My Fat, Mad Teenage Diary

by Rae Earl

  It’s weird with Bethany, you know. I’m only mates with her because she used to be shy and she seemed like she needed friends. And her dad was the chairman of some enormous company and apparently didn’t give her much attention. I felt sorry for her.

  I don’t now.

  Went down the phone box (63401) and rang Mort – she said that Bethany was just a bitch, and why did I bother seeing her, and that she lives on cottage cheese and is a typical only child. I love Mort – I wish she lived nearer. I hate to say it but it is just typical of my life . . . My best friend lives in a village 45 minutes away, with her own bathroom. I don’t know if I’ve even got my own bloody towel.

  Bethany has got a point, though – I do need to start exercising. I’ll go for a long walk tomorrow by the fields near the Rainbow Superstore. I’m too knackered to write any more. More tomorrow, unless I get too pee-bored tonight, which is possible. I can’t sleep at all at the moment. Having Horlicks and Malted Milk biscuits by the ton, but that’s not working either.

  Friday 27.1.89 but technically it’s Saturday 28.1.89

  00.19 a.m. (only just got in)

  THERE IS THE MOST RIDICULOUS rumour going round school. Apparently The Smiths are playing a secret gig in Peterborough on Sunday night. I said, ‘Bollocks – everyone knows they all fell out over a year ago, and why on earth would they choose to play Peterborough anyway?’ But people are saying they have picked it because no one would ever expect them to play the Fens, and it would keep the national music press ‘guessing – and away’. We scoured through NME in the common room – not even a suggestion of it. It’s bullshit. The only thing you will see in Peterborough this year is Aladdin at the Key Theatre. And there’s more chance of Morrissey coming out of the lamp than The Smiths playing in Peterborough. Still – everyone reckons they are going.

  I might have to beg Mum for £12 for the ticket.

  Trip to the cinema cancelled. Instead – DID SOME EXERCISE!!!! I went for a walk. A couple of blokes on Cambridge Road in a Vauxhall Cherry parped their car horn, leant out the car window and shouted something, then pissed themselves. It was probably horrible, but the great thing about having Suzanne Vega full blast on your Walkman is you don’t hear what tossers are shouting. Did about 20 minutes till the bloody machine chewed the tape, then came home. I didn’t notice any difference to the way I looked, and my jeans didn’t feel any looser. It’s a start, though, and I love those fields – there is no one about to take the piss. Then Bethany and me went down the Vaults. She knows quite a few of the blokes from the boys’ school, so yes, I am using her basically. Total revelation down there tonight – met some great people (who all talked about The Smiths gig WHICH WON’T HAPPEN) AND DIDN’T GET CALLED FAT ONCE. Brilliant!!

  Saturday 28.1.89

  EXERCISE!

  Borrowed Bethany’s mum’s Shape Up and Dance record with Peter Powell. It’s old with really shit cover versions of songs, but I quite like Peter Powell. Well, I used to like him on Radio 1, but after doing this bloody aerobics record I’m not sure. It is sadistic!! During the cancan he starts going, ‘Left kick, right kick, left kick, right kick,’ too bloody fast, almost like a piss-take. It’s bloody hard to do a dance in the front room and avoid Mum’s crap ornaments. Even though I would be doing her a favour if I ‘accidentally’ knocked over one of her crap bloody china shire horses. I was jumping up and down like a loon so much I ended up making the record jump. There’s a massive scratch in it. I’ll just give it back and hope she doesn’t notice.

  Apparently the Shape Up and Dance by Lulu is much more sedate so I’ll try that. It stands to reason – as Lulu is ancient and probably has rheumatism these days.

  Going down the Vaults. I’ve nicked two quid off my brother’s floor. It’ll buy a pint of cider if I can get served – I still look like an oversized 12-year-old. Make-up would probably help but every time I put it on I end up looking like Coco the Clown.

  Sunday 29.1.89

  9-ish

  EXERCISE. BUGGER IT.

  I did get served!! Though the landlord asked me my age twice. Ordered a half of cider to be on the safe side. Mum would be furious if she knew – she shat herself when I had a Babycham at a wedding once.

  Last night I can tell you – this is why I love Bethany – she knows so many blokes it is unbelievable. They swarm round her. For all her being a cow, she is the best way to meet men ever. Spent most of the night with Harry and Luke, who in turn introduced me to loads of other men from the boys’ school. Harry is cute and posh and shy. And, crucially, laughs at most things I say. I can’t decide if it’s nerves or if he finds me really hilarious. Luke is skinny as a rat and sarky as fuck. Bethany got walked home by Luke (just as mates – he has a girlfriend). No one offered to walk me home so I just disappeared and came home via Broad Street chippy. Asked for chips with extra scraps. Yes, they are just minute pieces of fried batter, but sod it. I’ve done more exercise in the past week than I have done in years.

  Everyone was wearing The Queen Is Dead T-shirts and there are a whole load of people going to The Smiths gig (WHICH WON’T HAPPEN). Mum refused to give me £12, just in case it is true, which shows she knows nothing about music and doesn’t care about me. I’ve never been to see a real concert. Wham! ‘The Final’ – not allowed. Howard Jones – too young. I even missed out on Live Aid because we had to fly to Morocco to see her husband the next day. She still says, ‘Well, at least you saw Wayne Sleep the ballet dancer on the plane, and he said it was a fabulous day.’ Like seeing Wayne Sleep makes up for missing the biggest line-up in the history of music.

  If everyone comes into school tomorrow holding flowers and talking about the night The Smiths reformed, I am bloody running away.

  Monday 30.1.89

  H A! HA! TOLD YOU!!! This is priceless. Everyone went off to see The Smiths last night. Everyone paid £12. And, yes, the Smiths did play. THE FAMILY Smith – they are a folk/country band!!!! I asked Daisy at what point did everyone realise The Smiths were not coming on. She said when they did a cover of ‘All Around My Hat’ by Steeleye Span. People didn’t think they’d have a support band that played that. Then someone looked at the name and put two and two together. And to add insult to injury, the Family Smith said, ‘It’s good to see so many young faces in the place tonight’! I felt so smug it was unbelievable. Apparently there was nearly a riot. Not surprised. We all know most people who like folk music eat mushrooms, live in sheds and don’t wash. I bet the place stank!!

  Took this diary to school today and Bethany announced to everyone in the common room that I had it with me. She then grabbed it out of my folder and it got tossed about like a netball till I retrieved it. She was saying stuff like, ‘I bet there’s not a lot of stuff that happens in it . . . no action . . . Who do you dream about, Rae?’ Everyone pissed themselves at this. Bunch of cows. I know my life is dull and manless compared to theirs. Bethany is usually lovely when it’s just us, but when we are out in public she takes the piss ALL the time. It’s like I’m her comedy punch-bag.

  I’m SICK of it.

  The trouble is, where do I keep this diary? It’s not safe at home or in the locker at school. There’s already shit in it that if anyone else saw I would die. Just going to have to put it under the mattress and hope. There’s NO privacy – there’s no place to go in the Fascist State of Mum. SHE still comes in while I’m in the bath and asks me if I have washed properly. Especially (and she always whispers this) ‘my credentials’. She means my bits. JUST SAY IT, WOMAN!! She can’t even call sanitary towels sanitary towels. She calls them BUNNIES!! It’s like the 1950s in this house.

  No exercise today. Watched Alien on video and it shit me up good and proper. Not going out walking in the dark with the thought of a monster that bursts out your gut.

  Tuesday 31.1.89

  Late

  IAM 17, I’VE EARNED SOME independence, it’s time to assert it. On the way back from school, nipped into Wilko’s and bought a 49p self-adhesive lock. It had, like, a b
ig sticker on the back so there was no drilling. Before Mum got home I put it on my bedroom door. Didn’t hear her come in as I had ‘Cuddly Toy’ by Roachford (TOP song) on full blast. Next thing I know she is trying to get in. HA!!!! She couldn’t. SHE WENT BALLISTIC – ENDED UP FORCING THE DOOR AND BREAKING THE LOCK. Usual speech: ‘You used to be so sweet . . . When you pay hotel rates, then you can start treating it like a hotel . . . Who do you think you are . . . ?’ And finally the classic: ‘I DON’T WANT TO READ THE ADOLESCENT CRAP THAT YOU WRITE.’ I said, ‘OH, SO YOU DO KNOW I WRITE A DIARY, THEN!’ She stormed out and put her Kenny Ball and His Jazzmen on. I have mates who have their own walk-in wardrobes, a clothes allowance and a video-player in their room. All I want is a bit of privacy. She is so lucky to have me. I am bloody low maintenance. I’ve never even asked to go on a ski trip. And unlike half the girls at school I don’t demand No. 7 lipstick/eyeliners, or have a perm.

  Wednesday 1.2.89

  6.17 p.m.

  FAB AT SCHOOL TODAY. DAISY got bollocked for spelling ‘Satan’ ‘Saturn’ all through her essay. And this is someone who reckons she is going to apply for Cambridge. Good luck, love!! Off down pub – write more later.

  11.09 p.m.

  Just got back from the pub. Had one Diet Coke and NO CRISPS!! Feel so proud of myself. Don’t get me wrong, I am now officially starving. The boarders were out. Harry was there wearing a brown cord jacket and jeans. It sounds frumpy and 70s but on him it looked brilliant. We were just talking about stuff and school and A levels. He is basically doing the same courses as me. He still seemed to find me quite funny. I notice this because that’s all I’ve got at the moment till I get my body sorted. If I can make him fall in love with me, then perhaps I have a chance. He bought me a drink – which I was pleased about because I only had 40p for a Coke and it would look tight to nurse one drink all night. Don’t want to get my hopes up but I think that he might like me a bit. I’m not sure how I feel. I don’t think he’s my type but . . . Yes, I am sure how I feel. I just want to do him.

  Thursday 2.2.89

  TO MAKE UP FOR THE last couple of days of no exercise I thought I would try out games today. I don’t know why I bothered. Of course I was picked last for netball by SO-CALLED friends. ‘Sorry, Rae – it’s just that you’re crap.’ I mean, they are right and everything, but it meant I ended up being bloody goalkeeper – the most boring bib in netball. I do more exercise avoiding the PE staff and finding places to hide in the school. At the end the teacher, Miss Sarky-Cow, says, ‘Thanks for turning up, Rachel.’ Last time I bother. Got back to the common room and scrounged a bag of Hula Hoops. Everyone on about men and when is the right time to lose it. Anytime would be fine with me.

  10.43 p.m.

  That last bit isn’t true. It’s got to be someone I care about. Like Harry. Who am I trying to kid? I fancy Harry. Like mad.

  Friday 3.2.89

  F ISH AND CHIPS DAY AND then we went down the market. I watched as Bethany picked up size 10, size 12, size 10. Nothing comes above 14 so there isn’t any point trying. Then you get her bleating, ‘I’m so fat, I’m so fat,’ while grabbing at non-existent bellies and chins. Of course I reassured her. I told her how thin she was. She ended up buying a skintight top with some kind of German symbol on it and a pair of size-10 jeans. Everyone agreed back at school that they would look lovely when she’s down town. And, no, I didn’t do any exercise. It won’t make me thin right now. It won’t help me get a boyfriend right now. I’d rather sink my face into a pizza and tell myself I will start on Monday, and this time I mean it.

  Didn’t go down the pub. No one will notice I’m not there, and Bethany will be like a reed in her size-10 jeans and every bloke will be looking at her arse. Including Harry.

  I have got to look on the bright side. Maybe being this big has helped me. There are no photos of me wearing a ra-ra or a puffball skirt or anything. I couldn’t fit in them anyway, so I don’t wear them. So at least this body has saved me from crap fashions. Except for Deely Boppers and Grolsch bottletops on my Airwear.

  Saturday 4.2.89

  11.37 p.m.

  Probably the worst day of this already crap, crap life in a long, long time.

  Thought we’d go to the new Stamford Leisure Pool. Mum had got me a new swimming cossie from Woolies – white and red stripes. Had a few boys call me fat and stuff when I got in the pool but that happens every day. But then Bethany said, ‘Let’s go on the twisty yellow slide thing.’ Started off fine – but then got stuck midway. Everyone was wetting themselves, and one bloke said, ‘Shouldn’t have got that fat.’ Finally prised myself out to a round of applause, sploshed in the pool and realised that part of my swimsuit was transparent. Came home and went to bed at about six o’clock. Been here ever since. I HATE THIS LIFE AND SWIMMING.

  Sunday 5.2.89

  10.21 a.m.

  STILL CRINGING BUT FEEL BETTER after a good night’s sleep. Still feel like itchy with embarrassment, like there are people who have seen me in a state of . . . well . . . just in a state.

  And I hate the thought that people would have got home and talked about it and today I will be like a joke over the Yorkshire puddings. That just makes me want to sob and sob.

  FAT COW. FAT COW. FAT COW.

  One thing – bar Bethany, at least no one I know was there. Mum knew I was upset – got a full fry-up this morning. Two eggs and sausages.

  Fuck exercise now. I’ll start it when I’m thin.

  8.40 p.m.

  I just wish I could be loved. I just wish someone would lie with me here and make all this shit in my head go away.

  Monday 6.2.89

  10.01 p.m.

  PREDICTABLE. PREDICTABLE. PREDICTABLE. Of course Bethany had told everyone in the lower sixth. But she had told it in a way that I couldn’t be cross with her. Like, ‘Oh, it was terrible what happened to Rae on Saturday.’ But I saw through it, bitch. It was a good story and made her popular for five minutes. Lots of sympathy, but you know it’s like when people want to be shocked and horrified and pretend they really care but all they want is the juicy details. When Bethany got to the bit where the bloke said, ‘Shouldn’t have got so fat,’ everyone went, ‘Oh dear,’ but you could see 99% of them were thinking, ‘Poor fat cow. Thank God that wasn’t me.’

  It would have been the gossip of the day but lucky for me after the pub on Saturday night Florence Hunter apparently let her boyfriend come all over her face in Tesco car park. She was crying in study room 3 because she was convinced a copper had seen her. Everyone asking is it illegal to let a man come over your face in public. Some thicko in the common room said, ‘I don’t remember ever hearing a law about that.’ Me and Mort were pissing ourselves – of course it’s illegal! Otherwise every bloke would be coming over faces in every car park in England.

  Mort saved my life today by letting me copy her essay on Ferdinand and Isabella. I couldn’t do any work last night. Writing some shit about some Spanish bitch from X amount hundreds of years ago would have finished me off.

  Tuesday 7.2.89

  Really late (and there is something really crap on the telly)

  IF YOU ARE THE FAT ONE, if you are the gobby one, you always get ganged up on to do stuff.

  Everyone still pissing themselves today at what you can or can’t do in public. The only book our school has got on sex is Where Do I Come From? in the Junior Reference Library – so everyone was going to me, ‘On your way home, can you nip into Stamford Library and see if they have a law book?’ Don’t get me wrong – I was laughing too, but actually when it came to doing it things were a different matter. I could hardly go up to the biddies who work behind the counter and say, ‘I need to find a book on sex in public.’ In this town that would get back to my mum in an instant. Everything I do in this town gets analysed under the microscope. Anyway, I just mulled round in the reference section for ages – couldn’t find anything except the Yellow Pages for Dorset and thought I might as well look at books that might help me.


  Found What Makes a Woman Sexy (if anyone needs this it’s me) by Julia Grice. Had a woman on the front in a short skirt and stockings – I mean, that’s just obvious that blokes go for that. Even I know that! There was also Becoming Orgasmic. It’s meant to make me love my body. It sticks out a mile, though, because it’s got a bloody great flower on the front, so I sandwiched it between two paperbacks and took them to get stamped. The bloody woman on the counter only showed it to her colleague – ‘Oh, look at this, Jean’ – and they creased themselves like kids. Pathetic. Mind you, looks like even they are getting it.

  When I came out, three completely typical things happened. Firstly the spotty 14-year-olds who think they are hard and who hang around on the library steps started chanting ‘Fat cow’, ‘Jabba’ and ‘Lard arse’. I went left to avoid them, but THEN I saw Harry going into Stamford Stationers. I didn’t want him to see me with a book on orgasms so I walked like the clappers the other way. More ‘Jabba, Jabba, Jabba’ until I got out of view. Stopped at Pacey and Canham’s for an apple – I thought I would be healthy – and what does the woman say there? ‘Oh, you are like your mother, Rach – BIG.’

  This fucking, fucking town.

  I know I don’t carry my weight well. I’m not happy or proud of what I am. People say what they like to me because I always smile and I always have a comeback. The man in the paper shop every time I go in there says, ‘Here’s Stamford’s living Weeble – Weebles wobble but they don’t fall down!’ like he is the funniest bloke in the world.

  I hate what I am. I sit here and cry and burn myself with matches because I hate what I am. This place always needs a victim – it always needs someone to pick on – and today it was me. And I hate it. And I hate me.