My Madder Fatter Diary

by Rae Earl

  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 els
e.

  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.

  Monday 4.3.91

  11.45 p.m.

  1) At university you can get pissed on any night in the week. Like school. It’s brilliant.

  2) At university drinks are cheap. REALLY cheap. In a way wrong cheap because you drink shitloads.

  3) Dobber is lying on the floor with a stomach that looks like ‘Alien’ is about to burst out of it.

  4) I don’t think I need to call an ambulance. I’ve seen her like this before. She gets up the next day, has a full fried breakfast and can do an A level a day later.

  5) Not many men here. Apparently the ‘ratio’ isn’t very good. Too many teachers. Don’t get into teaching if you are a woman and want sex.

  6) I’m not having a panic attack AND I had a plain jacket potato for tea. No butter, just beans.

  7) No-one mentioned I have lost any weight.

  8) Just realised none of them know me except for Dobber who tonight drank Baileys and Rolling Rock cider. She can probably see about 3 of me now all of different sizes.

  Tuesday 5.3.91

  6.35 p.m.

  I had an excellent time with Dobber and I didn’t have to rush home. I know I was only there a day but that’s progress.

  7.37 p.m.

  Mum has told me she has to go to Hull on Thursday for an immigration meeting?!! This makes no sense whatsoever but apparently that’s our nearest branch. It’s about getting Adnan in the country forever and would I come for moral support? Yes. I will. It will be nice to see Hull again.

  I just hope I don’t get there and decide that it’s a shithole. I can’t do an Essex again. Perhaps I can do a one week tour of every university in the country. The Fresher Week Nutter Fuck Up tour!

  No – Hull is my fate. I feel it as much as I feel the other stuff I’m certain about, like I need to be thinner to do Haddock, that The Smiths will never be beaten, like I would genuinely blow up the back catalogue of The Beatles rather than Abba if I had to – I know, I KNOW. BUT ALL OF IT IS HERE INSIDE ME. And it’s not the mental bit. It’s the RIGHT bit.

  Wednesday 6.3.91

  6.13 p.m.

  Mum is very impressed because I know where we have to go in Hull. Yes – it’s only a little walk from the station. Perhaps I have been here before. I mean reincarnated. Me and Hull. It’s odd. Why Hull?

  8.22 p.m.

  Just went mad in my room to Nomad’s ‘Devotion’. You can’t beat a shimmy and it’s better than some stupid aerobic tape. No – I can’t do two side steps in my bedroom let alone a full grapevine with swinging arms because it’s tiny. I can however go off my tits freestyle to somebody rapping about Maggie Thatcher getting shafted.

  Thursday 7.3.91

  9.37 p.m.

  Next time I want to kill my mum I have to remember what happened today.

  We got to Hull (I still love it – it feels like home – I can’t even explain why) and we were waiting to see the immigration official. Right – this is going to sound really bad but the bloke is a Flid thalidomide victim. Should you even call them victims? I don’t know. His hands were basically attached to his bloody shoulders. He had no arms. Anyway I’m a bit in shock. My Mum however just walks in and shakes his hand which is sort of on his shoulder with no problem at all. She did it like it is the most natural thing in the world. It was . . . amazing. I think even the man was a bit surprised. I can’t really explain it. I just know 99% of people would be freaked out but to Mum it was just . . . she was brilliant.

  She answered all his questions in her posh voice which was a bit annoying but she explained Dad and the gay 2nd husband very well. Then at the end she shook his hand again.

  When we were walking away to get the train I said ‘Mum – you were dead good in there.’ I mean it was almost like a lesson in people handling. She was totally cool about it though. She said ‘I just saw a person, Rachel.’

  How can this person who is a complete selfish cow also be so totally wonderful?

  Apparently, though, Hitler was nice to his dogs.

  Am I a disability racist? I was a bit shocked at my reaction. That’s weird because I watch See Hear and loads of weird shows on BBC2 about the handicapped.

  Perhaps I am deeply horrible. I judge people on their looks – especially if they have no arms. They judge me on being fat. It serves me right. Only I can change. Mine was caused by eating like a pig, not doing stuff about the shit in my head and being a weak idiot. His was caused by doctors and the medical profession making a massive mess of things before he was even born. Who got the worst deal? Not me.

  Friday 8.3.91

  9.12 p.m.

  Just watched last night’s Top of the Pops. Ned’s Atomic Dustbin – ‘Happy’. Fine. Living Colour – ‘Love Rears Its Ugly Head’. Great song. ‘The Stonk’ by Hale and Pace – I know it’s for charity but it’s DREADFUL. Roxette – ‘Joyride’. Please get pursued by the police and plough into a tree.

  The Clash are at number one with a song that’s ten years old. Yet more evidence that music is running out of ideas.

  And Haddock is NOT coming back this weekend.

  So it’s a bit like Christmas has been cancelled.

  I’m sticking to the diet though. Two Jaffa Cakes have become the saviour of my life. And I CAN stop at two. That’s the weird thing.

  Monday 11.3.91

  8.39 p.m.

  Biggest shock telephone call of my life today. Tegs rang and said come to Switzerland. I’ve got you a job looking after kids and cleaning a house. But I can’t. I’m too scared. I can’t cope away. THAT far away. Canterbury was a challenge. And Switzerland is full of Toblerones.

  Fri
day 15.3.91

  7.13 p.m.

  Nothing to tell you. I feel ill. Not so much in my head. In my throat. Perhaps fewer chins makes things more susceptible to cold.

  Saturday 16.3.91

  9.12 a.m.

  Mum says my tonsils are up. I’ll have to go to the doctors. They apparently look bad. It’s good Haddock is not coming back this weekend as I look like a bullfrog. And if you kiss me I won’t turn into a princess. You’ll just get this shit virus.

  Monday 18.3.91

  9.24 a.m.

  There are no doctor’s appointments today. I can be ‘an emergency’ tomorrow. Yes. That will do. AS I CAN BARELY TALK, EAT OR BREATHE.

  Tuesday 19.3.91

  4.35 p.m.

  Today a wanker beardy doctor told me I was morbidly obese. How exactly does that affect my tonsils? Am I so bloated that they are sore too? How do you lose pounds off your tonsils? I told him I was losing weight. He said ‘good’ and gave me some antibiotics. The weird thing is after he said that I have never, NEVER wanted to eat something more. It’s almost like an act of FUCK YOU! If anyone was stocking a Cornetto now I would have 12 of them but as my throat is so sore I don’t even fancy them. HOW IS THAT HELPFUL?! YOU ARE MORBIDLY OBESE? Tell you what GP face – you look like bloody Dr Mopp from Camberwick Green and you may like to consider updating your image you arrogant shit. Just make me better and SOD OFF. Bet he went to Cambridge.

  I hate even comparing him to Dr Mopp because he was lovely and always had time for people – even for Mrs Honeyman when her baby had paint on its face and she thought he had measles.

  Friday 22.3.91

  7.13 p.m.

  Not better. I’m probably dying. No, diary, nothing else has happened except my imminent death from tonsillitis.

  Saturday 23.3.91

  10.12 p.m.

  I feel better. Yes Mum I am going down the pub tomorrow. No Mum I won’t drink as I know it will ruin the antibiotics PLUS I’m on a diet. The world’s most secret diet that no-one can ask me about/moan at me about/try to mess up because they don’t want me to be my best.

  Sunday 24.3.91

  10.17 p.m.

  Fig is back from Poly. HE’S NOTICED I’VE LOST WEIGHT. FINALLY SOMEONE!! We haven’t got scales at home because I think Mum fears them and I’m too embarrassed to go into Boots yet BUT it’s working!