My Madder Fatter Diary (5 page)

I also have an appointment to go and see the specialist next Tuesday. Humongous nerves now.

Friday 16.2.90

1.45 a.m.

I’ve just been to Olivers. Haddock walked me home. I AM SO SICK OF MOANING ABOUT SEX DESERT DROUGHT when a lust oasis grows legs and escorts me back through dark passages like a knight in really tight jeans.

I wish I could act like a cow rather than look like one.

Haddock is physical perfection. That is the least of it though. Regardless of what I or he believes, he has a totally brilliant personality. Protective and humorous . . .

Saturday 17.2.90

6.55 p.m.

Sorry, fell asleep. I’m always doing that.

I feel very bad at the moment. Home totally mixed up. When I write I feel better.

Chelsea has just been round. Nice attempt at superiority but not quite making it. I know her game. Typical, underhand comment – ‘Oh, me and Haddock’s girlfriend might go away together for a holiday.’ She has TOTALLY got the Haddock knowledge and could actually destroy everything in my life.

TELL HER THEN!

My friend, impart then to win the battle,

And rub rhine into the graze

But know that sweet retribution falls onto those

Who dare to encourage the thick hand of fate

I’m not afraid your slate is not clean.

Your greenhouse is glass

Your secrets are stone

I have them in my hand

Kill my shed. I kill yours.

I didn’t mean rhine I meant brine. Shakespeare always shoves it in. It’s salty water shit.

I’m going down the Vaults.

Sunday 18.2.90

2.35 a.m.

I’ve got to write. It’s late but I’ve got to write. The last couple of days have just been crazy. I’ve spent tons of time with Haddock and last night I ended up having this massive conversation with him about stuff. I wasn’t going to tell him about him about medical things but when you sit down with him you just feel like you can tell him anything. It’s weird. It’s like being with a really nice woman who is also just the most horny man on the planet.

Anyway he told me off for not telling him and then he grabbed hold of my hand and said ‘you’ll be all right’ and winked. I nearly died. I wanted to leap on top of him but instead I said ‘fuck off you soppy twat’ and punched him.

Sometimes I wish he’d just act like a knob to me because it would be bloody easier to deal with.

Monday 19.2.90

3.22 p.m.

I am so sick of not telling people what I feel. I’m sick of being fat. I’m sick of slapping Haddock instead of hugging him and I’m sick of hearing Rod Stewart on his downtown train shagging young blondes. Piss off and date someone your own age you gravelly old bastard. Uncle Disgusting. He should be knobbing Cher or Tina Turner.

Hospital tomorrow. Yes I’m scared.

Tuesday 20.2.90

1.12 p.m.

There’s no easy way to say this. I have a benign tumour in my colon.

It’s called a polyp. Some people get them in their nose. I’ve got one up my bum. I’m not going to die from it but they do need to take it out in the very near future.

It IS funny, diary. I laughed when the specialist told me. Mum looked really concerned but it’s like God is having a laugh with my life. I’m huge and now I’ve got something else that means I will almost certainly die a virgin. In the past I’ve worried that I’ve had every illness under the sun from rabies to a brain haemorrhage and now I have a REAL bum growth. You could not make it up! It’s my life and it’s BONKERS as hell.

I’m telling some people but not everyone.

4.26 p.m.

No fuck it – I’m telling everyone. It’s not my fault. Love me, love my polyp.

Wednesday 21.2.90

10.47 p.m.

I was moping around till Mum said ‘Rachel. You’re not bloody dying. Go out with your friends!’. So I went ice skating with the Gads which was a total laugh until I fell over and someone shouted ‘earthquake’.

Told Mum. She said ice skating was just a craze and would end up at the back of everyone’s cupboard. That’s not the point Mum and Torvill and Dean with their twenty gold medals for ‘Bolero’ would disagree.

Nearly a year since I had a snog. Total insignificance.

Thursday 22.2.90

7.10 p.m.

It must be significant or I wouldn’t mention it.

Friday 23.2.90

10.57 p.m.

Chelsea was weird down the pub tonight. It’s just the same as Bethany. I always end up with a pretty girl who looks down on me.

Dear Eleanor Roosevelt. You think no-one can make you feel inferior without your consent. Have you bloody met Chelsea?

Sometimes I think I might be the problem. Then I think ‘No. I am sick of being the problem. The one that’s nuts. The one in the ward. I can’t be the problem in my problem life all the bloody time.’

Saturday 24.2.90

10.14 a.m.

‘Got To Have Your Love’ by Mantronix is not just ALL CLASSIC ACE, it’s my Haddock tune right now.

No Mum. I’m not turning it down. I have a bowel polyp. I need MUSIC.

Sunday 25.2.90

2.13 a.m.

I’ve just returned from a particularly brilliant Gad night. Battered Sausage’s prime concern was slice and nothing else. I think he might have got off with Jasmine. I think he might be sexually frustrated. I hope it’s temporary. I can’t cope with this. The real Battered Sausage is worth his weight in gold. This one is a massive knob.

Haddock was not out. I might bomb where he works.

With him not in work obviously!

Or anyone else. I don’t want people to die for my love needs. I’m not the IRA.

Monday 26.2.90

8.31 p.m.

It’s weird how people have reacted to me being ill. Mum keeps saying I’m not ill which is an interesting way to view a REAL LIFE TUMOUR.

The thing is I’m not making a big deal of it. I’m just telling everyone I know when the time is right.

Tuesday 27.2.90

7.21 p.m.

We were wetting ourselves in the common room today! Chelsea dumped her long-term boyfriend. BIG shock – but he bought her that shit Michael Bolton record for Valentine’s Day and she said ‘as soon as I saw the cover I knew it was over.’ That is completely fair. You can’t go out with a boy you don’t respect musically. If Haddock liked Bros, New Kids or Shakin’ Stevens (back in the charts – FUCK OFF SHAKEY!) I would not . . . Yes I WOULD fancy him but I’d have to sort him out. HA HA HA! in many ways!!

Wednesday 28.2.90

6.24 p.m.

February, you’ve been a sod! New month new start!

Who IS Ben Liebrand?! He’s remixing everything to shit.

Thursday 1.3.90

7.39 p.m.

Battered Sausage was meant to come round last night to take me for a drink. Well, I say he was meant to – unless he tells me otherwise he nearly always comes round on a Wednesday. It’s like a tradition. Anyway last night he didn’t. I sat at my desk listening to
Bummed
getting more and more pissed off. By ‘Brain Dead’ I knew he wasn’t coming. So me and Shaun Ryder spent the evening together. The good thing about Shaun Ryder is he’s not a complete TWAT that is only interested in pulling women and getting his todger out for a laugh in the Vaults beer garden.

Friday 2.3.90

5.48 p.m.

I think I’m being a bit unfair on Battered Sausage. He’s not my husband. I can’t expect him to stop wanting sex just because I’m a bit . . . needy. I AM needy, diary. This is because of SHIT! EVERYTHING!

11.35 p.m.

Haddock not out again tonight. According to his girlfriend, the night shift pays more and he is saving up to go away.

Oh don’t go. Or take me with you. I’d probably be all right if I was with Haddock.

So Friday night was good but – BLOODY HELL I WISH MRS BARK WOULD CLOSE HER KITCHEN CURTAINS.

Saturday 3.3.90

1.10 p.m.

Well, Battered Sausage has just come over. ‘Can I have my cardigan back? I can’t stop. I’m going to Bedford. Might see you tonight but probably not.’ Why do I love the cocky, womanising twat?! Why have I got a mate that’s a cocky, womanising twat? Why do I get possessive? Why do I get worked up? WHY CAN’T I JUST BE MYSELF?

Sunday 4.3.90

8.02 a.m.

When I was in the pub last night Battered Sausage said hello and then I sort of ignored him and he said something like ‘Fine Rae.’

Then all night it was about other women. I give up on men – they are either all over you, completely ignoring you or earning £5 an hour stacking shelves.

Monday 5.3.90

6.35 p.m.

Mum is acting even weirder than normal. She keeps disappearing down the phone box all the time. Now the rumour is that two women are running some sort of helpline for lesbians from 63401. That might just be a totally made-up rumour because Stamford is shit BUT has my mum gone to work for them? She’s not a lesbian.

FUCK!

No. My mum is not a lesbian. My head is spiralling out of control. Her second husband is gay but that does not make her one. Now she is coming back. I can see her charging up the road.

The thing is, nothing would surprise me anymore.

Tuesday 6.3.90

9.13 p.m.

I cornered Mum tonight and asked her if anything was going on. She said ‘Rachel, I’ve got a few things to tell you. I’m trying to get Adnan over permanently so we can get married (I totally knew this already). Also I’ve had a tattoo of him done on my bottom.’

She then said ‘Woo-hoo!’ and pulled down her trousers slightly and yes there now is a drawing of a black bodybuilder in red pants on her buttock.

And I’m meant to go to school tomorrow and write an essay about Chaucer.

She said ‘What do you think?’. I said truly and honestly that I thought it looked bloody awful. Then she said ‘Oh it’s a bit of fun.’ No Mum – Alton Towers is a bit of fun. Permanently scarring your body with a six-inch picture of a bloke in tight pants ON YOUR ARSE is . . . WHAT IF I DID THAT?!

I’m sitting here listening to ‘Closest Thing to Heaven’ by The Kane Gang. It’s beautiful and tender and gentle – it’s everything a massive bum tattoo isn’t.

Sometimes I feel like a mad rare flower in a field full of weeds and nutters.

No I’m a weed – but a good weird weed.

No Mum, I do not want a fucking Ovaltine. That does not make up for you acting like a child.

Wednesday 7.3.90

8.35 p.m.

I’m sitting here with a candle.

I had a huge debate at school today about tattoos. People actually think they want one. Mia has already planned a seahorse on her tummy. Yes she is gorgeous now but what about when she has a baby or something. I pointed out that my mum’s tattoo probably wobbles like jelly when she walks.

I’m never having one. I don’t like my body and I’m not buggering it up more with scribbles.

Thursday 8.3.90

10.35 p.m.

What gets to me is I’m expected to be sensible even though Mum acts like she is actually 12. And she’s been doing ridiculous stuff for years!

1) Went punk in about 1980. Blue hair, red hair, green hair. When we lived in Rutland Road! RUTLAND ROAD!! We were still going to church every week at this point.

2) Married a Latin teacher from a posh school. A LATIN TEACHER?!

3) We went to Izmir, Turkey for holidays because second husband went to teach English there. We ended up up a mountain with a Kurdish family slaughtering a goat.

4) I LIVE IN A COUNCIL ESTATE AND I WAS UP A MOUNTAIN HAVING SALADS AND ROASTED-OVER-A-SPIT GOAT WITH PEOPLE WHO LIVE IN CAVES. It’s like David Attenborough not real life!

5) We went to Izmir zoo. A keeper was playing with a lion cub outside the cage. The lion cub attacked my ankle. My mum didn’t help – SHE JUST TOOK A PHOTO. Yes it was just like a big kitten and playing but IT WOULDN’T LET GO.

6) THEN second husband moved to Casablanca and we went there.

7) He ran off with a man because he is GAY. Mum met a Moroccan champion bodybuilder and two minutes later they are going to get married.

HOW IS ANY OF THAT NORMAL?!

Then at other times she just sits in the chair looking as miserable as sin and any noise I make is a DISASTER.

Friday 9.3.90

6.32 p.m.

Well fact-fans, the reason why my mum decided to tell me about the tattoo now is that one of the people that looked after her in hospital described her in a letter as a ‘tattooed, obese woman’. She is angry and wants me (as I am the ‘educated one’) to write a letter complaining. She says though it’s factually accurate that she is obese, her tattoo has nothing to do with her ‘ladies reconstruction’.