by Rae Earl
Last exam tomorrow. Thank GOD.
Friday 26.1.90
5.32 p.m.
Well History, you’re a pile of shit. I just presented the same point in 400 different ways in every essay.
11.34 p.m.
Battered Sausage picked me up about 8 p.m. He’d already had a bottle of sherry. I have no idea why he’s started downing Harvey’s Bristol Cream but it makes him really grumpy. We walked into town and he kept moaning about women like I’m not one (actually I’m not to him) then he started saying ‘If you come to Exeter you’ve got to give me some space to pull women.’ Er . . . yes . . . what does he think I will do? Cramp his style. What style? TOSSER. He was so busy going on about HIMSELF he didn’t ask me ONCE about me. Exams or ANYTHING. Good job though because what do I tell people?! I could be dying?! I have to have my entire anus and colon investigated. Not very sexy is it? Who wants this MESS. A girl at school had a cyst on her breast and no-one laughed at that. Which is right – it was horrible – but why are they laughing at me?!
OK they are not but only because I haven’t told them.
And before you ask, no Haddock either because he’s working again stacking shelves in a blue overcoat which he no doubt SETS ALIVE with wonderfulness.
He’s like an endangered species. A panda. But he shits on a panda’s cuteness from a great height.
Saturday 27.1.90
11 something. Who cares. Late.
Just back from the pub. WHAT A NIGHT! Everyone relieved exams are over and having a laugh. Then I see a back at the bar in a grey cardigan. HOW CAN YOU MAKE A GREY CARDIGAN SEXY but he does!! And when you haven’t seen him for a while – he blows your head off. But I act casual and we eventually talk . . .
Haddock: How did the exams go?
Me: OK. Well a bit shit but fuck it.
Haddock: You all right?
Me: Yes I’m fine mate.
Haddock – Really? (EYEBROW UP IN THE AIR – PLEASE PUT IT DOWN IT MAKES HIS EYES LIKE A LASER BREAM)
Me: Yeah fine mate.
Haddock: Good to hear it.
And then he goes to sit with his girlfriend and puts his arm round her. I go to the Model Fish Bar with Dobber, tell her about my arse and drown my sorrows in chips, mushy peas and a pickled onion. Even that ran away from me and rolled down Broad Street. I couldn’t afford another. Skint.
11.52 p.m.
Laser BEAM not Laser BREAM. He’s not a real fish. He’s just named after one for code reasons.
Sunday 28.1.90
11.25 p.m.
Round Dobber’s house.
Dave Bridges TOTAL TWONGO is currently ruining a girly night with small-cock-big-gob bollocks. He clearly fancies Dobber and thinks the way to her heart is taking the piss out of me. Well it’s not and she’s well loved up with Fig. So piss off you twat and yes I am fat. I could lose weight though. You’ll ALWAYS be the boy who ADMITTED in the pub tonight that She-Ra Princess of Power turned him on. At least the people I fantasise about are not cartoons and crap He-Man spin-offs.
Monday 29.1.90
6.35 p.m.
Talking in the common room today about cartoon characters you fancy. I brought it up taking the piss out of Dave Bridges but people understood what he meant. And I get called weird! Mia reckons she’s fancied Captain Caveman for ‘years’. He’s just a mass of hair! AND loads of girls fancy Fred from Scooby-Doo. When I pointed out he was a total dick everyone went mental. But it’s true. Shaggy does all the work.
Tell you what diary – I am Velma in Scooby-Doo amongst loads of Daphne Dolly birds. I’ve got the brain but I’m in a shit orange jumper and everyone is looking at Daphne’s legs.
I love school. I can’t imagine not being there. I’m shitting it about leaving.
Tuesday 30.1.90
7.12 p.m.
I already have the letter for my procedure. It’s on the 12th February, a Monday, so I can’t eat all weekend. How the hell am I going to manage that?!
I know you’re going to think I sound melodramatic but I can feel death all over me.
8.39 p.m.
OK reading that back that is the most melodramatic thing ever but I’m so worried.
If they do tell me there’s something really wrong do I tell people? No – because I know what it’s like when you tell people horrible shit, like with what happened. They just pity you. Would I want sympathy shag off anyone? No I don’t. I want to be shagged senseless for me and the shape of my bum – not because of my death arse.
A Haddock sympathy shag. It’s a shag off Haddock but it doesn’t count.
Wednesday 31.1.90
9.12 p.m.
My mock results spelt UCCA again. Why won’t they just let me drop History. It’s because Theatre Arts is seen as a bit of a pathetic A level, like General Studies. Oh bugger it – it’s an A level. Who cares? I might not be here next year and I’m worried about this nonsense?!
Thursday 1.2.90
11.47 p.m.
Just had a girlie piss-up with Dobber. Who is now unconscious on the floor.
I have been drunk.
I have sobered it up.
Bad thoughts back. Take them away.
Friday 2.2.90
11.45 p.m.
I felt bad tonight. All this hospital stuff is really getting to me. Anyway, Battered Sausage took me down the pub and said ‘What’s up Razza?’ so I said ‘Look. They think there might be something wrong with me and I’ve got to go into hospital.’ Battered Sausage looked at me for ages and said really seriously ‘Is it your flange?’. I was ON THE FLOOR pissing myself. No, Battered Sausage, it’s not my flange it’s my other bits. My tummy. Then he just was really sweet and said ‘Don’t worry about it Rae. No fucker messes. We will sort it.’ Then he bought me an ACTUAL DRINK. The tightest sod in the world bought me a pint of Sam Smiths!
I need to be ill more often!
No I don’t. I don’t want to be a sympathy merchant.
Saturday 3.2.90
11.01 p.m.
Some women are . . . they are just – I can’t compete.
Tonight, this girl kept disappearing into the Vaults pub garden with a couple of blokes. They all came back laughing. I kept asking what they were doing and they kept giggling ‘nothing!’ and looking really gormless. Eventually Battered Sausage went out with her and came back and told me she was doing public performance FANNY FARTS. She can make big loud noises with her vagina!
How can you do that?! I’ve been trying since I’ve got home. No noise.
WHY would you want to share it . . . NO! Because the boys were loving it and saying what a ‘top bird’ she was.
No, Haddock didn’t go out and experience it. He is beyond that sort of attention seeking shit and he was arguing with his girlfriend then snogging her all night after that. I don’t stare but I can see he holds her very bloody tight.
Fanny farts and rejection and cider indigestion. All shit.
Sunday 4.2.90
8.34 p.m.
Battered Sausage.
Let me just give you the state of affairs. After conversations with Mort I have to admit the following to myself –
1) I genuinely do actually love him.
2) If he asked me to marry him tomorrow I’d probably say yes.
But the thing with Battered Sausage is, if he fancies a slice of floozy he will completely ignore you.
Monday 5.2.90
10.12 p.m.
UNBELIEVABLE!! NELSON MANDELA has been freed from prison!! Winnie met him outside the gates – it was really emotional.
Nelson looks nothing like his T-shirt. He’s lost loads of weight.
No – I don’t want to be a political prisoner. I’d rather be fat than put up with racist South Africans. Also, I want a diet that works quicker than 21 years in captivity with shoes that are too small to fit your feet. Thanks Special AKA for the historic knowledge.
Tuesday 6.2.90
8.46 p.m.
It’s weird but ever since Bethany went I’ve been spending
more time with people who aren’t cows! Like Shellboss, Chelsea and Ronni. Life is like a sandwich – if you fill it with bollocks there’s less room for Brie and grapes.
10.12 p.m.
That last bit sounded weird but I know what I mean.
Wednesday 7.2.90
10.35 p.m.
1) If I want to go to university I need to do some bloody work.
2) Brain threatened badly by stuff.
3) Amber is Battered Sausage’s ideal married woman. Haddock told me this for – I don’t know what is the bloody reason.
4) Humungous crush on Michael Ball.
5) Have a massive period.
6) I want to be a brunette stunner.
7) I do not want to be starving taking hospital-strength laxatives when everyone else is in Benetton.
Thursday 8.2.90
10.22 p.m.
The charts are totally depressing at the moment.
‘Nothing Ever Happens’ by Del Amitri – Great song but says it like it is. AKA everything is SHIT, we all have boring crap lives then die and the Post Office is always shut when you need it.
‘Hangin’ Tough’ by New Kids on the Block – I bloody hate it when BOYS pretend to be hard. I have never wanted a band to be involved in a plane crash more.
‘Instant Replay’ by Yell! – Two floppy-haired tossers wanking over Dan Hartman. Well, not over him but his tune.
Feel bad about the plane crash thing. I don’t wish the New Kids would die I wish they would just fuck off.
Friday 9.2.90
11.56 p.m.
I’ve just been down the Vaults. BRILLIANT night except for:
1) Everybody asking why I am jibbing on the beers tomorrow. I don’t want to tell people what’s happening and that I’m going to be not leaving the toilet. In the wrong hands I could be murdered with that.
2) Battered Sausage kept putting Phil Collins on the jukebox and singing ‘Rae wishes it would rain down . . . down on her!’ He was trying to be sweet but it was just pissing me off.
3) Haddock. I’d been avoiding him because all this makes me feel even bloody uglier than normal. He cornered me by the French doors in the Vaults. Conversation as follows –
HADDOCK: Why aren’t you out tomorrow?
ME: I’ve . . . I just need to do some work.
HADDOCK: No, you haven’t Rae.
ME: Well, my mum thinks I’m not doing enough so . . .
HADDOCK: If you’re going to lie to me you can fuck off.
WHY DIDN’T I THINK OF A DECENT LIE?
I can’t tell Haddock what’s happening. I can’t. If he’s nice to me I might cry. And all this. He’s got a girlfriend. He’s got a life. I don’t even want him to know me now. I don’t want him to know THIS Rae. I don’t like me – why the hell should he?
Saturday 10.2.90
8.24 p.m.
I’ve taken the medicine. It’s hell. I’ve – I don’t want to write it.
I’m eating white rice. That’s it. At least I’ll lose weight this weekend but not 5 stone.
I’m listening to ‘Shine On’ by the House of Love. I’d love to be in a garden in the house of love. Not in a council house crapping my guts out.
Sunday 11.2.90
7.36 p.m.
This is horrible. I just told Mum that I wanted to pretend it wasn’t happening. She said ‘I know duck but it is happening and you’ve got to get on with it.’
If there is one thing I am bloody sick of in my life it is getting on with it. Also, I am bored of my mum’s suggestion that I should have a nice game of canasta. 1) I can’t play canasta 2) I’M 18 – NOT EIGHTY.
They always make mental people play cards. When I had my breakdown she kept making me play gin rummy. Well I’m not mad at the moment I’m REALLY ILL.
Ignore me, diary. Mum is being lovely. I’ve just got a really sore arse.
Monday 12.2.90
2.35 p.m.
I had a barium enema this morning. Oh it hurt like fuck. I’m pissed off medically and pissed off completely. I asked the nurse doing it if she could see anything but she said I had to see the doctor. They never tell you anything.
Anyway I can eat now – so I have been doing. LIKE YOU WOULD NOT BELIEVE. Chantrell’s Lemon Curd Tart – I LOVE YOU.
9.12 p.m.
There’s a new couple in Coronation Street. She’s skinny and pretty.
SURPRISE SURPRISE!
Mum told me today that Mr Chantrell the baker hasn’t been to bed for 20 years. He sleeps by his ovens. I don’t know if it’s true or not but he makes the best stuff in history. My family have always abused his bread. My brother used to get an entire loaf, scoop it out, fill it with bacon and cheese and call it a Piggy Malone. Fuck knows why.
Food is helping today. It’s not been a good day.
Tuesday 13.2.90
7.36 p.m.
I’m still sore. I’m still eating like a pig. I’m still watching shit on TV.
I’m glad I’m not at school tomorrow. I can’t deal with roses and chocolates.
Wednesday 14.2.90
11.23 a.m.
Just found a carrier bag pushed through the door. Inside there’s a Beats International single and a little Valentine’s Day ode scribbled on a bit of notepaper in Battered Sausage’s mad handwriting. It’s VERY sweet. It’s not Haddock turning up and carrying me off like thingy in An Officer and a Gentleman but it will do!
I am very loved – it’s just in the wrong way.
Thursday 15.2.90
9.01 p.m.
Yes – so one girl at school got her 2CV full of flowers and balloons by her boyfriend. Yes – another girl is going SKIING at EASTER with her boyfriend (you can’t revise for your A level Chemistry exam on a chairlift love) BUT I got a handwritten ode and ‘Dub Be Good To Me’ and that’s a special thing.
I also have an appointment to go and see the specialist next Tuesday. Humongous nerves now.
Friday 16.2.90
1.45 a.m.
I’ve just been to Olivers. Haddock walked me home. I AM SO SICK OF MOANING ABOUT SEX DESERT DROUGHT when a lust oasis grows legs and escorts me back through dark passages like a knight in really tight jeans.
I wish I could act like a cow rather than look like one.
Haddock is physical perfection. That is the least of it though. Regardless of what I or he believes, he has a totally brilliant personality. Protective and humorous . . .
Saturday 17.2.90
6.55 p.m.
Sorry, fell asleep. I’m always doing that.
I feel very bad at the moment. Home totally mixed up. When I write I feel better.
Chelsea has just been round. Nice attempt at superiority but not quite making it. I know her game. Typical, underhand comment – ‘Oh, me and Haddock’s girlfriend might go away together for a holiday.’ She has TOTALLY got the Haddock knowledge and could actually destroy everything in my life.
TELL HER THEN!
My friend, impart then to win the battle,
And rub rhine into the graze
But know that sweet retribution falls onto those
Who dare to encourage the thick hand of fate
I’m not afraid your slate is not clean.
Your greenhouse is glass
Your secrets are stone
I have them in my hand
Kill my shed. I kill yours.
I didn’t mean rhine I meant brine. Shakespeare always shoves it in. It’s salty water shit.
I’m going down the Vaults.
Sunday 18.2.90
2.35 a.m.
I’ve got to write. It’s late but I’ve got to write. The last couple of days have just been crazy. I’ve spent tons of time with Haddock and last night I ended up having this massive conversation with him about stuff. I wasn’t going to tell him about him about medical things but when you sit down with him you just feel like you can tell him anything. It’s weird. It’s like being with a really nice woman who is also just the most horny man on the planet.
; Anyway he told me off for not telling him and then he grabbed hold of my hand and said ‘you’ll be all right’ and winked. I nearly died. I wanted to leap on top of him but instead I said ‘fuck off you soppy twat’ and punched him.
Sometimes I wish he’d just act like a knob to me because it would be bloody easier to deal with.
Monday 19.2.90
3.22 p.m.
I am so sick of not telling people what I feel. I’m sick of being fat. I’m sick of slapping Haddock instead of hugging him and I’m sick of hearing Rod Stewart on his downtown train shagging young blondes. Piss off and date someone your own age you gravelly old bastard. Uncle Disgusting. He should be knobbing Cher or Tina Turner.
Hospital tomorrow. Yes I’m scared.
Tuesday 20.2.90
1.12 p.m.
There’s no easy way to say this. I have a benign tumour in my colon.
It’s called a polyp. Some people get them in their nose. I’ve got one up my bum. I’m not going to die from it but they do need to take it out in the very near future.
It IS funny, diary. I laughed when the specialist told me. Mum looked really concerned but it’s like God is having a laugh with my life. I’m huge and now I’ve got something else that means I will almost certainly die a virgin. In the past I’ve worried that I’ve had every illness under the sun from rabies to a brain haemorrhage and now I have a REAL bum growth. You could not make it up! It’s my life and it’s BONKERS as hell.
I’m telling some people but not everyone.
4.26 p.m.
No fuck it – I’m telling everyone. It’s not my fault. Love me, love my polyp.
Wednesday 21.2.90
10.47 p.m.
I was moping around till Mum said ‘Rachel. You’re not bloody dying. Go out with your friends!’. So I went ice skating with the Gads which was a total laugh until I fell over and someone shouted ‘earthquake’.
Told Mum. She said ice skating was just a craze and would end up at the back of everyone’s cupboard. That’s not the point Mum and Torvill and Dean with their twenty gold medals for ‘Bolero’ would disagree.
