My Madder Fatter Diary (25 page)

I bottle her up.

I’m not well. I know I’m not but I have to save myself.

But there’s hope. THERE’S HOPE. Bloody hell the new Rick Astley single is AMAZING. Seriously. People CAN change. One minute you’re a Stock Aitken Waterman tea boy doing total pop cheese then you go REAL SOUL BOY GOSPEL!!! It’s called ‘Cry for Help’. That’s not why I like it by the way. I like it because it’s brilliant and you can reinvent yourself.

I’m not basing my life on Rick Astley but music CAN lead.

Friday 15.2.91

8.26 p.m.

Ode to me

Good evening, many of you will know me as the

Rather round thing that shouts a lot.

Or perhaps even as the big lump,

With pretty things scattered around.

Not many of you could understand

The mind torture that condemns me

Not many can rectify the fear with the funny

The serious with the silly.

Oh stop writing bollocks poetry and do something.

Saturday 16.2.91

6.12 p.m.

It’s strange really. Saturday nights were formerly things of such immense brilliance and action and now they are tragic.

10.12 p.m.

Mum was really down tonight. She just sat in the chair looking miserable and a bit out of it. HELLO??!! I do know what lonely is. I do get it. It can’t be easy having your husband so far away from you and not even knowing if he will get in the country permanently because you live in the Lincolnshire apartheid system. I stayed in with her and watched
Bergerac
and
Don’t Wait Up
. She can’t say I don’t love her – I bloody hate
Bergerac
and I would rather have a barium enema again than watch Nigel Havers arguing with his dad about golf – or some other middle-class toss.

Meanwhile other people are having lives like I used to have. In pubs. Drinking. Laughing. Snogging. My life should not be based around John Nettles.

But I made Mum smile. That’s good. She seems down. I hate her a lot of the time but she’s . . . she’s OK really.

Sunday 17.2.91

9.35 a.m.

Bitter Fat Thing

You know the sort

Large. On
Kilroy
every time the show is about

Size.

I’m JUST the same. It’s not fat I think

It’s attitude.

Fat women have great lives

But I’m a fat apology.

Big fat joke.

5.45 p.m.

Ronni came round tonight. She’s going to Leeds tomorrow because she’s going to uni there next year. She wanted to see if I wanted to go with her. She’s got some stuff to sort out before she’s travels across Africa. Across AFRICA! East to West, Rwanda, Ethiopia, Mali – all of them I think and more. Places Kate Adie goes to. These are my friends. Amazing, brave, together and I’m watching bloody
Bergerac
with my mum.

Yes I’m going to Leeds. Ronni is lovely and YES – I might bump into him. Big city but you never know.

What will I say if I do?

Monday 18.2.91

9.34 p.m.

I’ve had a brilliant day. We got Hereward Radio ALL the way up to Doncaster but when we rang the DJ to tell him he didn’t seem that impressed. It felt good though – getting something from home all that way. I need to feel like things aren’t too far away. Even radio. I know that’s mad.

I couldn’t get over Leeds – it’s really pretty! The way Amos in
Emmerdale Farm
talks about it you think it would be hell! It’s got all these amazing posh massive shopping arcades and it’s nothing like Sheffield.

No – I didn’t see Haddock. Of course I didn’t. I have Haddock radar too – I get this prickly feeling if he’s within a mile of me. Plus what WOULD I say to him if I did? I looked everywhere except for the ladies bogs. He was nowhere but it’s good to have seen where he moves about. Where he drinks. Where he eats. Where he breathes – how pathetic do I sound?

I think I’m a bit angry at the moment. Living on dreams. Eating massive sandwiches. Wishing it all away. If I was to write everyday in this diary it would sound like the book Jack Nicholson writes in
The Shining
. The same line OVER and OVER and OVER. And Jack Nicholson in
The Shining
has totally gone MAD. Put me in a hotel, close it down for winter and let me get better. No freaky ghosts though thank you. Got enough creepy crap in my head to last me a lifetime.

Tuesday 19.2.91

8.45 p.m.

I went for a coffee with Haddock’s girlfriend today. I didn’t mention I’d been to Leeds as I would have got total interrogation and I just can’t face Haddock talk at the moment unless it’s Haddock talk with myself and involves unspeakable hot rudeness. Anyway we were just coming past the Co-op in the car and we saw this old lady fall over on the ice. She split her chin REALLY badly. We ended up taking her to Stamford casualty, waiting whilst she got stitched up and then taking her home. I feel bad writing this but I was actually grateful something EXCITING had happened. Bugger me. That’s how shit my life has got – a pensioner’s facial stitches are worth a diary entry. Forget world travel and exotic sex Rae – let’s have a good session in Stamford Hospital with a Red Cross cup of tea and some gardening magazines. No – I do not want to know how to get better mulch. Bloody hell – this is what my life is reduced to. It’s old people and mulch by day, bingeing on cheese and chocolate by night, mad stuff crawling round my head like insects at 2 in the morning and waving goodbye to people who aren’t mental and CAN do stuff.

Feet on the radiator. ‘Loaded’ by Primal Scream. Better.

Thursday 21.2.91

10.10 p.m.

Writing this seems – it seems like a joke but Mum will tell you it happened.

I went down to the newsagents down Green Lane tonight to wait for the
Stamford
Mercury
. Just for something to do really. Mum sat there chatting to her mate and, no word of a lie, her Labrador cocked its leg up against me and pissed on my jeans.

It was like it KNEW I felt like shit. Mum said ‘Take it as a compliment – you have got skinny lamp post legs.’ This is true. There is no weight on my legs. I do look slightly like a ladybird but being pissed on by a dog? I can’t go any lower than this. Perhaps it’s a sign.

No, perhaps the sign is my one decent pair of jeans need a good wash.

At least I know what Labradors think of me. Funny how I’ve been called a ‘fat dog’ a million times on Green Lane and now I get pissed on by an actual dog. I think I might prefer it.

Friday 22.2.91

9.23 a.m.

Bloody hell! Haddock’s girlfriend and me are in the paper! There’s an entire article ‘Woman Seeks Good Samaritans’. I told Mum it was us. She said ‘Rachel – you must come forward!’ No way! I help old people with their minor injuries whilst the rest of my mates do actually amazing things like shagging and expeditions or both. She just wants to boost her Morrisons profile. I can now be the daughter who saves old women rather than the nutter who stays at university for just one week and can’t get a job.

Saturday 23.2.91

11.50 p.m.

Ronni’s last Saturday before she goes across Africa! We had a great time. I’d made her this big card. It took me ages! She looked dead chuffed but then she said ‘I’m a bit nervous about going.’ I said ‘But you’ll have a fantastic time. You are as tough as hell. You’ll be fine.’

And it’s true, she is.

There goes another one. Nearly everyone has gone now. Me and Haddock’s girlfriend are the only ones left and even she is working!

Why can’t I tell myself that I am worth something like I tell others? Why does a dog pissing on my leg send me into the spiral? There’s this sense that I am NOTHING. The psychiatrist used to tell me to look in a mirror and tell yourself ‘I’m beautiful and good’ – but you just feel like a twat. They also told me to pretend the man who molested me was in a chair and tell him how angry I am. What good would that do?! I don’t even want to think about it. I want to burn and punch myself when I think about that. Do these people even know what they are doing when they tell you to do this stuff? How hard it is? IT HAPPENED. I can’t unmake it. What would be the best therapy? Punching the evil sod in the knob! I don’t think you’re allowed to do that police-wise. I don’t even know where he is. It’s probably a good thing. There’s a queue to physically hurt him – Mum, Dad, my brothers would all like a go.

It doesn’t undo it though. You’d feel good for a second then there’s just the emptiness. It’s like the bingeing. After the chocolate there’s the wrappers.

I need to do something now.

Because the fixers haven’t fixed it and they can’t.

Sod it. I’m going to start the diet.

Sunday 24.2.91

10.45 a.m.

I’m starting the diet tomorrow. Monday is ALWAYS the day to start a diet!

I’m not telling a soul I’m doing it except Mum. I’ve seen women try to sabotage other women’s diets. ‘Don’t get too thin!’ ‘You’re looking gaunt!’, ‘You’re not as much fun as you used to be.’ – I’ve heard it all. It means don’t get too pretty. You’re competition. Stuff that. Live with it. I want to lose weight.

I’m doing Rosemary Conley’s Metabolic Booster Diet. There’s the lazy cook’s plan. I’ve asked Mum if we can have a Chinese tonight before I start because I have a feeling that battered sweet and sour chicken, prawn crackers, special fried rice and beef in black bean sauce is NOT on the Rosemary list.

Monday 25.2.91

8.23 a.m.

This is the first day of the diet. I hope I don’t lose my sense of humour. Are thin women less funny? Perhaps they don’t have to try so hard. Perhaps I could be the first funny skinny woman ever.

I CAN do 4 Ryvitas with Cup-a-Soup and a Lean Cuisine. I know it’s only day one but I CAN do this. I went for a walk with ‘Flashdance’ – if I end up looking like Jennifer Beals that will be perfect. Not wearing leg warmers though love – this is the 90s!

Tuesday 26.2.91

10.19 p.m.

The 25th and I didn’t even realise. I’m 19 years old and I’ve had 2 snogs. I’ve never had a boyfriend and at this rate I doubt I ever will.

BUT I stuck to the diet again today. 4 pieces of fruit. A cold tin of small baked beans. More Ryvita. Lean Cuisine. Yoghurt. I can’t see any massive difference yet but I don’t stay long in front of a mirror. THAT is not me. That reflection is someone else.

Wednesday 27.2.91

11.32 p.m.

Haddock’s girlfriend today accused me
of being snappy and cutting. Yes – that’s because I’m jealous of you and the face that THE LOVELIEST MAN ON THE PLANET LOVES YOU and I AM SO BLOODY HUNGRY I COULD EAT HADDOCK. Battered and human variety.

Vic Reeves is bloody hilarious.

God I want Haddock (human not battered)

Perhaps I don’t. Fact is I’ve been spending a lot of time with me recently and I’ve realised I deserve a break. I deserve to be nice to me. And I HAVE to make myself DO stuff. GO places. Perhaps not Africa but Leicester and stuff.

I can be a full and whole person without the biscuits.

That sounds all Oprah Winfrey but it’s true.

Oh no, is my potential thinness turning me into a twat?

Saturday 2.3.91

12.35 p.m.

Dobber is up for her mum’s 40th birthday. On Sunday I am going back with her to Canterbury. It’s a big deal and I’m slightly worried about it because a) It’s miles away b) How do I stick to the diet when we are on a session? Apparently vodka and diet Coke. Anyway I’m going. The vodka will probably help.

Sunday 3.3.91

12.06 a.m.

Had the weirdest and most brilliant night at Dobber’s mum’s 40th birthday. This bloke kept saying ‘Rae – you are such a child of the 60s.’ I didn’t think I was but when I was doing my GCSE’s I used to listen to ‘Woodstock’ by Matthews’ Southern Comfort and think I was going to drop out. Perhaps I was born in the wrong era. The 80s were so body fascist – it was all Jane Fonda and leotards riding up your bum. Even skinny people in the 60s wore kaftans and loose clothing.

Haddock’s girlfriend went to see him in Leeds. Apparently he’s now a bit in love with himself. Isn’t that good though? I would love to be a bit in love with myself. Oh and he’s coming back next weekend. Dear Rosemary Conley. Can you metabolic boost me into losing 4 stone in 7 days? No. I didn’t think so.

11.15 p.m.

Fucking hell. Do you know what Haddock’s girlfriend said to Dobber?! – ‘Haddock might try to get off with you in the summer because he wants to make me jealous and you’re the only one of my friends he likes.’

I will show all the shits.

They are not shits. They just have NO IDEA how I feel. None of them. And they love me. The biggest twat in my life is ME.