For Tony, Isaiah and Luke
Oh. My. Days.
*breathe*
My life is non-stop drama.
Looking back, I guess it all started with THAT paparazzi shot.
But that wouldn’t have happened had STEPHEN not thrown that punch.
You could say he wouldn’t have done that had I not met ROBBIE twot-face WILKINS.
And the reason I met Twot-face was because of… Hmm, MALIBU.
Uh-oh, methinks there might be something going on here.
Why does trouble literally begin and end with my sister, Malibu Bennet?
This is the diary of Remy Louise Bennet, the one dependable thing in my life!
p.s. Malibu, being my sister DOES NOT give you licence to read this!
Remy + Leonardo DiCaprio, always & 4ever!
Remy McFitty
Channing Tatum – Phwoar!!
Monday 29 July – 3 p.m.
Hi guys… I’m back! Did you miss me?
Mum’s just been up to see me.
“How are you, sweetheart?” she said, tilting her head sympathetically.
I. HATE. PITY.
But since my meltdown last week – on only the biggest TV breakfast show in Britain! – I don’t want Mum worrying that I’m a headcase so I said, “Fine. Just need to get some sleep.”
Usually she’d screech something like, “Sleep? At this time?”
But instead she just stroked my head and said, “Yes, I’m sure you do, honey.” (Clearly, does think I’m a headcase.)
Oh well, could be worse. I could have spent the whole day in bed sobbing or cringing – or my new one, crinsobbing (a combination of the two). But no, I’m v. proud to say that for the first time in a week, I, Remy Louise Bennet, have been out. Yay!
Went to see a psychiatrist: boo–oooo!
Yep, I finally caved in to the powers that be: namely my agent, Harry Burton. I did it so that the bigger and, more importantly, RICHER powers that be (those that provide serious wedge for my Terri Catalogue clothing range) will not drop me. All I need to do is show them that I’m “fixing” myself; that their celeb “fashion designer” is not meltdowning EVER AGAIN. But believe me, I’m so embarrassed about said meltdown that a part of me would rather be dropped. Actually, I’d rather not show my face in public for the rest of my life and just stay in bed crinsobbing! But when I called Dad he said earning this kind of money at my age is a godsend. Especially when there are people with top-notch degrees that can’t even get a job in Mickey D’s.
“Just give it a try,” he said.
“Why – do you think I need fixing, Dad?”
“Erm… I suppose everyone does, in a way.”
Obviously, he also thinks I’m a headcase.
My psych is called Dr Stephen Clein. He assesses all the contestants before they go into the Big Brother house. Spent half my session trying to get some info out of him – like “Did Jasmine really like Lee or was she playing a game?” – but his lips were properly sealed. Told me nada. Said he’d protect me in the same way too.
“What’s to protect? I’ve already shown myself up on national TV.”
“And now seems the perfect time to talk about it,” he replied.
That’s the kind of link presenters make on The One Show:“Aha! And speaking of embarrassing moments…” But it’s not a poxy TV programme, is it? This is my life!
“I’d rather not, thanks.”
He tried to coax it out of me. “I’ve heard all about the incident. I believe you’ve been referred to me because your reaction was out of character?”
“Very,” I replied. “I mean the only person who might’ve seen me flip like that is Mum, when I’m premenstrual and she has done my head in.”
“Hmm. Embarrassment is understandable but can you explain what made you so angry?”
Told him I didn’t want to talk about it. But the answer was no. And the worst part was that I could feel the anger building up again. It scared me. The whole thing scares me… If I’m honest, that’s the real reason I decided to see Dr Clein. Just being in his office, talking to an actual shrink, was majorly scary. Luckily, he realized that and stopped pushing me. He’s asked me to write down what happened instead – blow for blow. He wants me to add how I felt at the time, and how I feel about it now. Then I have to take my account to my next session.
So, here goes…
THE 100% TRUTH
I’d felt nervous as soon as I’d opened my eyes that morning – first appearance on live TV and all that. Those nerves doubled when I got to the studio, and went into the stratosphere when I was waiting off set (just out of view) and I heard the voice of Mum’s favourite TV presenter: Lorraine Macintosh. I swear Mum was more excited about me meeting Lovely Lorraine (as she calls her) than she was about me being on TV.
“Now, my next guest was thrown into the public eye when her boyfriend, footballer Stephen Campbell, fought her ex-boyfriend, teammate Robbie Wilkins, during a televised match…”
WTF?! I was so annoyed.
Every interview I do brings up the Robbie business and it winds me up, big time. Come on, guys, it was a whole year ago! Why couldn’t “Lovely Lorraine” have mentioned how well my salon, Tah-dah!, was doing? Or have focused on the launch of my autumn clothing range, which was what I was there to promote? I’d even kitted myself out in a “Remy L.B. by Terri Catalogue” dress: green velvet, fitted to the waist, then flared out into a tutu. (Very fashion!)
“… so, please welcome to Good Morning A.M. … Remy Bennet.”
I began the strut I’d practised with Malibu the night before. (She’d lifted it from Naomi Campbell on The Face.) I executed it perfectly; was genuinely thinking my big sis would be proper proud, right before I tripped over a camera cable, went flying and landed on the floor – green dress over my head, matching green thong exposing my bare bum cheeks to the nation. Aa–aaaaaaaaah!
Wanted to die of embarrassment. Almost did, but something – maybe the cameraman’s grin, the fact that I was STARVING from the crash diet I’d been on (had to look good for my first live TV appearance), or the discovery that Lovely Lorraine was just as bad as everyone else who had interviewed me this year (oh, and way smaller than she looks on TV, by the way) – SOMETHING made me lose it.
“What you grinning at, you *cringe* *sob* *cringe*? And as for you, Lorraine *mothersobbing* Macintosh, you can just *sob* off. (Decided to keep this clean for you, Dr Clein.)
Anyway, that’s basically why I need to address my “anger issues”, as my official statement (that I didn’t actually write) said. And I might have sounded a bit attitudey in your office today, but I do know there’s no excuse for shooting my mouth off like I did, and I’m almost as ashamed about it as I am of my exposing my backside to the world; and the fact that it’s had five hundred thousand views on YouTube only adds to my shame. But why, why, why did the Sun have to go overboard with its “Bumgate!” headline?! Did I twerk with Santa? NO. And I don’t care who their source was – I did NOT do it for publicity.
As for that so-called comedian (refuse to mention his name) who said the force from my bum’s wobbling could have caused an earthquake (“Can you imagine – death by bumquake!” he joked), there is a special place for you in hell, my friend.
The End.
3.20 p.m.
PS Forgot to say that Dr Clein isn’t as bad as I thought he’d be. He says he just wants to improve my self-esteem, and then the “managing anger” bit should take care of itself. To help, he wants me to start each day by telling myself: “I am Remy Louise Bennet. I am not perfect. But I still love being me.”
When I asked whether I could add, “With a tiny bit of lipo, I will love myself so�
�o much more,” he sighed and said, “No, Remy.” *boo*
Oh yeah, he also thinks I shouldn’t have stopped writing in my diary. It’s been a whole year, I can’t believe it; but things went cra–azy when I appeared on the front page of the Sun, and after that I didn’t have the time. Well, I’ll have to make some because Dr Clein says it’s a good way to get things off my chest. He reckons I’d been bottling everything up and then released it all on the Good Morning A.M. cameraman and “Not-so-lovely” Lorraine. Methinks he might have a point, so here is said diary… Tah-dah! (See what I did there?)
5 p.m.
Gr–rreat. Just checked Twitter. Have tons of replies to my “I’m back! Did you miss me?” tweet. Loads of “Welcome back” etc. But just as many “Who cares?!” and “No, we didn’t!” Also found a couple of joke accounts: @BumquakeRemy and @Remysbuttcheeks. Twitter = #selfesteemfail
Tuesday 30 July – 7.05 a.m.
I am Remy Louise Bennet. I am not perfect. But I still love being me.
Hmm… Personally, Dr Clein, I could think of much better ways to start the day, all of which involve STEPHEN. And I’m up at early o’clock to look as good as I can for my Skype date with Mr McFitness himself.
Blow-dried hair:
Applied bronzer:
Added copious amounts of mascara:
Twenty-five minutes to go. Woo-hoo!
8 a.m.
Was lovely to talk to Stephen all the way over in Tokyo city. He’s in Japan for a pre-season tour and it must have been doing him good because he looked proper hot. Everything was one notch better: his hair, his body, THOSE lips.
“How have yer been, gorgeous?”
“Not too bad, considering Harry made me see that psychiatrist,” I grumbled.
“It’s just fer show though, right?”
“Yeah, of course.”
“I mean, what yer gave that cameraman and Lorraine MacShort-ass was an average bit of hairdryer treatment.”
(“Hairdryer treatment” is what footballers call it when their manager starts screaming in their face when they’ve not played well. Which happens a lot. Fact learned from Google five days ago when Stephen first mentioned it.)
“Oh yeah. It was totally average,” I agreed.
Luckily, Stephen left for Japan the day before Good Morning A.M. He only saw what happened on YouTube and so far he’s always tried to be really positive about it.
“OK, I understand it’s embarrassing but just think how yer’d feel if yer didn’t happen to have the best bum ever seen on TV,” he said after he first saw it. Followed by: “To be fair, that Lorraine ‘Edinbugger’ Macintosh probably deserved it.” (Edinburgh isn’t popular with Glaswegians.)
With Japan being eight hours ahead and him busy travelling, training and playing, I’m not sure how many “Bumquake” jokes he’s heard either. I was just wondering whether I should get the worst ones out of the way, to prepare him, when I spotted his roomie Oscar Raymond in the background.
Oscar’s American and he’s become Stephen’s closest teammate. He’s super-square and slightly gullible, and we love winding him up.
“Do you love me, baby?” I said, suddenly putting on a cute voice.
Stephen made a sideways glance at Oscar, and twigged. “Aw yeah, I love yer loads.”
“How much though?”
“Aw, up to the moon and back – easily.”
“Ahh.” I started making loud kissing noises. *mwah, mwah, mwah*
Stephen put his face close up to his computer screen until he was practically snogging it: *MWAH, MWAH, MWAHHHH*
“Hey buddy,” said a majorly blushing Oscar, “do ya need me to leave the room?”
“Naw… I think you’ll be all right.” Stephen’s big cheesy grin gave it away (it’s taken a while for Oscar to adjust to our sense of humour).
“Oh right. You’re just throwing the piss, huh?”
“I think yer might mean taking the piss there, dude. Now behave yourself,” Stephen said to me as I cracked up laughing.
“Sorry, Oscar – just playing,” I called out.
“No problem,” Oscar breezed back. “And make sure you call Suzy.”
“I will.”
His wife Suzy completes the squareness of Oscar’s world. I knew she must have been well shocked by my foul-mouthed rant, so I’ve been avoiding her, even though she sent an uplifting text: You can get through this – you just gotta believe in yourself. Ish happens. (She doesn’t swear.)
“What time’s your match?” I asked Stephen.
“Five-thirty. We’ve got to leave in a minute.”
“OK. Well make sure you bloody score, then.”
He smiled. He’s had a brilliant pre-season so far. “Yer have such a way with words.”
I smiled back. “Can’t wait to see you tomorrow, baby.”
“Aye, me too.”
6.45 p.m.
Well, my second day out of the wilderness was full-on. Harry called at 8.30 a.m. and I swear he didn’t take a breath for a whole hour. Said he’d found the perfect person to rebuild my image: a PR woman called Camilla Douglas-Smith.
“What’s wrong with Mandy?” I asked. I like the PR woman we’ve been using so far.
“She ain’t right for this. Camilla’s in another league. I’ve arranged for us to take ’er to lunch.”
“When?”
“Today?”
“But I wanted to spend the day in the salon! I owe my beauticians that after staying away for a week.”
“The salon?” Harry repeated as if he’d never heard of it.
“Yes, Harry – the salon. The salon that I own.”
“But you’ve got a four o’clock meeting with Terri Catalogue.”
“Yeah, I know. I plan to be at the salon until then.”
He gave a theatrical sigh. “I can’t begin to tell you how important it is for you to meet Camilla. It’s the only slot she’s got. And if anyone can get rid of your ‘Bumquake’ label, it’s her. She could convince people the sky’s green.”
I was sold. “What time?” (Getting rid of the “Bumquake” label is a major priority.)
“One o’clock at Scott’s in Mayfair.”
“See you there.”
Got to the salon at 10.15 a.m. and Lara was running the place like clockwork. Felt like they hadn’t missed me at all. (Slightly annoying.) Lara and Charlie didn’t mention Good Morning A.M. but neither of them made eye contact when I spoke to them. I suppose they’re embarrassed for me. (Even more annoying.) Not like my very-to-the-point “Catalan not Spanish” beautician Isabel, who said, “Wow, I saw de YouTube. I don’t think your bum was all dat wobbly. In fact in Catalonia we would say deese eese—”
“Isabel!” Lara interrupted hurriedly. “Your client has arrived.”
The good news was that every beautician was fully booked. Kerching!
Got a taxi to Scott’s in Mayfair and arrived bang on time for my meeting with Harry and Camilla Douglas-Smith. Never been to Scott’s before. It’s proper plush, full of suits, and when I saw Camilla I decided that she must have chosen it. She’s way more posh than Mandy, the “lives in Windsor Castle” kind of posh that I’ve only seen on TV. Camilla doesn’t say “of course”, she says “of caws”, and “yah” instead of “yeah”. She’s a middle-aged blonde with a pinched nose and three children: Octavia, Sebastian and Tristan, who all ride a “haws”. She says that she’s going to kick “some proverbial ahse” for me.
“And will you stop the press calling me Bumquake?” I checked.
“Of caws. I intend to rebrand you. By the time I’ve finished, your name will be synonymous with clahss.”
This all sounded great to me. Then when we left, Harry told me her fee.
“Five hundred pounds a week?!” I gasped.
“She’s worth every penny. ’Ow many people do you think would ’av already sorted a top interview for you before you’d even signed a contract with ’em?”
He had a point, but I only agreed to a month or two, as I’m
not made of cash. Going to do the “top interview” and photo shoot with Here magazine tomorrow.
Had some time to spare before my meeting at Terri Catalogue’s Essex headquarters so browsed the shops for a bit. Bought my little nephew a cute T-shirt that says My Mum Rocks! and myself some control pants (seeing as Dr Clein says liposuction is a no-no). Also tried on a few dresses and decided that, from now on, black is the best colour for me – the black ones all made me look slimmer. The others – ugh!
As I left the last shop, two men in football shirts passed me in the street and then turned back to point.
“Is it a bird? Is it a plane? No, it’s the Bumquake!” one of them shouted.
Ha. Frickin’. Ha. Thought about swearing at them, but as I’m rebuilding my image and all that, I told myself, “I am Remy Louise Bennet. I am not perfect. But I still love being me.” Then I dug my teeth firmly into my tongue and showed them a middle finger instead.
Need to put this Bumquake crap to bed. As soon as. Hope this Camilla’s as good as she says she is.
My Terri Catalogue meeting was with Annouska Hemmings – the real designer of the Remy L.B. clothing range. As soon as I arrived, Annouska hit me with a bombshell opening statement: “This season, red will be the new black.”
“No. I can’t wear red. I’ll look like a bus.”
I don’t know why, out of lack of self-esteem maybe, but I was fishing for a compliment. Something along the lines of: “A bus? You? NEVER.”
Annouska said, “Not a chance… The photographer will stretch the picture to make you look slim.”
8.30 p.m.
Hey Twitter folk, some breaking news: red is the new black! #RemyLB #TerriCatalogue
Just took Mum and Mal to see some flats I like. First thing Mal said was “You’ll make it easier for Stephen to not commit if you buy a flat.”
What's the Drama, Malibu Bennet? Page 1