My Fat, Mad Teenage Diary

by Rae Earl

  Friday 30.6.89

  9.32 p.m.

  IHAD THE MOST WEIRD NIGHT last night. But I have done something shit. I have got someone so wrong – said something so bad. It was because I was drunk, but I made someone cry last night. I made a bloke cry. I have never done that before. And I can’t stop thinking about it. I have cried loads of times when writing in this diary because of what people have said to me. Last night I did just the same thing to someone else. I was a bitch, and I have made such a mistake and I am a cow.

  Anyway, Battered Sausage, Haddock, Fig, Luke and a load of others came round mine until about 2.30 a.m. All the lads decked themselves up in camouflage gear, and over the gas hob they burnt wooden pegs that they spread over their faces. It’s apparently what they do in the army.

  There was a lot of piss-taking because they spotted the big television in the lounge that has a 50p meter on the back of it that pays for the rental. That was it, then. They went and found that just about everything in our house has a meter on it. Because of this, my nickname is now ‘Lovely Rita Meter Maid’. (Apparently, it’s a Beatles song.) Then they left to wheel the pink Mini into the main school hall. They managed to do it, but the caretaker was on an all-night practical-joke watch, so he wheeled it out again.

  Then a load of them came back and stayed the night. I was having a real laugh with all of them and they were all being dead sweet. But then . . . Oh, I don’t even want to write it.

  Haddock asked for a drink and called me Rita, and I just thought, ‘You arrogant public-schoolboy prick – I am going to teach you a lesson.’ Ages ago Battered Sausage told me something about Haddock and swore me to secrecy. It was something private. Anyway, I said it to Haddock. And the moment I said it, I knew I had gone too far.

  Oh God, it was awful. It was awful. He just went pale, and said, ‘What?’ But he knew what I had said. I said, ‘Look, Haddock . . .’ and went to grab him, but he just legged it out the front door. I caught up with him, and said, ‘Haddock, I am so, so sorry – I’m just pissed.’ But he just said, ‘It’s OK, it’s OK,’ but he was filling up. Fucking hell, it was horrid. It was like I was talking to another person. And then he ran off. I couldn’t catch up with him – he’s a rugby player.

  Everyone was asking where Haddock had gone, and I said, ‘Oh, he has just gone for a walk.’ Everyone was so pissed they believed it.

  I was sitting there worried out of my head for a few hours, then the front door went at about five in the morning. It was Haddock. His eyes were red raw. He just looked at me like I was . . . It was awful. And he just said, ‘Get Battered Sausage.’ So I did, they went off for about an hour, and then Battered Sausage came back and said, ‘Nice one, Rae. He’s well upset.’ I then burst into tears, and Battered Sausage didn’t know what to do and just said, ‘Don’t worry, Razza – he’ll get over it.’ Then he told me Haddock isn’t rich at all, that he doesn’t think much of himself really, and that when he comes across as arrogant he is actually just being shy. When I went to argue, Battered Sausage just said, ‘Think about it.’

  I’ve read back a bit on this, Diary, and perhaps loads of times I was being a cow to him when he was just trying to be nice.

  Yes, I feel like shit. A total shit.

  Battered Sausage eventually left about 8 a.m. Haddock. How wrong can you be about someone? I thought he was just another rugger-bugger meathead, but actually he has depth. I feel so guilty because I gutted that bloke, and it was a deliberate attack. But honestly – I have never read someone so wrong in a long, long time. He isn’t the cock I thought he was.

  I just assumed because he is so good-looking he would be a cock.

  I am a twat.

  All that happened at school for end of term was someone had drawn a big knob in the lawn with bleach.

  Haddock. Just so sorry.

  Oh God . . . I may have to face him tomorrow night.

  Saturday 1.7.89

  11.44 p.m.

  JUST BEEN DOWN PUB. SPOTTED Haddock in the Vaults. I went up to apologise again and he just turned away. Battered Sausage says just to ignore him and it might be OK. But it is making things so difficult. He won’t sit at a table with me, and so all of us have to sit in separate groups. I bought him a drink but he wouldn’t even accept that. He looks at me like I have done something so terrible. And the honest truth is I have. And all those times people have called me names. This is how it feels to be the one that caused all the pain, and I feel sick with it. It’s like I’m the bully. Ridiculous in this case, because he is Mr Gorgeous Untouchable and I’m just the fat gob. It’s like a caterpillar having a go at a lion. Or something else big.

  I can’t think about it.

  Right . . . Time for a massive end-of-school-year emotional update:

  The thing about all these parties is, there’s only so many times you can listen to bloody Jennifer Rush’s ‘The Power of Love’ and watch endless couples snog. In fact, seemingly every other person on the earth snogs, and you are left propped up by the bar, or hiding in the toilets, or stood by the DJ swaying your hands jokingly in the air, singing along badly and laughing – but inside feeling crushed up like a can – WISHING, WISHING, WISHING that your big fat body would shrink – like those Shrinkie Dinkie things you used to get free with Weetabix.

  In conclusion: I’m losing weight. I’m doing it for myself. Time to shock – but inside stay the same. Quite frankly, I want to be done senseless by a man. This is all a bit strong, but that is what diaries are for – strong, passionate, secret emotions. No one is ever going to see this.

  So here we are at the end of the lower sixth. It’s been a brilliant, eventful year – here’s to the rest of ’89!

  Just found this!! Me and Bethany were passing this note to each other in English AGES ago. Mrs Matthews was going on about Geoffrey Chaucer, and I was looking pissed off because even in The Canterbury Tales they were getting it. Bethany asked me what was up.

  Here is the note:

  What’s up?

  When will I stop hurting? When will I find someone? Is it because I’m a fat cow? I seem to be permanently in a rut – when is it going to stop?

  If you are worried about the way you look, or that fat affects the way men like you, then only you can change that. Pigging out is not helping you and you know that. Where has the old Rae gone? Is she lost for ever?

  Don’t YOU start. What do you mean? Please explain! Are you saying that I’m getting obsessed? PLEASE be honest!

  Maybe not obsessed . . . but you used to be so cheerful and now you seem sad all the time.

  It’s . . . I don’t think you can comprehend . . . Here at school all the girls like and love me for what I am, yet men all hate me for the same thing. I can only attribute it to the way I look.

  Only you can change that, if you feel bad about it. Men always judge by first appearances. And most like ‘ladylike’ women. But do you want to change into something you don’t want to be? The choice is yours.

  I don’t want to change, but I’d like some love. Perhaps I should run away and become a hermit.

  If you want love, then perhaps you need to change – or have to change. Don’t run away and become a hermit. Perhaps you come on a bit strong, then they get scared and run.

  But I’m not a flirt!

  I don’t mean flirting – but throwing yourself at everybody in a friendly sense. Men don’t like it.

  But that’s me – I like to be at the centre of everything. I can’t help that, that’s me! Most men don’t mind. They just don’t fancy me. Do men dislike me? You are with them more . . .

  Men don’t hate you – just think you are a bit OTT.

  Have you heard them say it, then?

  YES!!!

  Who??!!

  Lots of them!

  What do they say? Be honest!

  That you are a bit loud . . . overpowering . . . too pushy . . . Like shouting about in the pub . . . throwing pints on the floor!

  That was an accident. There was a jam in the doorw
ay going out to the garden in the Vaults. I’m a wide load – I got stuck.

  Sunday 2.7.89

  6.20 p.m.

  PISSED. BORED. SICK OF MY head. And if this is what diaries are for – passionate, secret emotions – then you might as well have it all because it’s too much in my head. No one is ever going to see this. Fuck it. Let’s talk about what is really going on.

  I want to tell you how my mind works. I think part of me is completely and utterly mad. Every day it takes me about 20 minutes to leave the house. I have to check every socket, then the gas fire, and then I get stuck. I can see that it says, ‘OFF’, but I look at it and I look again and again. And then when I have finished checking that, I check the gas hob again and again. I count all the knobs: one – two – three – four – five – six. I can see they all say, ‘OFF’, but I go back and back. I think if I don’t do all this the house will burn down, or Mum will die in a plane crash when she comes back from Morocco, or I will become possessed or something terrible like that.

  But it’s not just that. A few weeks ago I had a terrible feeling that bloody shit Sinitta song ‘Right Back Where We Started From’ might make it to number one. So my brain said, ‘Touch the windowsill 25 times and it won’t.’ I did. And it didn’t.

  And there’s other stuff from the past . . . I know I sound off it, but by doing all these things I think in 1986 after the Americans bombed Tripoli, I helped to turn back the Russian warships that were sailing towards Libya. And after that bloody nuclear war programme Threads was shown on television, I think I helped to stop nuclear war. I am crying as I write this because I know I can’t do all these things but my brain says I can do all these things – and I have to try because if I don’t terrible stuff will happen. I can’t risk it.

  But I know it’s not consistent, because I have been doing all this checking to get a man for days and THAT still hasn’t happened. (Mind you, I haven’t turned into a lesbian either, so it must be working a bit.)

  When I read that back it sounds totally mad. I was locked up for less than that. I can’t tell anyone this or I will be back in ward 4 of Edith Cavell Hospital in Peterborough. I will be painting pictures of things that are meant to mean something, with Mum visiting me and bringing me a mini trifle and a copy of Smash Hits like everything is normal.

  Nobody must ever see this.

  It’s worse when there’s nothing to think about. Summer holidays are totally crap. I reckon I have seen every episode of Champion the Wonder Horse at least 15 sodding times. Especially that one when Ricky discovers ice-cream – BULLSHIT.

  Monday 3.7.89

  7.55 p.m.

  SORRY ABOUT YESTERDAY. I WAS feeling a bit down. In fact, I was feeling flat as a pancake.

  Mum would say I was overtired, so all I have done all day is lie on the sofa and read and watch telly. Read some of Mum’s women’s magazines. Lots of ‘I did it!’ articles about women who have eaten nothing for six months and lost 12 stone. ‘My husband loves the new me’ etc., etc., etc.!! Didn’t he like the old you? Recipes for cheap, affordable stews. Problem pages about affairs and people who have shit husbands. Articles on Andrew Lloyd Webber. In TV Guide there was a competition to win a date with Stefan Dennis – aka Paul Robinson from Neighbours. Why would anybody want to win that?

  Nobody has been round. I have eaten three bags of crisps. Everywhere you look there are women moaning about men. On telly, Deirdre has just finished moaning about Ken in Coronation Street. There’s this song out called ‘Superwoman’ where this woman is moaning that she does her husband a fry-up early in the morning but he never thanks her. It makes me wonder if they are worth it. But they are. They are. Anything is better than being left here without anyone – or anything – but a bloody multi-pack.

  Tuesday 4.7.89

  4.01 p.m.

  RANG MORT. SHE IS GOING to Egypt tomorrow. I know she is my best mate but sometimes I am so jealous of her family. Her parents are like mates to her. They talk to her like they really actually like her. She gets her own space, but she gets her meals cooked for her too. It’s like a perfect world.

  While I was in the phone box I saw the twats from Green Lane shops that used to chant ‘Jabba’ at me. I papped it because I haven’t seen them in months, and I knew they would have been saving it up. They have probably forgotten I am (NOT) related to Reggie Kray. Luckily they didn’t spot me – they were too busy taking the piss out of Ralph, the old bloke who lives in the flats, and his tartan shopping trolley. I feel guilty saying this but I’m glad he was there to deflect the attention. He can hold his own. He always shouts at people, ‘I killed three Germans with my bare hands.’ At least that’s what we think he’s saying. It’s hard to tell – he is originally from Cornwall.

  11.20 p.m.

  Went down the pub tonight and this will just show you how things have changed. I sat with Dobber and Battered Sausage. Battered Sausage told me that Bethany had come round and said goodbye to him, as she is going INTERRAILING. France, Spain, Germany and Italy with her new friends. God, I felt jealous. I get a panic attack going to Leicester, and that is less than 30 minutes away.

  I would love to go round Europe, though, where no one knows me, where I am not Diane’s daughter, where I am not Rae Rent-a-Clown Rent-a-Gob.

  Have to wait another year. I should lose some weight before I go. The amount of things I will do when I am thin it’s unbelievable. It will all be different.

  Wednesday 5.7.89

  8.45 p.m.

  MUM IS BACK TOMORROW SO I just had a massive clean-up. It’s a good job that I did because I have just found the following:

  three burnt pegs from down the back of the sofa. I thought I had put them all in a saucepan of water. I got so paranoid I even put the matches they used in the sink. This could have started a fire, I know. But more to the point – they could have started the biggest row EVER if Mum had found them.

  a balaclava.

  a Stamford School blazer IN MUM’S BED!

  (Battered Sausage!!)

  four branches used for camouflage from the bush in the back garden. These were stuffed behind the washing on the dining-room table.

  a copy of The Eight-Legged Groove Machine by The Wonder Stuff (brilliant, and I haven’t got it so I am nicking it).

  I have spent about three hours hoovering because our hoover is a pile of crap and won’t pick anything up. The house now looks tidier than when Mum went away, which will make her suspicious, but sometimes you can’t win. I am damned if I do and damned if I don’t.

  Goodbye, Freedom. You’ve been fun.

  Thursday 6.7.89

  9.40 p.m.

  UNBELIEVABLE TURN OF EVENTS!

  You won’t believe this. Actually, you will. Because in my life, shit like this happens. According to Buddhists, the shit you get in this life is because you have been evil in a past life. Well, I must have been Genghis Khan, Stalin, Hitler and every other nutter in history. Because LISTEN to this!

  Mum is back from Morocco, where she was meant to be seeing her second husband. She came back carrying pictures of a bloke called Adnan who she says is ‘just a friend’. He is in his twenties. He is the champion bodybuilder of Morocco. He is Mr North Africa. He is a champion kick-boxer. And MUM – AGED 46 – HAS PROCLAIMED THAT HE MAY BE COMING OVER TO STAY.

  Apparently, the marriage to number two is over, as – wait for this – HE IS A HOMOSEXUAL!

  You heard right! Mum’s second husband is gay!

  Now, don’t get me wrong, the signs were there – silver trousers, Sister Sledge albums, the 12-inch of ‘I Feel Love’ by Donna Summer – but this is still a shock. That is one thing. This Moroccan person coming to stay is quite another. Why can’t that be IT now? Why can’t she just say, ‘My best days have gone, I will settle down now’? Why must I be forced to share my home with a BODYBUILDER? She says he is very nice. She already has a photo album full of pictures of him. Why can’t I have a mother who just wears sodding aprons and bakes cakes?

  If this ne
w bloke turns out to be her new ‘boyfriend’, I am living down the Meadows, I am telling you now.

  And then she has the cheek to ask, ‘How are you sorting yourself out a summer job?’

  HELLO!!!!!!??? And

  I didn’t even get a present. No perfume from duty-free, or novelty camel. Not a flaming thing! For the record, a copy of the Royal Air Maroc in-flight magazine DOES NOT COUNT.

  Friday 7.7.89

  11.10 p.m.

  I’VE WORKED OUT WHY I have been so down. It’s a mixture of:

  1) The end of a brilliant era and ‘not fitting in’. Last school year from January to July was unbelievably and phenomenally brilliant. It was gorgeous. I mean, I bathed in it. Now all the decent blokes are going, and we are left with total twongos from the lower sixth who think jokes thrown at me across the room like ‘Mind that chair, it might split with all that weight’ are hilarious. Well, they are not. They hurt like hell. But I smile through it. I feel like Glenn Close in Dangerous Liaisons when she goes, ‘I learnt to smile at a dinner table when I was sticking a fork in the back of my hand.’ That’s how I feel.

  2) Mum pressuring me to get a job. I have nine GCSEs, woman! I did not learn how to say, ‘They are very expensive – have you got a cheaper pair of curtains?’ in French just to grade peas at Christian Salvesen or chop sodding lettuces at Bourne Salads.