit in my head. She always calms me down. She always helps me out. She saves me from shit time after time. How am I going to cope when she’s miles and miles away in a country that does not have decent communications?! They’ve only just let Nelson Mandela out of prison. To be fair they’ve had more important things on their minds than having a decent phone box network but still . . .

Dear F W De Klerk. Stop being a racist and sort it out.

Everyone is moving on except me because everyone can.

TANGLE

When all is said and done,

Laughter and listening is over,

There’s just a tangle.

I can give you a belly laugh so big it will hurt,

I can give you my shoulder to cry on,

And listen to any intimacy you can provide,

BUT

When all is said and done,

When the laughter and the listening is over.

There is just a tangle.

All my contemporaries have wonderful togetherness

I know that everyone has a niggling doubt

But how many of them are covered in bruises,

They created.

How many voices do they have in their head?

The one person who gets it,

Has the least reason to be fucked up.

But I can’t hug him, I can’t kiss him

I couldn’t make love to him.

Because when all is said and done

When all the listening and laughter is over.

There’s just a tangle.

I can be full of shit sometimes but I mean it.

Monday 31.12.90

5.35 p.m.

Sometimes I can’t believe this is me talking.It is me though. Little arms. Big middle. Screwed up. In love with a total unobtainable. I’ve got such a lot to sort out. I’ve got to stop all the mental shit and the bingeing. I’ve got to grow up. I hate agreeing with Mum but she does have a point. And Haddock. Oh I love him but he isn’t the answer . . . but he could be the reward. Do you know, I don’t think I’m going to keep a diary anymore. I think it makes me linger on bad stuff and thoughts and memories that I should just swallow up. I feel I should write a big momentous entry in commemoration but I’m due down the pub with Dobber – even though she bought the latest Bombularina single. Perhaps I need to think less, DO more and buy more novelty singles.

Tuesday 1.1.91

8.57 a.m.

Bollocks. I’d go completely mad without this and Timmy Mallett needs a REAL mallet over his head. Not a nice soft one that’s to do with a word association game. But diary, I’m writing less. I have to do more. I’ve got to sort out this head and this body. ‘Navel gazing’ here (my mum’s phrase) is not always helping. Talking doesn’t always help but you’re here. I know you’re here and thank GOD you’re here.

Good morning 1991! Working on the 2 year ‘crap/good’ basis, this year should be a corker because last year was a total disaster on nearly every level.

When I walked back from Dobber’s house at 7.30 a.m. this morning it was beautiful. It was like everything had just been born. There was a frost and everything felt new and that just made me feel happy.

Well at this point I usually burst into a string of resolutions but this year I’ll make things more simple but more important.

1) Stop being mental. Stop the thoughts. Stop the hitting. How, I just don’t know.

2) Lose weight. Don’t even tell anyone I’m doing it. Just do it. So I, a) can have sex b) I don’t die of a Flora overdose when I’m 32 or something.

3) Manage somehow to find a way to get out of Stamford without feeling like I’m dying.

4) Stop all my paranoia. All this ‘Are you in a mood with me?’ shit because if they aren’t before they are after hearing all that self-pitying wank.

5) When I do get to Hull have a good time and make the most of it.

6) Whatever crisis happens I may feel terrible but I will handle it as best I possibly can.

7) Don’t end up back there in the ward. I can’t because the second time they might not let me go.

They are quite general aren’t they but if I can get these sorted out then I’m away.

I think the older I get the more I believe in ‘Que Sera Sera’ and fate and all that.

As to last night, I thought ‘oh no it’s like Christmas Eve again – nightmare.’ But surprisingly the pub was much less busy. Even though I had to queue up outside the Vaults to get in to the Bolt Hole Bar.

Shellboss came for me at about 8.20 p.m. and we went down the bar. I’d had a bit of Pimm’s before I started on the vodkas. By the time I got to the Vaults I was getting pleasurably out of it. I got to a good merry stage all night without pushing it and going loony. Had a lovely chat and a laugh with Fig but couldn’t talk long because him and Dobber aren’t together anymore and I’d throw Fig under a bus for Dobber. In a nice way.

Haddock’s girlfriend was in tears. She disappeared. Haddock and me sat there and chatted about everything and then he said to me –

HADDOCK: What do you think 1991 will be like then?

ME: Well, I hope it will be better than last year.

HADDOCK: When you’re in Hull you can come over to Leeds for nights out.

ME: (OH GOD, THE THOUGHT IS TOO BEAUTIFUL!!)

Yeah. Do you like ‘Mull of Kintyre’?

HADDOCK: (LOOKING AT ME LIKE I’M INSANE)

Of course I do. Obviously.

ME: What about ‘The Frog Chorus’?

HADDOCK: Er . . . BOM BOM BOM aye-a aye

Anyway come over if you like.

ME: Yeah I will.

And then we all ended up in the square at midnight with him snogging the face off his girlfriend.

He’s not the solution. He could be the reward. I’ve got to lose weight and not change the subject to Paul McCartney when things get tough.

I think I might be a bit still pissed!

Wednesday 2.1.91

5.40 p.m.

I don’t know what would
make me better. Going away, staying, changing, staying the same. I don’t know.

I know Haddock still loves his girlfriend. I know Dobber still loves Fig. I know what was number one at Christmas in 197-bloody-4 (‘Lonely This Christmas’ by Mud – crap) but I don’t know who I am, what I want, if I’m happy or if I’m not.

I know I need a big hug and a
Flake
Caramel bar.

Friday 4.1.91

5.59 p.m.

I told you. I’m not writing everyday anymore. It’s not helping. Yesterday I went for a massive walk to Tolethorpe.

I’ve nothing to report at all. Usually at this time I’m depressed. I am not.

Sometimes I can’t believe Haddock even exists. He’s like the Yeti but a horny version.

But he does exist. There are occasional sightings. I hope I get one before he goes back again.

Tegs has offered me more work in the bar. I love it. We have such a laugh and it’s DOING something.

Sunday 6.1.91

12.34 a.m.

Just come back from working in the bar. Oh – it’s EPIC! Me and Tegs are now calling ourselves the Bostik sisters because we keep getting stuck in the saloon doors between the kitchen and the bar. And MTV are showing old
Saturday Night Live’
s with Bill Murray, Dan Aykroyd and John Belushi which are brilliant. Only Tegs keeps accusing me of having a crush on MTV presenter Steve Blame – which I DO NOT!

Anyway I was just serving people and Haddock came in. He’s come for a drink he said but I swear he’d come to say goodbye. We had a chat (NOT ABOUT Paul McCartney) about Battered Sausage being well loved up and about Dobber and Fig and then we had a strained over-the-bar hug. I didn’t want to let go. Of course I didn’t. I never do. He even SMELLS good. He feels GOOD. Oh he FEELS so good – like LIFE! Like MAN! Like something you don’t want to let go of. But I did let go. And he left. And I served someone bloody Archers and lemonade. I let go of the best thing in the world to serve someone peachy shit.

Monday 7.1.91

11.03 p.m.

There is going to be another war. What can I do? What I always think I can do – sit here, pray 100 times, check the gas, think by doing mad stuff I could change it. Stop it. I’d really like to tell Saddam Hussein now just how much shit he is causing in my head.

Even
Coronation Street
was crap tonight. Too much Mavis.

Shit – am I destined to be a Mavis? But Mad Mavis with carrier bags and loads of cats?

Thursday 10.1.91

10.56 p.m.

I’ve just been down the pub with Haddock’s girlfriend.

Judas Rae. Haddock’s girlfriend is the fat girl’s passport to the human equivalent of the Seychelles.

The more she goes on about him the more I’m convinced how alike we are. He covers all his bollocks up with being dry-as-a-bone funny and Mr Moody. They are going to get married. It’s a foregone conclusion. I’m not being a bloody bridesmaid I can tell you that for nothing. When they say ‘Has anyone got any objections as to whether these two should not be joined in holy matrimony’ – YES!! I HAVE A BLOODY HUGE ONE.