by Rae Earl
10.13 p.m.
We’re here. It’s a lovely flat. We’ve filled the fridge. For some reason Ronni brought one sausage with her. We’ve nicknamed it ‘Gazza’s Sausage’ and we are NEVER eating it! It’s the pork product holiday mascot!
Sunday 15.7.90
2.35 a.m.
The sea is bloody loud. It’s not relaxing. It just reminds me of drowning.
Tummy hurts. Head hurts. And I can’t do what I need to do to keep spiritual stability in case people notice or hear.
Heart thumping. I’m not dying though. Can’t be.
6.29 a.m.
Just looked in the tourist brochure thing in the flat. The nearest emergency department is 59 miles away. That’s further than Stamford to Peterborough.
Listening to Soup Dragons’ ‘I’m Free’. I’m not. Wherever I go there’s THIS HEAD. God is out to get me.
Then Glenn Medeiros comes on the radio. I’m blaming him if I go off it again.
7.12 p.m.
A day on the beach. Joy.
Spent a fiver on an inflatable tyre for the sea only for this massive tanned Australian lifeguard to come and tell me that ‘inflatables are banned as they pose a safety risk.’ Yes Bruce, I have seen the public information films – this is St Ives not Bondi! On the beach all the others looked amazing in bikinis. I had a Daffy Duck T-shirt covering everything and men’s shorts from John Justin. I dragged the inflatable out of the water. I got stares. The wrong ones but I’m used to that. One hilarious boy said ‘Do you really need another spare tyre?’. I said ‘Bet your mouth isn’t as big as your cock.’ I meant to say ‘I bet your cock isn’t as big as your mouth.’ My mum taught me that one. I got it wrong.
Now we are going out for dinner. Daffy Duck covers lots of things. He can hide more chips.
Monday 16.7.90
8.12 p.m.
I’m pretending to smile but . . . head is gone. I had it sorted last year but now SHE is coming back. We went to a nightclub last night. Boys danced round the others. You get the message. You act the tit. My heart was bursting out of my chest. No interest from Cornish men. So at least I know my lack of sex appeal is worldwide and can’t be blamed on Lincolnshire. Tonga is good for fat people apparently but as I can’t pass Clay Cross services without getting palpitations, somewhere in the Pacific is probably a bit far to go to get laid.
Or is it? I’m mental everywhere.
Gazza’s Sausage is going off.
I keep checking my pulse. I’m getting on everyone’s nerves. Everyone’s.
Think I do need a doctor just to be on the safe side. If I die here it will ruin their holiday even more.
Dobber looks like a lobster she is that red. She never bothers with sun tan lotion. She’s heard if you cover yourself in Flora margarine you get a better tan. Men still fancy her though. Even with third degree burns. You can see it.
Why can men see through peeling skin but not through fat?
Tuesday 17.7.90
2.39 p.m.
Fraggle just rang the doctor for me. I feel really, really bad.
6.34 p.m.
Doctor came out. I’ve got hypertension. He said is there a history of it in the family? Probably. There’s a history of everything except malaria and dengue fever. He said my weight wouldn’t be helping and to see my GP when I got home.
Told everyone I’m going home tomorrow. To be honest they didn’t protest too much. I think it’s a relief. Who wants a nutter? I don’t want this nutter. Nutters ruin meals, mess up nightclubs and gooseberry your pulling action.
I hope I’ve got enough money to get me home. I may have overstretched things financially by buying an inflatable tyre that I couldn’t even bloody use.
Wednesday 18.7.90
11.34 p.m.
Nightmare day – I am in so much shit.
Basically got to St Erth station and I only had enough money to get me to either London or Birmingham. So I opted for London. It took ages to get to Paddington then I had to lie to the Underground staff that someone had stolen my purse and I had run out of money. For some reason I put on an Irish accent because I thought they’d feel more sorry for me. It worked. I even said ‘May the Virgin Mary bless you.’ I have no idea why. Got to King’s Cross. Told the bloke there I had no money for a ticket home. He rang my brother, who went round to my mother and she went down to Stamford station and paid for the ticket. When I finally got home she was LIVID. ‘What’s the bloody matter?!’ and ‘There’s nothing bloody wrong with you’ and ‘You’ve got to get over all this.’ Adnan had to stop her having a go at me. I told her I was in pain and she threw a distalgesic at me.
Adnan – a bodybuilder who can barely speak English – has more understanding of me than my own mother. Perhaps Muslims get anxiety and OCD more than SO-CALLED CHRISTIANS!
No. That’s not fair. Mrs Kirby the welfare assistant at school is religious and she totally got my panic attacks. She was cross at everyone else and blamed everything on period pains but she was lovely to me.
I think I would test the patience of Jesus with my head. And I just pretended to a member of British Rail that I was Irish and Catholic. I’m going to hell. I’m in hell.
Thursday 19.7.90
9.09 p.m.
No-one out. Watching TV and avoiding Mum.
I’m pleased for Elton John that he’s got his first solo number one but it’s a right pile of drippy poo. ‘The Bitch is Back’ CRAPS on it. So does ‘Rocket Man’, ‘Goodbye Yellow Brick Road’, ‘I’m Still Standing’ – EVERYTHING ELTON JOHN has EVER done is better than ‘Sacrifice’. Same thing with Stevie Wonder. ‘Master Blaster’ was number two. ‘I JUST CALLED TO SAY I VOMITED’ was bloody NUMBER ONE!!
The world has no fairness. Mandela is out. The Guildford Four are out but the same old injustice reigns.
And people are cross at me because I can’t travel? I’m not a lying, corrupt copper who puts people in prison because they are Irish or someone who buys shit singles to give to boyfriends who probably think they would rather have a gift-wrapped turd than a drippy pile of bollocks.
Wonder what happened to Gazza’s Sausage.
Friday 20.7.90
9.12 p.m.
I’m now nervous about seeing my friends tomorrow. They were . . . I can’t blame them. I don’t understand it. How can others? If I say God is after me and will kill me if I don’t close the door 36 times . . . If someone said that to me I’d be scared. The psychiatric ward. The woman with the itchy skirt going off her head. I wanted to run from that. I’ve kept it all together with school and socialising but if that goes then what? And the tablets do nothing. They just tingle my head and make me dozy. They don’t stop the thoughts, they don’t stop being molested, they don’t stop God coming after me. They stop nothing.
Oh look, ignore me. I’m lost. I’m lost and I shouldn’t even write this down. What’s the point? Tell people what happened and they say ‘Well that’s why you feel this way’ like it’s magic. No. I was gone way before that. That just sealed it. The icing on the bollocks. The straw that didn’t just break the camel’s back but totally mashed up its hump. It was confirmation that you can’t trust anyone. It wasn’t even that much. It was just . . . and then coming upstairs and saying ‘Are you crying because of your parents divorcing?’. Trying to twist it. Why am I even going over it? Raking it over. Sod it. Sod it. Just one man. There are lovely men everywhere. My brothers and my dad are lovely. They would kill the wanker. And there’s loads of other men in my life. One in particular is too far away and I so want him to be here. NO – I will be BOLLOCKED if some paedophile twat is going to put me off men. No. NO. Even though being touched is . . . it was always difficult. It will be difficult.
Ignore me I’m a self pity merchant. Being felt up has got nothing to do with me being nuts. That started – I can’t remember when it wasn’t there.
Thank GOD for Kit Kats and Sinead O’Connor.
Saturday 21.7.90
9.12 p.m.
I went down the Vau
lts. Everyone a bit shitty with me. I did ruin their holiday. They wanted funny, life-and-soul-of-the-party Rae and they got the mess. They weren’t horrible. I just said to one of them ‘Are you in a mood with me?’ and they said ‘Look – it was just all a big drama that’s all.’ When I said I can’t help being ill they said ‘But you’re always ill.’
And that’s the truth.
Came home. Cried.
Now feel totally isolated from Stammy Gads.
Sunday 22.7.90
7.54 p.m.
Bloody tortoises are number one!
Not tortoises. Turtles.
What is happening to the charts?! Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles?! Where’s Johnny Marr? Where’s the great pop? It’s all shit with shells.
Monday 23.7.90
4.12 p.m.
Mum just came into the room ‘Oh – this came for you whilst you were away. Just found it behind the gas bill.’
POSTCARD FROM HADDOCK!!
It had a photo of a Greek statue on it with an enormous erect cock. Haddock had written:
Dear Rae,
Look at the size of this bloke’s doner meat. He must be exaggerating. The beer is cold and the weather is hot. See you soon. Love Haddock XX
Oh you’re funny. You’re handsome. You get it. You arrive just at the right time even when you’re shoved behind a gas bill. I’ll put the postcard with all the other stuff I’ve got of you and wish.
Wonder if anyone else has got one? I’m going down to see Dobber tomorrow. I’ll ask her in a secret way.
Tuesday 24.7.90
10.35 p.m.
Big REVELATIONS today.
1) Dobber tapes Wacaday EVERYDAY. She says she likes Timmy Mallett and Mallett’s mallet.
2) She hasn’t had a postcard from Haddock.
3) She doesn’t think Haddock’s GIRLFRIEND has had a postcard from Haddock!!
4) No-one has had a postcard from Haddock!
5) Does he just feel sorry for me though? He knows I’m a bit weird.
6) No. He sent me a postcard. He at least thinks of me. He thinks of me when he sees massive Greek erections too which can’t be a bad thing.
Wednesday 25.7.90
3.56 p.m.
Mum sat me down today and said ‘What happened in Cornwall? Do you need to see someone again?’
I told her genuinely no and I thought it was the green jacket potato that I ate on the Friday that made me ill.
She said ‘How can a vegetable give you anxiety Rachel? And I told you, you shouldn’t go in that café anyway.’
No I don’t want to see someone again. Drawing pictures of gardens. According to the psychiatrist, that’s my dad the uninterested gardener, that’s my mum the unsupportive trellis – what a load of bullshit. Let’s talk about what happened. Let’s talk about why you feel like this. No. Let’s NOT because it doesn’t bloody work. I still eat. I still hate myself. I still can’t go anywhere. I still check the gas hob a million times. I still have voices.
The ONLY thing that works is friends, music, pretending I’m in a pop video and pretending I am doing Haddock senseless on a regular basis in fields.
Thank you Mr Shrink – now piss off.
I don’t want to go to university. I can’t. That’s the truth.
Thursday 26.7.90
10.34 a.m.
EMERGENCY!! Phillip Schofield is at the Radio 1 Roadshow tomorrow in SKEGNESS. Even I can do Skegness for the day for Schofield. I know if I can get on Bits and Pieces I will win NO PROBLEM. I get ten out of ten everyday on the radio and it’s PHILLIP SCHOFIELD!!! WE HAVE TO GO!!!
5.35 p.m.
Dobber is working and can’t skive as she’s had loads of time off already with the St Ives holiday. Getting there by train will be a nightmare so YET AGAIN I miss out because I’m the only person who does not have a car. No Mum I cannot bike there on my shopper. IT’S SKEGNESS NOT UFFINGTON!
Friday 27.7.90
2.34 p.m.
Adnan tried to ask me why I was pissed off. How do you explain the concept of the Radio 1 Roadshow to a Moroccan when you only have conversational French about buying food in cafes?
‘La Radio Une rue est tres bon’ is the best I could do. He just looked confused.
Going to Mort’s on Saturday. I’m going to take her the Haddock postcard so we can have a full analysis.
Saturday 28.7.90
2.59 p.m.
I think I’ve managed to get a high-paying gig at Stamford Music Shop in Peterborough if I need a year off (PLEASE LET ME HAVE ONE!). The bloke in there seemed to like me. I just went in there on the off-chance of a job. I know shedloads about records and I can learn about instruments. He said it was really refreshing to see someone come in off their own back and show such enthusiasm. I think I could manage Peterborough everyday. I think.
Sunday 29.7.90
12.52 a.m.
Well it’s late and by all accounts I should be extremely knackered. Stayed at Mort’s last night. Watched Dick Tracy at the pictures which was TOTAL CRAP.
Home is crap. I know I don’t make it any better. I hate it but I don’t want to leave it. I can’t go anywhere for fear of dying. I can’t breathe. It’s why I had to come back from St Ives really. Mum’s right. It wasn’t the potato.
Mort and me discussed the postcard at length. Mort said, ‘Haddock must think about you loads to send you a postcard. He’s on holiday having a great time and you’re in his head.’ I know. It is weird but then he’ll come back and there’ll be nothing so you just have to have your dreams. Unless he comes back and things are different and he’s had a revelation.
Not unless he’s been to Lourdes. I need a miracle. A TOTAL miracle.
Monday 30.7.90
10.34 p.m.
Told Mum about the record shop job sort-of offer. She said, ‘Rachel – you can’t have a year off.’ BUT IF I’M PAYING MY WAY AND PAYING BOARD then what’s the problem?!
Apparently I’m too good to work in a record shop. WHY??!! Here is why – screw my happiness, Mum wants to boast that SHE has a daughter at university. And apparently ‘with a brain like mine’ (??) I will always have to keep myself busy and distracted. I CAN DO THAT IN HMV MUM!! I could even start my own record shop up. In fact I even have the name already – ‘I Know It’s Only Rock and Roll But I Like It’ Records! IT’S BRILLIANT and everyone is ALWAYS going to need music. But let’s not do what I want – let’s listen to a checkout woman from Morrisons.
GETTING PISSED TOMORROW WITH DOBBER.
Tuesday 31.7.90
11.45 p.m.
Been for a Dobber session. I’m a bit drunk.
I hate this life. I despise it. I’m so numb. Sometimes I can’t even feel anything anymore.
1) ‘Home’
I use that word in its loosest term. No-one wants me here and funnily enough I don’t want to be here! A levels and LIFE in general are not helped by Moroccan bodybuilders singing Michael Jackson records AT FULL BLAST. I’m just a gooseberry. I live in my room with White the cat.
2) Mad
I can’t tell anyone what I think. I’m not ending up back in a psychiatric ward again.
At least that was the first decent piss up of the summer. July was proper crap.
I want to be a woman. A proper woman. Not this mess.
I am so drunk it’s phenomenal. I’ve only had 3 pints of cider. Full of shit la la la.
Wednesday 1.8.90
9.24 p.m.
Let’s hope bloody August can be better than July which was bollocks.
Fraggle’s mum apparently thinks I have a nervous problem. I think I hide things well. I clearly don’t. These people notice but they don’t actually offer to help.
Oh what can they do? Nothing. No-one can. Professionals couldn’t help. People with degrees that can see through all your shit.
Jasmine made Battered Sausage grovel. It’s amazing to see the power pretty women have over men. They dissolve.
DISPRIN
Sexiness is like a water
&nb
sp; Men are like a disprin
Watch them fall to bits
And settle at the bottom
Bitter and beaten
I long to be the pill
In fact I long to take the pill for sex reasons as opposed to messed up hormones reasons.
Thursday 2.8.90
8.09 p.m.
I came home from a massive walk to Tollbooth to find Mum and Adnan watching a video of him winning a bodybuilding competition. So I watched EastEnders on my black and white portable. This is the WORST REASON EVER for not seeing Grant Mitchell and Simon Wicks in colour. The soap I have watched since 1985 replaced by idiots covered in oil pulling stupid poses. IS THIS HAPPENING?!
Friday 3.8.90
11.24 p.m.
Iraq has invaded Kuwait. If this was two years ago I would be currently running to the Orkney islands with some baked beans. Thank GOD the Russians are sort of not nutters anymore.
Saturday 4.8.90
8.24 a.m.
I just had a terrible thought. I hope Haddock is not near Kuwait.
No. That is me just being mental.
Looked at the atlas. Greece is a bit near but I don’t think an Interrail ticket covers Iraq.
Could I get over panic attacks to save Haddock from Saddam Hussein? HA HA HA! I’d give it a go. I’d get as far as Heathrow then let the SAS take over.
Sunday 5.8.90
UNBELIEVABLE.
Mum just told me that her and Adnan are getting married on Wednesday!
I said ‘Well, don’t expect me to be bloody bridesmaid. In fact I’m not coming.’ Mum looked upset but come on – I went to the last one! How many others are there going to be?! LIZ TAYLOR OF STAMFORD! She’ll have to teach Adnan to say ‘I do’. He’s having trouble with ‘Hello!’ at the moment.
That was horrible. Adnan is all right really and his English is a lot better.
Oh no it’s not. It’s all ridiculous! You know you CAN be single Mum! It is allowed in law for a woman to not actually be with a man. Does she realise this? You don’t have to crash from one relationship to another. AND why can’t it be a normal Stamford bloke?! It’s either a gay Latin teacher or a Moroccan bodybuilder! Why not a butcher or a businessman or someone NORMAL?!! Someone who doesn’t need protein booster shakes would be nice!