My Madder Fatter Diary (3 page)

I feel very angry at the moment.

Friday 12.1.90

11.35 p.m.

UNBELIEVABLE!

No, Mum – Battered Sausage does not want to see photos of your Moroccan boyfriend when he comes round to pick me up to take me for a drink. Only apparently he does! Battered Sausage will sit there, drink tea and let you tell him all about protein requirements and muscle mass and laugh at all your jokes. Tell you what Mum – why don’t you go down the pub with him! Take over my life completely. You clearly want to.

I was pissed off down the Vaults. Battered Sausage kept asking ‘What’s up Big Razza?’ I said nothing. But here’s what was actually pissing me off: 1) Haddock was not there and he hasn’t even got exams 2) My mum has a photo album of semi-naked men photos and she thinks it’s OK to show them to people.

I need to calm down. I’m going to have to get my Deacon Blue album out or something. Deacon Blue sing about everyone thinking love will fix things and how that’s crap.

Well I love Deacon Blue but I think they are wrong. I think it makes everything better. I’ve seen it does.

Saturday 13.1.90

12.33 p.m.

No-one is going out tonight because of exams. What a bunch of jibbers. Not even Dobber who can usually be totally relied upon. So I’m going to use my time productively and go for a massive walk to get me some ‘tone’ for sex! I might even do the old railway line walk down Gypsy Meadows.

5.12 p.m.

This isn’t a big deal but I’ve spotted my . . . Actually, as I write it IS a big deal. I was just walking down Gypsy Meadows and I saw this massive mound of rubbish and on it was my old rocking horse ‘Beauty’. Mum gave it to the family across the back and now they’ve dumped the thing I loved the most in the world in a bloody field. It’s totally pissed me off. Fly-tipping my memories. They could have given it back to me. I’m too big to ride it but – you shouldn’t fuck with people’s toys!

Mum is out. God knows where. She’s probably throwing away more stuff that matters to me.

8.35 p.m.

As soon as Mum got back I asked her about Beauty. She looked at me for ages and then said . . .

MUM: Rachel – you’re 18 years old. Why are you bothered about a bloody broken rocking horse when you’ve got exams next week?!

ME: Because MUM – that rocking horse was everything brilliant about being a kid and freedom.

MUM: Stop talking such shite and do some work.

ME: Thank you for your sensitivity as ever. You know the photos of Adnan that you’ve got – I might give them away!

MUM: I’ve hidden them! (or something – she was going mental)

ME: Good! But my mates don’t really want to see some bloke’s biceps.

MUM: Actually, Battered Sausage seemed very interested!

Me: No. He was just being polite to a middle-aged saddo (worst thing I’ve ever said but I was bloody cross).

Mum just walked off but it seriously was my favourite horse. My only horse. I used to pretend I was doing the Burghley Horse Trials on it.

10.12 p.m.

I just said sorry to Mum. At least when I am a cow I apologise. And I was a cow. It just seems like everything I love is starting to slip away.

Sunday 14.1.90

6.13 p.m.

Goodbye Beauty

There lies my horse

Fallen in a domestic war

Once ridden, now forgotten

Goodbye Beauty.

You are amongst flowers and clover,

Grass will be with you and the odd cow,

I rode you once

There are other things I want to ride now.

Bit pervy but says what I feel!

Without the pub and my mates I start to feel weird again.

Monday 15.1.90

5.13 p.m.

Spoke to Mort for ages today about Beauty. She gets it. She always gets it.

I’ve got exams for the next two weeks.

When I hear about other people’s parents at school I realise how lucky I am to have Mum as a mum. She just tells me if I fail my exams I will end up having a shit life in a dead end job. Some girls at school have dads that hang over them and nag them to death. Ebony’s mum checks on her every 15 minutes, forces her to eat figs and still makes her wear a vest!

Politics tomorrow.

Tuesday 16.1.90

4.57 p.m.

After today’s mock A level U.S. Politics TOTAL abortion I wish I did have a mum who made me work! WHAT IS FEDERALISM?

Wednesday 17.1.90

Shellboss and me got bollocked today for singing ‘Letter from America’ by The Proclaimers full blast in the common room. Yes we did have shit Scottish accents but there was no need for Mrs C to go quite so bonkers. We are 18! ADULTS. Teachers have zero pressure in their lives. They’ve done all their exams and passed them. GIVE PUPILS A BREAK.

My eating has gone out of control. Tonight – oh too much shit. I just feel panic and have stuff to do and I eat instead. Mum comes upstairs and stares at the plate. So I go to shovel it in at my window and Mrs Bark from the house opposite sees me from her kitchen or someone walking their dog glances up and disapproves. PISS OFF LASSIE MAN! I don’t want to be looked at when I eat. I know what people are thinking. You shouldn’t be eating. NOTHING. Except lettuce. And air.

Well FUCK YOU world because this brain needs energy. Perhaps that’s why I’m off it. My mind is fat.

Why is my lard on my gut and not on my toe. A massive toe would be easier to hide. I could have disabled shoes. I don’t think shit feet put off men.

Why I am even thinking about this when I should be revising voting behaviour?!

Thursday 18.1.90

11.30 p.m.

Mum went into hospital today for what she calls ‘Ladies reconstruction’. It’s a bladder repair.

As a woman, your body is either pissing you off or just pissing.

Usually Mum not being here would mean party time but A level mocks mean that is off the list. So I shall just sit here writing you, diary, looking at cabinet collective responsibility and listening to The Beautiful South. I will have to sail my ship alone because no-one wants to be in the boat and they couldn’t fit anyway.

Friday 19.1.90

7.12 p.m.

Did the British Politics exam and then a massive row erupted because everyone was having an exam inquest and saying they’d flunked it. They we had an argument about government whips. Shellboss said the maximum whip on a bill was 3. I said no, it was 4 because of the 1979 vote of no confidence against the Callaghan Labour government where they brought nearly dead MPs on stretchers on drips. No-one else remembered this and everybody started telling me I was talking bollocks. I know I’m right though! Though I can’t find it in any textbook.

That was the most boring entry in a diary ever recorded.

I should be with a bloke right now not talking about Tories.

I’ll ask Mum tomorrow about whips.

Saturday 20.1.90

5.12 p.m.

I went to see Mum in hospital. She said ‘The only whips I know about Rachel are Walnut!’ We both agreed they are the best kind! She is sore but OK.

I’m going out tonight or I will just sit here watching
Beadle’s About
feeling depressed.

Sunday 21.1.90

8.02 a.m.

Thanks Mr Bark for mowing on a Sunday morning. Your son came round and bollocked me for playing ‘Thriller’ too loudly one night but apparently it’s OK for you to get the Flymo out first thing.

11.34 a.m.

Saturday nights are getting really weird. Last night Ryan Bates cornered me by the toilets in the Vaults to apologise for being ‘such a shit’ to me on New Year’s Eve and calling me a sarky bitch. I told him not to worry about it as I hadn’t been. This is true. I am panicked out of my head about lots of things but Ryan Bates is not one of them. Then he said ‘Are we mates?’ and tried to give me a hug. I sort of shrugged him off and said ‘Yeah!’ Then he looked at me with this big STARE so I went ‘Bye Ryan!’

No Haddock. He is doing shifts. No anyone really tonight but I needed the pub. I needed people.

11.25 p.m.

I just tried to make a shopping list. I can’t be fagged. As long as I get tea and milk in for when Mum gets home she’ll be happy.

I miss her when she’s not here but I can’t stand her when she is. I don’t make sense to me let alone anyone else.

Monday 22.1.90

I went to Peterborough and
bought some records. I should be revising but HMV is sex. I’m on my own. I’ve noticed marked collapse of sanity. Hypochondria creeping in badly. Think I’ve swallowed glass and it’s currently cutting into my liver. It’s not. I’m sure
That’s Life!
said you should eat cotton wool if that happens but this is NOT a beauty household. We only have cotton buds for waxy ears and feminine hygiene products – I WANT TO SHOUT ‘SANITARY TOWELS’ EVERYWHERE!!! JAM RAGS!! YES I BLEED – IT’S NATURAL.

English tomorrow – you can’t really revise. We are allowed our set books in with us anyway.

Tuesday 23.1.90

5.38 p.m.

The great thing about English is that it’s actually an A level in bullshitting about books which I am brilliant at!

Mum is home but very sore. She is coming with me to the hospital tomorrow. I’ve got an appointment to find out what is up with my tummy and why I get in so much pain. They always blame it on stress. As soon as they hear it’s exam time they will say it’s me worrying and making myself ill. As soon as they see ‘psychiatric ward’ they say it’s my head. I will have this for life now. When I’m 60 and I get run over by a pissed up drunk driver who mounts the pavement the ambulance men will say ‘She’s batty – it’s her fault.’

Wednesday 24.1.90

6.12 p.m.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck!

Went to the hospital and saw a new specialist who was lovely and basically blew up my backside with a pump. Then he said ‘I’m not entirely happy with what I’m seeing down there. I think we could do with some further investigations.’ Basically I’ve got to come back to hospital and have a massive camera up my arse. My mum looked really worried and kept saying ‘What do you think it is?’ and the specialist goes ‘Nothing too serious or she’d probably be looking a lot more unwell than she is’. TALK ABOUT ME LIKE I’M NOT HERE WHY DON’T YOU?! HE MEANS I’D BE SKINNY NOT FAT.

I’m being mean. He was actually really nice and didn’t mention the nervous breakdown once.

I’m worried though. What is it? What is wrong with me? You know what I’m thinking. It would be a-bloody-typical of me to have something rare and horrendous.

Mum has just been up to ask me if I want to talk about anything. When I said ‘No’ she asked me if I wanted anything. Yes Mum – I’d like Haddock to come in here, hold on to me and never let go because I’m shitting it. But I told her nothing.

9.12 p.m.

I just told Mort about my arse. She was brilliant. She doesn’t think it’s anything to worry about or they would have kept me in.

I’m not staying there. Even the smell of Dettol makes me feel off my head.

I couldn’t stay in the phone box long as a bunch of twats had sat down on the old people’s flat’s wall. They were pretending to ring up the fire brigade and saying stuff like ‘Can you come quickly, a fat bitch needs to be cut free from a phone box she’s got stuck in.’ When I finished I just put the receiver down and ignored them.

I came home. Ate some cheese. Lots of it. Shoved it in. Got under the duvet. Wrote this.

Thursday 25.1.90

8.23 p.m.

Theatre Arts theory paper. I can’t tell you how much I don’t give a toss about Bertolt Brecht when death could be in my bum. Fuck knows why I’m laughing when I could be on my way out.

Last exam tomorrow. Thank GOD.

Friday 26.1.90

5.32 p.m.

Well History, you’re a pile of shit. I just presented the same point in 400 different ways in every essay.

11.34 p.m.

Battered Sausage picked me up about 8 p.m. He’d already had a bottle of sherry. I have no idea why he’s started downing Harvey’s Bristol Cream but it makes him really grumpy. We walked into town and he kept moaning about women like I’m not one (actually I’m not to him) then he started saying ‘If you come to Exeter you’ve got to give me some space to pull women.’ Er . . . yes . . . what does he think I will do? Cramp his style. What style? TOSSER. He was so busy going on about HIMSELF he didn’t ask me ONCE about me. Exams or ANYTHING. Good job though because what do I tell people?! I could be dying?! I have to have my entire anus and colon investigated. Not very sexy is it? Who wants this MESS. A girl at school had a cyst on her breast and no-one laughed at that. Which is right – it was horrible – but why are they laughing at me?!