My Madder Fatter Diary
Page 16
Dear F W De Klerk. Stop being a racist and sort it out.
Everyone is moving on except me because everyone can.
TANGLE
When all is said and done,
Laughter and listening is over,
There’s just a tangle.
I can give you a belly laugh so big it will hurt,
I can give you my shoulder to cry on,
And listen to any intimacy you can provide,
BUT
When all is said and done,
When the laughter and the listening is over.
There is just a tangle.
All my contemporaries have wonderful togetherness
I know that everyone has a niggling doubt
But how many of them are covered in bruises,
They created.
How many voices do they have in their head?
The one person who gets it,
Has the least reason to be fucked up.
But I can’t hug him, I can’t kiss him
I couldn’t make love to him.
Because when all is said and done
When all the listening and laughter is over.
There’s just a tangle.
I can be full of shit sometimes but I mean it.
Monday 31.12.90
5.35 p.m.
Sometimes I can’t believe this is me talking.It is me though. Little arms. Big middle. Screwed up. In love with a total unobtainable. I’ve got such a lot to sort out. I’ve got to stop all the mental shit and the bingeing. I’ve got to grow up. I hate agreeing with Mum but she does have a point. And Haddock. Oh I love him but he isn’t the answer . . . but he could be the reward. Do you know, I don’t think I’m going to keep a diary anymore. I think it makes me linger on bad stuff and thoughts and memories that I should just swallow up. I feel I should write a big momentous entry in commemoration but I’m due down the pub with Dobber – even though she bought the latest Bombularina single. Perhaps I need to think less, DO more and buy more novelty singles.
Tuesday 1.1.91
8.57 a.m.
Bollocks. I’d go completely mad without this and Timmy Mallett needs a REAL mallet over his head. Not a nice soft one that’s to do with a word association game. But diary, I’m writing less. I have to do more. I’ve got to sort out this head and this body. ‘Navel gazing’ here (my mum’s phrase) is not always helping. Talking doesn’t always help but you’re here. I know you’re here and thank GOD you’re here.
Good morning 1991! Working on the 2 year ‘crap/good’ basis, this year should be a corker because last year was a total disaster on nearly every level.
When I walked back from Dobber’s house at 7.30 a.m. this morning it was beautiful. It was like everything had just been born. There was a frost and everything felt new and that just made me feel happy.
Well at this point I usually burst into a string of resolutions but this year I’ll make things more simple but more important.
1) Stop being mental. Stop the thoughts. Stop the hitting. How, I just don’t know.
2) Lose weight. Don’t even tell anyone I’m doing it. Just do it. So I, a) can have sex b) I don’t die of a Flora overdose when I’m 32 or something.
3) Manage somehow to find a way to get out of Stamford without feeling like I’m dying.
4) Stop all my paranoia. All this ‘Are you in a mood with me?’ shit because if they aren’t before they are after hearing all that self-pitying wank.
5) When I do get to Hull have a good time and make the most of it.
6) Whatever crisis happens I may feel terrible but I will handle it as best I possibly can.
7) Don’t end up back there in the ward. I can’t because the second time they might not let me go.
They are quite general aren’t they but if I can get these sorted out then I’m away.
I think the older I get the more I believe in ‘Que Sera Sera’ and fate and all that.
As to last night, I thought ‘oh no it’s like Christmas Eve again – nightmare.’ But surprisingly the pub was much less busy. Even though I had to queue up outside the Vaults to get in to the Bolt Hole Bar.
Shellboss came for me at about 8.20 p.m. and we went down the bar. I’d had a bit of Pimm’s before I started on the vodkas. By the time I got to the Vaults I was getting pleasurably out of it. I got to a good merry stage all night without pushing it and going loony. Had a lovely chat and a laugh with Fig but couldn’t talk long because him and Dobber aren’t together anymore and I’d throw Fig under a bus for Dobber. In a nice way.
Haddock’s girlfriend was in tears. She disappeared. Haddock and me sat there and chatted about everything and then he said to me –
HADDOCK: What do you think 1991 will be like then?
ME: Well, I hope it will be better than last year.
HADDOCK: When you’re in Hull you can come over to Leeds for nights out.
ME: (OH GOD, THE THOUGHT IS TOO BEAUTIFUL!!)
Yeah. Do you like ‘Mull of Kintyre’?
HADDOCK: (LOOKING AT ME LIKE I’M INSANE)
Of course I do. Obviously.
ME: What about ‘The Frog Chorus’?
HADDOCK: Er . . . BOM BOM BOM aye-a aye
Anyway come over if you like.
ME: Yeah I will.
And then we all ended up in the square at midnight with him snogging the face off his girlfriend.
He’s not the solution. He could be the reward. I’ve got to lose weight and not change the subject to Paul McCartney when things get tough.
I think I might be a bit still pissed!
Wednesday 2.1.91
5.40 p.m.
I don’t know what would make me better. Going away, staying, changing, staying the same. I don’t know.
I know Haddock still loves his girlfriend. I know Dobber still loves Fig. I know what was number one at Christmas in 197-bloody-4 (‘Lonely This Christmas’ by Mud – crap) but I don’t know who I am, what I want, if I’m happy or if I’m not.
I know I need a big hug and a Flake Caramel bar.
Friday 4.1.91
5.59 p.m.
I told you. I’m not writing everyday anymore. It’s not helping. Yesterday I went for a massive walk to Tolethorpe.
I’ve nothing to report at all. Usually at this time I’m depressed. I am not.
Sometimes I can’t believe Haddock even exists. He’s like the Yeti but a horny version.
But he does exist. There are occasional sightings. I hope I get one before he goes back again.
Tegs has offered me more work in the bar. I love it. We have such a laugh and it’s DOING something.
Sunday 6.1.91
12.34 a.m.
Just come back from working in the bar. Oh – it’s EPIC! Me and Tegs are now calling ourselves the Bostik sisters because we keep getting stuck in the saloon doors between the kitchen and the bar. And MTV are showing old Saturday Night Live’s with Bill Murray, Dan Aykroyd and John Belushi which are brilliant. Only Tegs keeps accusing me of having a crush on MTV presenter Steve Blame – which I DO NOT!
Anyway I was just serving people and Haddock came in. He’s come for a drink he said but I swear he’d come to say goodbye. We had a chat (NOT ABOUT Paul McCartney) about Battered Sausage being well loved up and about Dobber and Fig and then we had a strained over-the-bar hug. I didn’t want to let go. Of course I didn’t. I never do. He even SMELLS good. He feels GOOD. Oh he FEELS so good – like LIFE! Like MAN! Like something you don’t want to let go of. But I did let go. And he left. And I served someone bloody Archers and lemonade. I let go of the best thing in the world to serve someone peachy shit.
Monday 7.1.91
11.03 p.m.
There is going to be another war. What can I do? What I always think I can do – sit here, pray 100 times, check the gas, think by doing mad stuff I could change it. Stop it. I’d really like to tell Saddam Hussein now just how much shit he is causing in my head.
Even Coronation Street was crap tonight. Too much Mavi
s.
Shit – am I destined to be a Mavis? But Mad Mavis with carrier bags and loads of cats?
Thursday 10.1.91
10.56 p.m.
I’ve just been down the pub with Haddock’s girlfriend.
Judas Rae. Haddock’s girlfriend is the fat girl’s passport to the human equivalent of the Seychelles.
The more she goes on about him the more I’m convinced how alike we are. He covers all his bollocks up with being dry-as-a-bone funny and Mr Moody. They are going to get married. It’s a foregone conclusion. I’m not being a bloody bridesmaid I can tell you that for nothing. When they say ‘Has anyone got any objections as to whether these two should not be joined in holy matrimony’ – YES!! I HAVE A BLOODY HUGE ONE.
When I look at photos of Haddock – YES he is fit BUT he is also a hidden philosopher type. He’s so damn wonderful. I can’t imagine ever topping him. I mean I KNOW I’ve only really been in Stamford. OK so I could probably top him but do I want to? Funny as hell, handsome as fuck, smart, great thighs – what more to want?!
BUT his girlfriend is lovely and I’m Queen of Twats Party United.
AND I am not expecting him to fix me anymore. Or save me. He doesn’t even know he’s meant to. Haddock – see you on the other side of my transformation into the REAL not NUTS me and the THIN me.
Friday 11.1.91
6.34 p.m.
It’s been a weird sort of day. I went to Peterborough with Shellboss. Ended up in Wimpy where a bloke was dressed up like a massive Mr Wimpy beefeater. He fell over and because his costume was so big he started rolling down the street. He was saved by two young lads.
I laughed but then felt instantly bad as he was basically a fat person with no control and a stupid hat.
Shellboss was like ‘WHY do you need to lose weight before you get a boyfriend. You’re fucking fine the way you are. If you want to lose weight, lose it, but don’t put your life on hold till you do.’ I explained to her that I felt like Mr Wimpy and the unsexiest thing on earth. Who wants to sleep with me – a beefeater? I need to do SOMETHING to make ME feel better about ME.
I need to lose weight.
I need to be rid of the shit.
THEN I need him. Do I want anyone else? No at the moment.
Sometimes I think the shrinks might be right. I got fat because I didn’t want to be touched after what happened but, like I told them, I’ve always been chubby. I’ve always felt not like a proper girl. Psychiatrists always look for the easy answer. I remember my mum trying to put me in a sundress with like an elasticated top and being horrified. I wanted to wear my brown Charlie’s Angels jumpsuit. We had a big argument outside Nan’s house.
You see now I’m going over stuff from years ago. Do I feel better? No. Am I in denial? GOD KNOWS. Raking up shit gets you nowhere.
Talking of raking up shit – Iron Maiden are back with some total crap called ‘Bring Your Daughter to the Slaughter’. Piss off – there are scarier things in my mum’s wardrobe that she won’t throw out just in case she can fit in them again – like that crocheted brown and white cardigan.
Sunday 13.1.91
12.09 a.m.
There was a hilarious rumble in the bar tonight. Men fighting like girls. I got between them both and told them to stop it. Tegs said I was brilliant. I knew they wouldn’t hit me. I just had that sense that they wouldn’t punch a woman. It’s that instinct I have.
8.01 a.m.
I had the strangest dream last night. It was a deep winter and Haddock’s girlfriend told me that Haddock was down the pub and because she had something to do I could have dinner with him. Anyway, people kept interrupting me asking me questions that made no sense and I kept thinking HADDOCK IS THERE WAITING FOR ME AND YOU ARE ASKING ME ABOUT FUCKING ZEBRAS??!! I was supposed to be there at 11 p.m. and now it’s 11.10 p.m. and then MY MUM WOKE ME UP! So I don’t know what the dream meant or where it went!
9.22 p.m.
Back in reality (sort of!) Haddock apparently wants to go to the Gulf. Haddock told his girlfriend that she was the only one who could stop him. I did point out the fact he’s not in the Army and unless he goes as a mercenary he can’t go. This is why I’m single. I tell men they are talking shit. And he is talking shit. What can he do in the Gulf?! He isn’t properly trained and his camouflage gear is not army issue – it’s probably from Burton.
I would also tell Haddock that him dying would make life totally bollocks.
Monday 14.1.91
11.38 p.m.
Mum has found out that I stopped a fight in a bar. WHO TOLD HER THAT?! She went – oh mad doesn’t cover it. Apparently I ‘could have got myself killed’ – MUM IT’S STAMFORD NOT NEW YORK! Then she said ‘What happened at the Riverside in Stamford a few years ago – someone was murdered!’ Yes that’s true BUT I told her I have instincts about people and things that are rarely wrong and I knew it would be OK. Then she said ‘Rachel – you also think you can control the war in Kuwait by checking the iron and tapping the door.’ Well PERHAPS I CAN!
No – I don’t need the doctor. I need to stop talking and start doing.
11.28 p.m.
Why do some men (and it is ALWAYS men) have such power to fuck things up?
There’s obviously going to be a war in the Gulf now. And a big one. At least I’m at home. Perhaps that’s why I was meant to leave Essex. To be with Mum when it all goes really bad. It’s that voice again.
Tuesday 15.1.91
7.23 p.m.
A TRAGIC ANTI-WAR POEM
BEAUTY SECRETS OF WORLD LEADERS EXPOSED
Long ago it was decreed
A mark of evil would be conceived.
It was, its creators toyed
A sign to show who you should avoid.
But ages past and years are lost
And what the mark meant was soon forgot,
And go to the present where two red marks on the head
Are simply unfortunate and let no more be said.
Out of his mother’s womb he crept
They thought he’d be the one to cancel Third World debt,
He’d study Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar,
And end up marrying Mother Teresa.
‘We have such high hopes’ his parents said,
‘Shame about the mark that is on his head –
But as life goes on and pressure mounts
It’s only what’s inside that really counts.’
All over the world in every different tongue
The same song of parental love was being sung,
As special babies were born in every part foreign,
With one important factor always in common,
The baldness of their small heads showing a dark
Unexplainable, ugly, mysterious mark.
As seasons passed, the once head bare
Was replaced with a crop of thick native hair.
So no longer could the strange stains be seen
Though they were still there where they’d always been
And thus parents forgot all about them focussing more
On the progression of the child and what was in store.
The boys though young knew their direction,
It was to be the fun and games of election.
And though miles apart, beyond geographical confines
They talked of war in their small minds.
Boastful challenges, heroic story
Clever rhetoric, patriotic glory
And they vowed to each other that one future day
In reality the game they would play.
Time moves on, heads still stained,
Campaigns elections, power obtained
And now the boys could really enjoy,
The beauty of their new found toy.
And oh what beauty! Luxury, power and greed,
Satisfaction, happiness, wealth guaranteed.
And no-one has noticed yet, despite much wrath,
That they are leading everyone up the garden path.
&nb
sp; But wait! What’s this? A middle-aged feature,
The arrival of mid 40s alopecia,
For every man is touched in his life sometime,
With the onset of a receding hairline.
For most this is unfortunate, but a natural event,
That in life leaves not much of a dent,
But to our boys if their head is uncovered
It means their secret would be discovered.
The red marks that graced them and gave them such power
Would show up, the situation would turn sour.
The public enlightenment would soon ensure
They’d end washed up on life’s political floor.
Squabbling broke out on what should be the plan
To save the knowledge reaching the common man,
‘Only one way’ said one of the marked
‘A complete cover up operation’ he barked
‘So no-one will ever find out the truth
That we are extremely long in the tooth.’
But all that cover stuff spoke another
How do we share it about amongst each brother?
It will take gallons of paint everyday
To cover the marks that litter our way.
Fighting broke out amongst the gang
And thus the first stirs of war were sang
Over allocation of the strange formation
That is the common women’s foundation.
World leaders always keen to keep
Their secrets have gotten in too deep
And now must fight, let us not mock,
For control of the world cosmetic stock.
The red mark they only show at their secret convention,
World leaders with supposed peace intention,
Remove their wigs and display their head
And plan out the route for their mass dead.
Gorbachev is changing the Russian economy as the system stops
You buying foundation in state-owned shops.