by Rae Earl
HADDOCK: What you are you going to do now?
ME: Doss. Avoid getting a job. Wait for my results. What about you?
HADDOCK: I’m going Interrailing all summer. I go next week.
Now he did say last year he was going to South Africa for 6 months but when he kept on working I just thought he’d given up on the travelling thing. But no. He hasn’t. He’s off. Anyway I said . . .
ME: Oh really?! That’s brilliant (no – it’s not. It’s shit. Haddock it’s so shit you have no idea because frankly without you around everything is grey and flat and hopeless).
HADDOCK: You should do it too! Do you good. Get out of this place.
ME: Nah mate. I’m skint. And I’m going to Cornwall for a week aren’t I? (which I am shitting myself about)
HADDOCK: Well I’ll come and see you before I go and I’ll send you postcards.
And that was it. What did I want to say? God, I would love to come with you because you’re fit as hell, you make me laugh like a drain and you just make my brain and heart leap ten foot in the air you dry-as-a-bone, genuine, real bloke who listens to me and is totally not a cock AND is the most fantastic example of a man that I would probably consider doing all sorts of sex things with.
But I can’t get to Peterborough without feeling mad so Greece on a train is out of the question so I said:
‘Have a great time mate.’
Have a great time mate. Everything I feel for Haddock gets diluted down into the sort of thing I would say to our bloody postman.
I am officially shit.
Sunday 24.6.90
10.12 a.m.
YOU magazine is full of stupid thin actresses and the paper is full of famine. IT’S SICK IN THE HEAD.
Seething masses
Formless cameras
Flashes kill the player
While in one click
A fat bellied baby snuffs it
And the tattered queen sucks up the good stuff.
Perhaps they should get together
Former Hollywood society belle
And emaciated bag of Ugandan bones
No more milk for the child
You must starve
They milk her Queen, Tattered beauty queen
Shrivelled breasts are out in this studio and in Africa too.
Monday 25.6.90
6.12 p.m.
Is that poem brilliant or bollocks? I can’t decide.
Mum said to me today ‘You seem a bit down Rach. Adnan noticed too.’
If Adnan didn’t sing so badly, snore like a rhino, eat everything in sight and use everything heavy as a toning opportunity he’d be OK really.
I am down because everything is changing, I have no idea where I’m going and Haddock is going away. I can’t speak to anyone because they will either think I’m pathetic/mad/going mad/totally and completely intent on nicking their boyfriend, and they would be right.
Tuesday 26.6.90
11.22 p.m.
We beat Belgium in the World Cup.
Haddock is probably going to travel through Belgium. Hope he doesn’t get attacked for being English. Though he could probably beat the crap out of anyone Flemish if he needed to.
What am I going to do this summer? My head is already starting to . . . I’m fighting for stability. I can feel it.
And I’m listening to Dire Straits’ ‘So Far Away’. DIRE STRAITS! Old people in sweatbands from my brother’s record collection but that song says it now. Everything I love isn’t here or isn’t about to be here.
Dire Straits though. That’s bad. Tell a psychiatrist that I’m listening to them and I’d be straight back in the ward.
Wednesday 27.6.90
‘World in Motion’ has been ruined for me. Every time I hear it all I think of is anal sex.
Thursday 28.6.90
9.34 p.m.
I was in my bedroom with Shellboss this afternoon and I heard car doors and then a voice. I’ve been hallucinating Haddock everywhere so I just thought it was me being barking. But he’d come to say goodbye. I told him to take care and then he went to hug me. I ended up headbutting his chest in a sort of hug. And then he went.
I spoke to his girlfriend for ages the other night. She’s so pretty and lovely and funny – you can’t not like her! Haddock wrote her a letter. Listen to this. He wrote her a letter saying he said a prayer for her every night. BIT IRONIC! There’s me saying one for him every night and he’s praying for someone else.
Mind you, I also pray that I don’t go to hell, that God won’t let me catch rabies, that God won’t kill the people I love, that I’ll pass my A levels and that The Smiths will re-form . . . so he’s part of a long list.
Shellboss said to me ‘You like Haddock don’t you?’. When I said ‘yes’ she said ‘No Rae – I mean you really like him.’
Shellboss can see it but she has known for me for ages and she can see through loads of crap other people can’t. Other people can’t see it. He can’t.
I looked at some photos today and I am honestly totally disgusting.
Friday 29.6.90
6.20 a.m.
I’ve been up since 3.30 a.m. I can’t sleep. Last day of school after 7 years. I shall miss my mates immensely. Still what can you do? I shall hopefully keep in touch with the people I can keep in touch with.
My thoughts – a mixture of sadness and fondness.
No – my thoughts are just SHITTING IT.
9.12 p.m.
So that was it. We had made a massive spider to levitate over the headmistress’s head when she was doing the usual Bible reading in the final assembly but Mrs C caught us and said she didn’t think it would be a good idea. She’s lovely and we didn’t want to get her in trouble so that was abandoned. We did sing ‘Angelo’ by Brotherhood of Man though and the rest of the school went mad and clapped.
And that’s that.
But how the hell am I going to manage? That place . . . it kept me OK and now it’s gone. Seeing my mates everyday has gone. Food at the same time everyday has gone. Escape has gone. The common room has gone. Wellington Fudge pudding has gone. I feel like someone has pulled the carpet from underneath my feet and I’ve fallen over but, like a massive fat beetle, I can’t right myself. I’m on my back legs kicking in the air and it looks funny but it’s not.
Saturday 30.6.90
9.34 p.m.
So I’ve left school and I don’t really know where the hell I am going. I can only party while I wait and watch War and Remembrance.
To life and love I say cheers.
Close all the curtains
The doors – slam them it hurts less
I bloody loved school.
Sunday 1.7.90
2.20 a.m.
SUMMER ’90!!
Welcome. I hope you can be as good as ’89. You’ve got one hell of a lot to live up to.
11.35 a.m.
Got in bloody late last night after Olivers.
11.45 p.m.
Good Gad night down the pub. John D is a bit of an epic slice and a total classic.
It’s good to know other men exist when the one man who you DO want around is on a train God knows where.
Battered Sausage was lovely. He took his shirt off in the pouring rain to lend it to me so I didn’t get soaked. It was totally useless but fine.
Monday 2.7.90
2.11 a.m.
Just come back from Olivers. I’ve got gross Olivers ear. All I can hear is beeeeeeepppssss but you HAVE TO PLAY MUSIC LOUD.
I have got the most humungous crush on Paul Gascoigne. We won 3-2 against Cameroon. I’m not usually very patriotic at all but this World Cup I’m really enjoying and the football.
5.57 p.m.
I went round Fig’s house with Dobber this afternoon. He’s a right laugh and such a love. Dobber was talking about the trip to Cornwall. I should be looking forward to it but I’m scared. I’m scared of dying, of leaving here, of being stuck somewhere in Cornwall that’s not near a hospital, of my friends’ seeing
what I really am – weak and nuts and like an 11 year old. I’m scared of people seeing my mad head and my panic. If they see that I’d have no mates left.
Essential holiday list of things to take
Rennie
Colofac
Gaviscon
Paracetamol
Travel sickness tablets
Clothes
Purse
Sheet
Pillow
Batteries
Camera
Walkman
Walkman tapes
8.12 p.m.
Even medicines are coming before music in my lists. The hypochondria has started. You can see it. I’m not good.
Tuesday 3.7.90
9.45 p.m.
I’m staying at Mort’s. Told her about the holiday and how frightened I am about going. I can tell her everything – even some of the really, REALLY mental bits. She says I just need to take it one hour at a time and when I feel myself going downhill I’ve got to do something else. It’s brilliant advice but I know my head. When it says that I’m dying, I’m dying. When it says I’ve eaten a Death Cap mushroom, I’ve eaten one and I’ve got delayed symptoms of poisoning. I can’t stop it. I can’t stop the voices. The tablets didn’t stop it either. I saw a programme once about a bloke who’d had a lobotomy because he couldn’t stop ripping clothes. Perhaps I need one of those. Perhaps I should just bang my head hard with a tea tray like the bloke used to do ‘mule train’ on Tiswas and see if that works.
That was a joke. I’m not going to attempt amateur brain surgery.
Wednesday 4.7.90
Late. Who cares! PISSED off.
Tonight was just one of the biggest most gutting nights of my life and I mean that. I’ve just watched England v. Germany in the World Cup Semi- Final. It was a draw for ages and then Paul Gascoigne got a second yellow card, realised he couldn’t play in the final if we got there and started to cry! Like PROPERLY cry and Gary Lineker had to go and give him a cuddle (footballers cuddle – why can’t I?). Then it went to extra time, then it went to penalties and the sodding Germans won. Honestly the tension made me feel sick. It was more tense than Eurovision 1988 when Scott Fitzgerald nearly won. In fact I think the Germans buggered up that for us too.
Poor Paul Gascoigne. Then Chris Waddle and Stuart Pearce missed the penalties and that was it. Out!
The one good thing was they showed a brilliant Naked Gun advert for Red Rock cider directly after we lost. Which cheered us up a bit.
Why can’t one thing just work out?
I have to get A levels into perspective. It’s not like missing a goal and messing up the entire dreams of a nation. I haven’t liked Chris Waddle since that ‘Diamond Lights’ crap he did. Perhaps he should have practised penalties a bit more than singing love songs with Glen Hoddle. I’ve never had as shit a haircut as him either, unless you count the time Chloe put my hair up like a Mel & Kim pineapple look in 1987, told me it looked good and then pissed herself laughing at me in Ironmonger Street.
I am very unforgiving and I’m not the Saint and Greavsie either. Shut up Rae.
Thursday 5.7.90
5.36 p.m.
Everyone in England is pissed off today.
I’m back from Mort’s. I wish I could just go and live there. No tension. No arguments. No Mum talking pidgin English. No kissing in the kitchen. No weightlifting equipment that you would like to get out of your way but it’s actually too heavy to move.
Friday 6.7.90
6.12 p.m.
Lack of activity has caused chronic hypochondria to return combined with this blind panic of WHAT THE HELL DO I DO NEXT?!
It’s all an anticlimax. End of school. End of everything. I’m just waiting for stuff to happen.
NEW ACTION PLAN
But before this let us look at the successes of the last action plan, mid-year, and see what has been achieved/rectified/ resolved:
1) Get A levels and get away!
Not yet
2) Have a bloody good time.
Sometimes
3) Keep cool and calm.
Hardly ever
4) Maintain spiritual stability.
That actually means not go mad. Trying.
5) Try to have some remnants of a decent relationship with a real man that exists as a breathing thing.
No.
6) Become a bit of a sex bitch.
No.
Well it’s not an overriding success is it? Still here goes this one –
ACTION PLAN
1) Whatever A level results I get utilise them in a positive way.
2) Make peace with my head.
3) Body overhaul.
4) Mind overhaul.
Saturday 7.7.90
11.47 p.m.
I didn’t go out tonight because my head is . . . it’s not well. So I watched War and Remembrance. This was not a good decision. It was the most horrible thing I have ever seen. Basically they were at Auschwitz and they showed the Nazis gassing people. It was . . . kids and everything. They didn’t give a shit. And they killed John Gielgud’s character – which was brilliant in a way because they just didn’t care. It was evil. Horrific. People screaming to get out the gas chamber.
Now I can’t get it out of my head. I know it happened. I know about it but . . . oh God it was terrible. Now in my head – I’m convinced if I don’t do stuff it’ll happen again. And I’ve said the Lord’s Prayer about 15 times and hit myself for the thoughts that all this has made me think but I can still see kids screaming and I can’t fix it. I can’t make it go away. I can’t take my mind off it with music because that seems like being disrespectful and the bad stuff WILL happen. And what if a government like that gets in power in Britain one day and takes the people I love away? This is when I just want to cut into myself just for the relief. The distraction. The relief. I just want to be in control of everything but I can’t even be in control of my head. It’s a mess and it’s getting messier. Wish I had exams again or something. Might start learning the British Book of Hit Singles again.
Sunday 8.7.90
2.15 a.m.
Just woke Mum up because I needed to talk about Auschwitz. She was cross at first because it reminded her of the time I woke her up at 4 in the morning to tell her Indira Gandhi was dead. Her reaction then was ‘Indira Gandhi will still be dead when I bloody get up.’ I told her I couldn’t get it out of my head. She said ‘Look Rachel – it was the worst thing. A bloody terrible thing but you just have to make sure, in your life, you stand up to any nonsense and if you see people getting picked on you say something. And you do. You use your big mouth to good effect most of the time. You can’t change what happened but you can change things now. Now can I go back to sleep as I’m on for 9 hours on fresh produce tomorrow.’
My mum gets it sometimes. I’m listening to All About Eve and trying to sleep.
Monday 9.7.90
3.45 a.m.
Can’t sleep. Horrible feeling. It’s like a huge numbness. It’s partly thinking about the Holocaust and partly thinking about whether I can cope with going to Cornwall. YES! I know how pathetic and appalling that sounds but if I can’t tell you I can’t tell anyone.
Tuesday 10.7.90
10.36 p.m.
I can see hypochondria, anxiety and me just being mad buggering up this holiday. I’ve just been down the meadows for a piss up with Dobber and Battered Sausage. My heart was just thumping like crazy all the time. It could have been the drink but I’ve even got chest pains. That could be my bra though. It’s tight and the boning is coming out. I can’t go to casualty with crap underwear but I don’t want to die either.
I’m losing it again. I can feel it going.
Wednesday 11.7.90
9.21 a.m.
I love Smash Hits. I can’t imagine life without it but this week Craig McLachlan is on the cover. It actually says ‘You’re the goat from Neighbours’! Am I even getting too old for Smash Hits? I already have Q every month. Perhaps I should give it up? The tru
th is I don’t need a free Candy Flip sticker anymore and Check 1-2 are . . . WHERE’S THE STONE ROSES?!
Thursday 12.7.90
10.21 p.m.
The fact is I told people at school that I wanted to be Kate Adie and report from war zones as a career. Or do a Michael Buerk and start a massive protest against famine and make Live Aid happen by going to Ethiopia. I’m having a panic attack about going to Cornwall. Unless the BBC need a foreign correspondent in Rutland I’m fucked.
Two days to go. Just calm down Rae. You can cope with this. It’s still Britain!
Friday 13.7.90
6.26 p.m.
I was a traitor today. I went to the café where the owner was horrible to Mum. Mum had gone in with a teacher from the boys’ school, who she ironed shirts for. The owner said ‘I suppose you are going to tell us you’re just good friends.’ Mum shouted across the shop ‘No – we’re fantastic lovers!’ This wasn’t true but it shut the stupid nosey cow up! Anyway it was years ago but Mum sort of banned me from there but today I just fancied a jacket potato and they were the only ones selling them. It serves me right – it was horrible and had green bits. Now my guts are even more on fire and tomorrow I’ve got a 7-hour drive to Cornwall.
Well I’m just sat in the back but I’m in charge of music. Which is hard because Fraggle likes a bit of Bros. Not in any vehicle I’m in love!
I’m so worried about going away. Normal people would be excited about going on holiday. I’m sat here necking Gaviscon and doing deep breathing in a bag. What am I? A mental virgin who is very unlikely to ever have sex or become a foreign correspondent.
Saturday 14.7.90
7.12 a.m.
Just waiting for Dobber, Fraggle and Ronni to come and pick me up. I’ve made the most amazing compilation tape in history. Nervous though. Scared. It’s miles away and if I lose it there then I’m not near Mum or Mort or most of my record collection. I can’t take that all with me. I’d need a trailer. I need extra space for all my tablets as it is!