by Rae Earl
A dog owner has just informed me that ‘lying down, non-moving people’ – i.e. me – are fair game for his dogs to piddle on. Typical Stamford Tory.
I’m sure if I got off with someone I would feel better. I want to feel like a woman. I hate being so inexperienced with men. It’s appalling. If I could just find one! Just one . . . who could prove to me I’m bloody normal and not a completely overpowering, fat freak.
The pub opens in ten minutes. At the end of the day, a half of Samuel Smith’s cider and a packet of nuts can always make you feel better.
Tuesday 18.7.89
8.40 p.m.
LISTENING TO SOUL II SOUL in my bedroom. The woman who fronts Soul II Soul is quite big and she is a pop star and still pulling so there must be some hope. And that Jazzie B bloke has got a potbelly and I bet women drop at his feet now he is in the Top 10. Mind you, it’s different for blokes. Women are fighting for equality in the workplace, but why don’t they fight where it really matters?
I WANT TO SEE A REALLY UGLY, FUNNY BIRD GOING OUT WITH THE ATTRACTIVE BLOKE OF HER CHOICE, WITH HIM ENDING UP ADORING HER.
Now THAT would be equality!
Wednesday 19.7.89
10.25 p.m.
SOMETHING ODD AND EXCITING HAPPENED tonight. Me and Dobber were walking in Red Lion Square after what was quite a normal Wednesday night in the pub, and this bloke in a car screeched up behind us and said, ‘Do you know where the RAVE is?’ We were like, ‘Err . . . no.’ Then another car turned up and asked us exactly the same question, which is amazing because that surely means that there are illegal raves going on in LINCOLNSHIRE!
We have GOT to find one. I’ve never even seen any real drugs up close. I am very chuffed indeed that I look like the sort of person that would be into rave.
Thursday 20.7.89
Late
TOLD MUM TONIGHT I HAD been asked where a rave was. She went mad – I haven’t even done anything yet! She said, ‘You keep away from those places, Rachel – DRUGS!’ I said, ‘I can’t afford to buy a packet of cigarettes, let alone some drugs.’ She went, ‘SO YOU SMOKE, DO YOU?’ I don’t, by the way, because I could never master inhaling. But she now totally believes that I do. She said, ‘You can get sucked into the lifestyle, and before you know it you will be on heroin.’
I would just like to point out to you that this overreaction comes from me just saying IN PASSING that someone had asked me where a rave was going to be held. I knew she was wound up, so I said to her, ‘Don’t suppose you know where these raves are being held?’ She said, ‘Don’t push it, Rachel,’ and then, ‘You need to get a job, my lady,’ like I am 12. I don’t do anything wrong and I get in trouble. She is the thought police.
Friday 21.7.89
11.44 p.m.
JUST GOT IN FROM THE pub. Mum was practically waiting by the door. She said, ‘Have you been to a rave?’ I said, ‘Of course not! They don’t end until five in the morning usually.’ She said, ‘Let me look into your eyes,’ (I have had one pint of cider) and then just walked off.
What I did find out tonight is that the rave scene in and around Stamford is on, and it’s happening now. I think the first one was about a year ago (when I was going through the breakdown – that’s probably why I had never heard about it), and there have been a few since then. According to people in the know, another one is imminent. Dobber and me have agreed: we HAVE to go. Even if we have to make friends with people we don’t like to get there.
Nothing else happened tonight, except for a weird conversation with Haddock’s girlfriend – who told me that Haddock had mentioned to her that he needs to speak to me. If this is a good or a bad thing, I don’t know. Perhaps my toast made him sick or something? He is out tomorrow night, so we will find out.
Saturday 22.7.89
4.50 p.m.
THE RUMOUR GOING ROUND IS that the raves are being held in a field run by a local farmer. Apparently, it’s a sideline that he does! You don’t know where they are until the night, and then word spreads and you just turn up and dance. We are keeping our ears to the ground and hoping. Getting there may be a problem, but we can cadge a lift or just walk. I won’t do any drugs because knowing my luck I’ll have a massive allergic reaction. I’ll just stick to 20/20 and vodka. Apparently, there is one next Saturday, and I am going.
Going to the Vaults tonight. Hopefully I will find out more. RAVE ON, ’89 – KEEP THIS FREQUENCY CLEAR!!
Sunday 23.7.89
2.15 p.m.
LAST NIGHT WAS PRETTY EVENTFUL. In fact, that is a major understatement. Great night in the Vaults pub garden. Battered Sausage was really pissed. I walked, no . . . basically carried him home. In the chippy he ran off with the money before we could pay. All these yobs were getting really pissed off and they yelled at me, ‘Fucking twat’ and ‘Bloody fat cow’ etc. So I can’t raise my head in Des’s Super Chip for a long time.
But that didn’t matter too much, because . . .
HADDOCK!
OH. MY. GOD.
Just everything changed last night. Firstly he was chasing me round the beer garden of the Vaults with a drink he had bought me, and I thought, ‘Eh up!’ Then for a laugh he kept saying all these crap chat-up lines, like ‘Is your dad a thief? Well, who nicked the stars and put them in your eyes?’ And then he followed me into the girls’ bogs and we had – well – it was like this mass chat. It was unbelievable. We must have been talking for about an hour. I’ve never talked to a man like that before. At one stage, Battered Sausage came up pissed, and Haddock said to him, ‘I want to talk to Rae. I will buy you a drink if you go away’!! And this is the thing – he is not a rugger-bugger twat. He is such an amazing, wonderful person. So sweet.
How could I have got everything so wrong?
He’s a supernatural epic. I’m trying to remember everything he said. He said lots of people thought I was just a loud bitch, but when he got to know me he realised what a lovely person I was – and that’s why he was so gutted when I said what I said . . . And how I wasn’t ugly, just a bit plump. He was telling me all about his life. His family life. Being sent to boarding school. He’s not rich – his dad was in the Forces and they paid. How he felt about his girlfriend, how he felt about himself – he is very down on himself. It was just bizarre, and wonderful.
How could I have got it so wrong? I keep asking myself. What else have I got wrong in my life?
We talked for ages. How can anyone be that good-looking and that nice? He must have a massive bad side somewhere – but I can’t see it. Oh God.
ODE TO HADDOCK
O Haddock
You are gorgeous
And you are gorgeous inside as well.
O folly
I’ve got a crush
Only your girlfriend is marv
She is my friend and she is brill
Sometimes I wish I wasn’t so loud and chubby
Then you’d be my lover, and then my hubby!
I got home last night and I now can’t sleep. Played the Lotus Eaters’ ‘The First Picture of You’ again and again. Playing it now. I think . . . for the first proper time ever . . . I almost don’t want to write it . . . I think I truly love a man. I KNOW I have written it before, but honestly – I have had trouble eating today. I know it sounds pathetic, but he is just so perfect inside and out. When he went to give me a hug goodbye, I felt dizzy.
Can’t stop thinking about him. Read this diary back. Feel like an idiot. I am always saying people don’t get me and just think I am fat and loud, but I have done exactly the same thing to somebody else.
Can’t believe how similar we are, too. He feels bad about himself. So do I. We talked about how difficult it is being in a relationship. I told him I wouldn’t know. He said that I will one day. Then he said, ‘I wonder if an arranged marriage wouldn’t be better?’ I said, ‘I have so often thought that.’ Then he said for a joke, ‘We should have one, Rae. Me and you.’
I laughed and punched him, but . . . oh my God!
R
aves went out the window last night. Don’t care.
Haddock doesn’t like the idea of a rave. He likes dancing, though. I’ve seen him. Oh God.
His girlfriend is lovely.
WHY AM I FAT?
Monday 24.7.89
11.34 p.m.
I ’LL GIVE YOU AN EXAMPLE of how me and my mum compete. I MENTIONED HADDOCK’S NAME tonight, and she said, ‘Oh, I remember him!’ Turns out when Mum was ironing shirts at the boys’ school, Haddock was a boarder. ‘Lovely sweet boy,’ she said, ‘even then!’
So she has helped care for Haddock, and has probably seen him naked and all sorts. She always has to have one up on me.
Tuesday 25.7.89
8.36 p.m.
I’M ON A COMPLETE HIGH because I am in love. It’s tragic.
Asked Mum for some money today for clothes. I need some new ones – can’t be a scruff for ever. She said, ‘Rachel, I’ve got none. Why don’t you ask your father? He hasn’t paid maintenance since 1982. He said he had sent it for six months and claimed he had been putting it in the only postbox in Britain that was never collected from.’ I know this story. I know she is angry, but why does she have to rub it in? I can’t go and ask my dad for clothes money – I only seem to ring him when I want something, it’s embarrassing.
There’s nothing for it. I am going to get a job. It’s drastic, but there’s no other choice. I even tried to get the pay-and-display machine in the car park by the police station to pay up by repeatedly pressing the ‘return change’ button. Nothing happened. That was a sign. Battered Sausage said he might be able to get me a job at the hotel where he is a waiter.
Just want to look a bit nicer, that’s all.
Wednesday 26.7.89
4.55 p.m.
I’VE GOT A JOB AT the hotel washing up. Battered Sausage wangled it for me – £2 an hour.
Had to go there today – Battered Sausage said, ‘Whatever you do, don’t look at the chef who is interviewing you – as his bottom is in two parts.’ I did look – and it’s true! It looks like he has got four buttocks! My duties are to wash up the plates and the pans as they come in and to assist the chefs ‘as they ask’. I was trained on the washing-up machine by an old bloke called Les, who said, ‘Whatever you do, have a system. If you have a system, you will be all right.’ It doesn’t look too complicated, but honestly I wasn’t paying much attention as the four-buttocked chef leant over to get something and I could not stop looking. He must have had an accident or something. It looks like someone must have cut his bum in half with a cheese wire. Perhaps it was a catering-school prank gone horribly wrong!
I start on Sunday. Bloody dreading it. This will be my first proper job, and don’t get me wrong – the money is good, but I’d rather be in the pub.
With Haddock.
Thursday 27.7.89
3.20 p.m.
WENT TO FIG’S LAST NIGHT. Battered Sausage and Fig ended up watching this porn film called Magnificent Obsessions. It was appalling, it really was. It involved washing machines, bananas, really fit women and average blokes with bad beards. They reckoned they were watching it for a laugh; but Battered Sausage went very quiet, and Fig had to go for a walk round the block. So I think it created some kind of reaction.
Saw Haddock’s girlfriend in the pub earlier. According to her, Haddock has bought me a present. With a laugh, she added that she is ‘getting suspicious of you two!’ I wish she had something to be suspicious about. I wish I was a threat. But I’m not – I’m fat, and safe.
Like a human bouncy castle.
Friday 28.7.89
11.25 p.m.
PUB WAS A BIT BORING tonight. Haddock wasn’t out, but his girlfriend was. Weirdly, we are becoming really quite good friends.
I know what you are thinking, Diary. You fancy him, Rae. You love him. You bitch. How can you be friends with her? Well, the fact is, however much I want it nothing will, and can ever, happen. This is one of the best-looking blokes in the boys’ school, and I am just Big With a Big Gob Rae. I am not a threat, and these are just things I think and tell you, Diary.
But given half a chance, I would. I would. I would. I know it’s bad, but I would.
The big rave is on TOMORROW. The bloke who works in the Bakers Oven bakery came up to us – clearly off his tits – and said, ‘Rave. Tomorrow. Meet outside the Lincolnshire Poacher. Get instructions at ten.’ I have to go to at least one rave. Just to give it a chance. I can always come home if I don’t like it.
Listening to S’Express and D-Mob to get in the mood for it. Think I am going to wear just a sweatshirt and jeans with my raspberry Converse All Stars. I don’t know what people wear to raves, really.
Haddock out tomorrow. I can’t see him going to a rave. Unfortunately. He is just not a ‘put your hands in the air’ type.
Saturday 29.7.89
AFTER THE PUB (DON’T CARE about time – daren’t look – alarm is set for 7 a.m. for work)
Dobber and me went down the Vaults at about 7 p.m. There were loads of people out tonight, ready for the rave. They were not wearing sweatshirts. They had vests, whistles, and some of the girls had hotpants. I am not a lesbian but they had figures that were just unbelievable – legs just perfectly smooth, stomachs like ironing boards. I can’t compete.
Haddock came in around 8.30 p.m. I swear to you, my heart just leapt ten foot in the air. He was wearing his old school rugby shirt and a pair of ripped jeans, but he looked so, so horny.
I was acting like I hadn’t seen him, then he came over to me and went down on one knee and said, ‘Rae, will you marry me?’ I said in an affectionate way, ‘Fuck off, you big twat!’ but inside I was nearly sick. He obviously has no idea. I’m hiding it well. He then gave me a joke engagement ring. He did it for a laugh, because we were talking about having an arranged marriage. We had a quick chat, then he said, ‘Are you going to this rave?’ I said yes. And he said, ‘Oh, don’t bother, stay here and have a laugh with me and Battered Sausage.’ I said, ‘I’ve got to go, mate – I’ve promised Dobber.’ I might be reading too much into this, but he looked quite disappointed.
Anyway, we all traipsed up to the Lincolnshire Poacher before ten, and then the bloke from the Baker’s Oven ran up and shouted, ‘The pigs have got wind of the rave. It’s on next Saturday instead. Same time.’ So we all went back to the Vaults – where Haddock, according to Battered Sausage, was in the corner having an in-depth chat with his girlfriend. This means a row. She was crying. He was stroking her shoulder. I couldn’t look.
The ring Haddock gave me has started to rust already, but I don’t care. We can all dream. I am well in love. Shame he isn’t.
I’m dreading work.
ODE TO HADDOCK (PART 2)
O Haddock, O Haddock, Arian Gorge stuff,
The greatest male ever born.
You possess a gorgeous personality,
And your middle name is Horn.
Sunday 30.7.89
10.50 p.m.
WORK WAS A BLOODY, BLOODY nightmare.
Got there about 9 a.m. for a nine-hour shift. I could cope with the breakfast stuff, as there was just loads of eggs. But then Sunday lunch started.
It was horrendous – I saw the same pot about 15 times. People kept having things with bloody gratin. When I eat in posh restaurants, I will never have gratin – because it solders itself to the dish and tortures the washer-upper. At one stage there was a real backlog, and the chefs were shouting for pans, and I was scrubbing and scrubbing but stuff wasn’t coming off. The system I devised obviously wasn’t working. Les, the old washer-upper, had to come from the other kitchen and bail me out. He has now lent me his system and it works a lot better. You are not even allowed a radio. I mean, what sort of place is this?
Got through it by thinking about Haddock. A thousand different scenarios, usually involving me losing five stone and we end up having it off. Unfortunately thinking about Haddock didn’t stop a lecherous middleaged chef grabbing me and saying, ‘I love them when they are cuddl
y.’ Why do middle-aged men like me? And not gorgeous, young, nubile rugby players?
Back there on Tuesday. Dreading it already. This is no way to live.
Monday 31.7.89
10.10 p.m.
SPENT ALL MORNING IN BED aching all over. Mum was gloating: ‘This is what proper work is like, Rach. If you go to university you won’t have to do this crap work for the rest of your life.’ Blah. Blah. Blah.
And that’s not the only thing. At the pub tonight a new torture started. There is a rave song out at the moment called ‘Voodoo Ray’ by somebody called A Guy Called Gerald, and everyone seems to think it’s hilarious to sing this song at me and make death-ray wiggling hands. It’s not even spelt right. Some people are even calling me Voodoo Ray. This is in addition to Raymond, Raemondo, Rayfonce, etc., etc. My name is RAE, thank you. It’s people trying to make me even more masculine than I already am.
Tuesday 1.8.89
11.40 p.m.
WORK IS A PIG, IT really, really is.
Volunteered for a late shift. No money in the world was worth what I just went through.
People at night seem to eat more stuff based on cheese and crumbles. Apple crumbles stick like tar to bowls. Came to fear lasagne dishes – they were just hell. I walked home with greasy hair smelling of kitchen, and who did I walk straight into? Haddock. I looked like a really fat hamster who had fallen down a drain. He was lovely, but it was pity. Went home and thought that if I can just be thin, I will let the house burn down.
They don’t need me now till the 12th. Thank God. I honestly don’t know if £16 a day is worth this hell.
Wednesday 2.8.90
Late
HADDOCK, I ADORE YOU.
It’s so sexual. He just touches me and I get seriously soppy. Tonight he kept hugging, cuddling and kissing me in a jokey way. We had such a laugh. I’m so in love. I KNOW if I was thin and pretty he’d fancy me – it’s so annoying. He’s so horny, CARING and funny. I WISH I was going out with him. Oh, I envy his girlfriend so much – I wish I was her. I really do. I reckon he is the only man on earth I could do all the business with. But a) he doesn’t fancy me, and b) he has got his girlfriend anyway.
