by Rae Earl
But I have made a pledge and I intend to honour it: in a few years I am seriously after Haddock, and I mean it. I intend to do it with that man.
The lads all have their little roles:
BATTERED SAUSAGE – like my husband, minus the sex.
FIG – my friend.
HADDOCK – just the best example of man you will ever see. Stocky, but magnificent.
I’m going to write him a letter he will never see. It makes me feel better.
Dearest Haddock,
As your arranged ‘intended’, I feel I have a moral obligation to say the following in your direction. But I will make absolutely sure that if I do give this to you, I will never see you again – as embarrassment of the highest degree would still prevail, even after a lengthy period apart.
This letter’s alternative fate is between the pages of my diary, as an example of the emotions dodgy hormones can produce. But I hope there comes a time when I can give it to you. It may simply serve as an ego boost, but I hope it goes a bit deeper than that.
I know we didn’t get on to start with. You always seemed grumpy. This is where I got the impression that you did not like me. Well, it would figure, wouldn’t it?
I never hated you, though – quite the opposite (careful!). But I did not really know you. I simply knew you as ‘Haddock’, slice of all right if ever there was one. Sorry about that, dearest, but I must admit that rugged looks are a major factor in my adoration.
No – I was only a sod to you because I often am to people I think are a bit marvellous (i.e. my continual arguments/bantering/all-out war with Battered Sausage). It’s my personal defence system, but we won’t get into my mental condition now.
Basically, you are extremely special, I totally mean that. I tell you what, Haddock, I only really clicked on to what you were about the other Saturday night when we were talking about stuff, and you bought Battered Sausage a drink so he would go away. NO ONE has EVER done that for me – even the child psychiatrists looked bored when I told them about my problems. I wish that you hadn’t done that in a way. Because being in ‘lurve’ with you in only a purely ‘physical’ sense, I then realised what a bloody epic you are inside as well. So it completed the overall picture of you, as it were.
OK – you won’t appreciate the next bit, but I don’t give a shit, baby! I say what I feel. You suffer from a classic case of under-confidence. Luckily you have been able to shield this with your rugger-bugger image. Look at yourself in a mirror, Haddock. You are majorly handsome. URGH! This does sound creepy and gross, but never mind. To get any kind of praise from me in spoken word, let alone in letter form, is a major achievement. You must be a pretty marv bloke.
For God’s sake, Haddock, you are not perfect but you are an epic. I envy you, I really do. Being humble is one thing but you’re ridiculous. ARGGHHHH! YOU MAKE ME FUME! DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT, HADDOCK!
Well, I think this will end up in my diary for a very, very long time anyway. I tell you what, though – I wish you had seriously given me that engagement ring.
May you flourish in your twenties wherever you are . . .
Rae xxxxx
PS Did you know one of my infamous cocktails is called a Haddock, because it’s got a sound head and a firm body?!
Weird thoughts are bad tonight. They are saying that unless I do all the things I need to do, Haddock and his girlfriend will find out what I feel about him. It’s loopy but it’s how I feel. Can’t stop it.
Thursday 3.8.89
11.50 p.m.
ANOTHER NIGHT OF FEELING LIKE the biggest Judas on earth, as I spent the evening with Haddock’s lovely girlfriend and she tells me about their relationship, and, oh, she is so sweet but all the time she is giving me Haddock info and titbits, and the evil part of my brain is thinking, ‘Remember all this, what he likes and doesn’t like – because one day all this may be useful.’
He likes Abba, on the quiet. Oh, come on now – this is all too similar and coincidental! This comes barely a week after I borrow Dobber’s old Top of the Pops album, just so I could listen to ‘Fernando’.
Then I get home, feel racked with guilt, and eat half a packet of Tesco bourbon creams.
Some abuse down the pub tonight. The worst one: I was eating some nuts and a bloke who doesn’t even deserve a mention here said, ‘Haven’t you had enough to eat?’ Much to the hilarity of his mates. That’s on top of their nickname for me – Slug. I always manage some biting, witty comeback, but when I’m sat here in bed and my belly is rising up and down like a big throbbing K2 of a gut mountain, I could just pull this duvet over my head and hibernate until I lose all the weight.
Friday 4.8.89
11.35 p.m.
PISSED OFF.
Quite a boring Friday night down the pub. Battered Sausage was off his face and decided it would be hilarious to have a piss in the pub garden and spin round as he pissed. You have never heard so many grown men scream as they got splattered in Battered Sausage wee. Because he is big with a shaved head, no one went to punch him. Apart from that, nothing happened tonight. BUT . . . at the end Haddock said, ‘I’ll walk home with you if you like – it’s a bit late,’ and I said, ‘Yeah, you can do.’ OH MY GOD!
Anyway, we chatted about music and stuff and I was feeling like YES!!! I LOVE THIS MAN! Then, out of the blue, on Mountbatten Avenue, he said, ‘Do you know what, Rae? You are like a big sister to me.’
Like a sister.
This is what good-looking blokes say to fat girls to make them feel loved but to put them off sexually. It’s like saying, ‘I love you but not in the way you want.’
I said, ‘Well, that’s good – because you are like a brother to me.’ I said it with a smile but inside I was just dead.
Somebody has shit-stirred. Battered Sausage suspect number one. Why would Haddock say that otherwise?
I can’t think about it. Just end up crying and hitting everything in sight.
Rave tomorrow. Just going to think about that.
Saturday 5.8.89
7.12 a.m.
WOKE UP, FELT GOOD FOR five seconds, then remembered last night. Like a sister. I don’t want to be your sister, Haddock. I want to be your everything. I want to be the girl you meet down the pub. I want to be the girl you go on holiday with. I want to be the girl you do senseless. Not the girl you bicker with and have play-fights with. Not the girl you see as one of the lads. And that’s it now because once they see you that way you can never change it.
Mum is shouting up to me. Do I want a bacon sarnie? Yes, I do. I want 20 of them with butter and sauce and everything.
Glad I am going to the rave tonight. Don’t want to see anyone. Just want loud ‘make my nose bleed’ dance music.
Sunday 6.8.89
2.23 p.m. (POST-RAVE)
IDON’T KNOW WHERE TO START.
Last night was one of the weirdest nights of my life. And remember – I have already been in a psychiatric ward.
Dobber had her mum’s car (her mum is in Spain and doesn’t know we borrowed it), and parked it outside the Lincolnshire Poacher at ten. About 20 minutes later this Morris Minor screams past us, and someone in the passenger seat shouts, ‘Go to the Marsh Harrier!’ We couldn’t believe it because the Marsh Harrier is what we call a ‘grave-dodger’s’ pub – because it’s just full of blokes over 70. Anyway, a load of us ended up there. The Marsh Harrier locals were not happy about this – they thought they were going to get mass-mugged. We found out later the ‘organisers’ had picked the Marsh Harrier because ‘The pigs don’t pick on old people’s pubs.’ Then a bloke rushed in and said, ‘Head towards Ryhall!’ So we did, and there was nothing but fields of donkeys. We thought, ‘Typical,’ and were about to give up when a load of cars screamed past us the other way. Dobber said, ‘Let’s just see where the’re going,’ so we followed them – with ‘Voodoo Ray’ playing full blast as it was the most rave thing on Dobber’s tapes. (Dobber wanted ‘Got To Be Certain’ by Kylie Minogue but I pointed out ravers hate chart danc
e.) Eventually we ended up somewhere near Uffington, and then we heard it! Just REALLY loud dance music.
We parked up on a verge, and as we got nearer we could see people going totally mental. The bloke from the Bakers Oven was wearing his actual baker’s hairnet and blowing a whistle! The music was fast – we were counting the bpm and we lost count it was that fast. I didn’t know any of the songs except ‘We Call It Acieed’ by D-Mob, and during that some people sat down in protest saying it was ‘chart’. Everyone seemed to be chewing all the time, and people kept coming up to you – touching you – asking if you were OK. It was weird. There were blokes going round asking if you would like ‘some’. Whatever some was, it was £30! Me and Dobber both turned that down.
After a couple of hours of mainly watching, we left. Good job too because we saw a cop car heading towards the field. Dobber and me went back to hers for some toast, and then I crashed on her sofa.
We both agreed it was a bit of a let-down.
It was just all odd. I didn’t feel part of it. It was like being invited to someone else’s party – just to watch.
I did get touched a lot, though, by fairly nice-looking men that actually seemed quite interested, so it might be worth going again.
But Haddock would have hated tonight.
Monday 7.8.89
5.14 p.m.
HA!! MUM JUST SAID TO me, ‘The lady in Woolworths told me there was a rave on Saturday night near Uffington. Good job you didn’t go – there were DRUG arrests.’ I said, ‘Oh, were there?’ I have had to come upstairs and jump around! It’s brilliant to get one over on her, especially when – YOU MUST BE BLIND, WOMAN – there are grass stains all over my jeans!
Just getting ready to go out again. Fig is having another party. Dobber is driving over, and we are staying the night.
Haddock will be there.
No, nothing will happen. His girlfriend is there – and even if she wasn’t, nothing would happen.
Tuesday 8.8.89
12.50 p.m.
FIG’S PARTY WAS FULL OF pot-smoking hippies. Had a brilliant chat with Dobber, and we are going to Alton Towers on Friday!! Haddock and girlfriend went to bed at 11 p.m. and didn’t emerge till 8.30 a.m. I was absolutely racked with jealousy – I felt GREEN. Ended up raiding the freezer in annoyance – discovered Fig had a Screwball ice-cream, nicked that, and chewed the gum at the bottom of it pissily all night. When Haddock finally appeared, he pinched the back of my neck and said, ‘Do you want a coffee, then?’ He made me a coffee. It was lovely.
The coffee, I mean. But when Haddock pinched my neck . . . it was beyond lovely.
Battered Sausage is constantly pissed off at the moment. I had a chat with him, and he divided the female sex into two categories: bitches and slags. I’m a bitch because I am (quote) ‘too good-natured to be a slag’. I think it’s only his confusion over a certain ex-girlfriend (who I thought was as innocent as the new day, but actually turned out to be RAMPANT with other men while she was seeing him!). HA!!!
Isn’t it good to know that men hurt too?
Wednesday 9.8.89
11.19 p.m.
NOT THE BEST OF NIGHTS. Haddock horrible to me tonight. There was a load of lads out, and he just acted like he didn’t know me. He barely said two words to me, and just shoved one eyebrow up when we were at the bar and said, ‘All right, Rae?’ When men get with other men they change completely. It’s pathetic.
I imagine he’s trying to make me hate him, but there really is no need. I’m sure in the end I will learn to love him as just a friend. In fact I think that is happening already.
Thursday 10.8.89
12.27 a.m.
CAN’T SLEEP. THAT LAST ENTRY was total lies. I still fancy the hell out of him. Like if he asked me out tomorrow I wouldn’t say YES??!! He can never be just a friend. If there is such a thing as a friend anyway. When it comes down to it, we are all on our own. Just me. And the cat. And even she goes for me sometimes, and moults on my duvet.
There is so much wrong with me. I’ve created an absolute monster, but there is a part of me that always wants the laughs and wants the attention. How do I balance that with the need for dignity and respect? I must start trying.
11.57 p.m.
What a top night down the Vaults with everyone. Got a bit tipsy and ended up falling down a pothole. Nearly wet myself – brilliant!
Friday 11.8.89
Late
HAD A GREAT DAY AT Alton Towers with Dobber. It was such a laugh, but there were a few dodgy moments. Dobber only passed her driving test in February, and all of a sudden on the way there she went pale and started saying, ‘Oh my God, Rae, oh my God. It’s a motorway, Rae, it’s a motorway.’ Turns out she has never done three lanes before. Anyway, we stayed all the way there in the left-hand lane and she coped with it absolutely fine.
When we got to Alton Towers it was packed, but brilliant. But even there I felt like a big lump. On the Corkscrew roller-coaster, the safety bar rested on my belly. It was at least three inches above Dobber’s. If we had been sharing it, she would have fallen out because of me. On the log flume you have to ride with people you don’t know, and you could see people looking at me, thinking, ‘I hope we don’t have to get on with her.’
THE FACT IS – EVERYTHING WOULD BE BETTER IF I WAS THIN.
Work tomorrow. Early shift. 6 a.m. till 2 p.m. Feel sick with the thought of it.
Saturday 12.8.89
3.40 p.m.
THAT’S IT. I AM GIVING UP WORK. IT’S NOT WORTH IT.
Did the early shift. The chef with four buttocks was on duty, and he said, ‘As well as washing up we would like you to do some preparatory work.’ This meant going to the other side of the kitchen, taking bits of seafood, dipping them in egg and covering them in breadcrumbs. It was like handling snot.
I could see the pans piling up, and the other chef was getting really pissed off. The floor of the kitchen looked like a water main had burst, and I didn’t have time to mop it. The chef with four buttocks just said, ‘Pass the mop to me,’ which meant he had to bend over – and expose that weird backside. I got the giggles, and he shouted, ‘THIS IS NOT FUNNY! We are running a hotel business here!’ Teachers have not spoken to me as badly as he did. I welled up, and he said, ‘Go to the toilet and pull yourself together.’ I looked at my watch – it was only 10 a.m. I had another FOUR hours to go! Managed to get through it – and there was only a little bit of mess at the end. No one said goodbye to me. It’s shit, and I am not working there any more. Don’t care what Mum says.
Fig is having another party at his house tonight. Haddock isn’t there – he is working. I am almost pleased about this. It means I don’t have to see him in the morning after he has been shagging someone else all night. With his hair all over the place looking scruffy in a big shirt. BLOODY HELL, I FANCY HIM SO MUCH IF HE SAID WASH UP LASAGNE DISHES NONSTOP FOR TWO WEEKS I WOULD.
Sunday 13.8.89
12.50 p.m.
FIG’S PARTY WAS RATHER INTERESTING. Spent most of it on the gravel outside his dad’s study downing a bottle of Smirnoff with a girl from the year above called Emma.
At one stage everyone was in Fig’s back garden pissed, dancing to Echo and the Bunnymen. That is until Fig’s next-door neighbour complained and threatened to tell his mum and dad. He shit himself and imposed a total music ban.
By the end of the night, the usual. The ocean of snogs, and me leading the ugly ones in the kitchen – getting not a quick fix of sex, but a quick fix of toast.
COME WITH ME
Come with me to the end of the party
With the lonely ones.
Join me
With some toasted bread and a bottle of
Something bad.
Right now we are in the swing-top bin of life
Not fit to be a lover or a wife.
But some day things will be different
You will see,
Things will rise in the love oven for you and me.
But right now
– let’s commiserate and avoid a fight,
And drown our sorrows with vodka and Marmite.
Monday 14.8.89
11.10 a.m.
SOMETHING SO BRILLIANT JUST HAPPENED. It’s just a joke, but it’s the best thing that has ever come through a letterbox in the history of time.
Haddock has sent me a gorgeous postcard, carrying on our arranged-marriage protracted joke. It’s a postcard of the church where he says we are going to get married if we can manage ‘to get our pissed selves out of the pub’.
Have already put it on the bookcase by my bed. Have wished on dandelion clocks, sneezes, black cats, cracks in the path, magpies and bloody everything that one day it becomes a reality. But frankly there is more chance of me getting off with the Pope.
Have ‘Pure’ by the Lightning Seeds on loud. It’s by a speccy Scouse geek, but it’s beautiful – about being in love and how it makes everything seem better. It’s so true. Even Mrs Bark’s privet bush has got a brightness that it’s never had before, and it’s nothing to do with summer. The rest of the song is just poetry. Fuck John Donne at school, THIS is what’s happening.
One day I will get off with Haddock, and I will write at least one great pop song. I swear it.
Tuesday 15.8.89
4.30 p.m.
JUST BEEN TO GIVE UP the job. Had to see the chef with the four buttocks. I told him I’ve got an ongoing back problem. He made some crack about how he could see that my spine was under pressure. He means fat. Yes, well, at least I’ve only got ONE fat arse, you wanker – you’ve got four!
I didn’t say that to him, by the way. I just said, ‘Thanks very much,’ and left.