My Fat, Mad Teenage Diary

by Rae Earl

  9.45 p.m.

  Got home tonight. At first Mum said nothing. Adnan was watching Rocky III on video. I went upstairs, and then I heard her coming. She was stomping so I knew I was in the shit – big time. She then just went on and on:

  MUM: Why did you let the budgies out?

  ME: Because it’s not fair and they were miserable as sin. They have wings – they should fly.

  MUM: They are bred for captivity. They won’t last the night. Other birds will kill them. They are brightly coloured, cats will have them too. You have murdered them!!

  ME: Better to live one day as a tiger than a lifetime as a sheep. (I was proud of this – it’s an old Chinese proverb I read once.)

  MUM: Stop talking claptrap, Rachel. It’s better to be in a cage than ripped to shreds. You are paying for some new budgies – and if you do it again I am binning everything you care about. Books, Smurfs, everything.

  Now that is just shit. I don’t play with my Smurfs any more, but it took years to build up that collection, and I will probably be able to retire from selling it in a few years’ time. So I suggested she think about what she is doing.

  Then she slammed the door. I daren’t ask her what is for tea.

  All shit. But at least the birds are free.

  Friday 15.9.89

  7.35 p.m.

  MUM FOUND HALF OF WHAT we think was Mandela dead in the garden this morning. She just said, ‘Probably a sparrow hawk had him. He would have been frightened to death. And probably eaten alive.’

  Perhaps it might have been the wrong thing to do, but at least Mandela had a few hours of freedom – unlike his namesake. I bet the others are thriving . . . And if they are not . . . ? Well, at least they are not stuck here like me.

  Nobody is going down the pub tonight. Everyone is writing essays, and Haddock is on the night shift. The thought of him in an overall stacking shelves . . . even that is a lovely thought.

  Listening to Sydney Youngblood ‘If Only I Could’. I tried to make this world a better place – like he suggests – and I got shafted for it.

  Saturday 16.9.89

  6.45 p.m.-ish

  S EEMS LIKE THE WEEKEND ACTIVITIES have dropped off a bit. Unless I am being left out of things. Could be complete paranoia but it is possible. Perhaps everyone has realised that I’m just rotten underneath all of this, and secretly I plot to nick people’s boyfriends once I am thin.

  I’ve run out of batteries in my personal stereo and can’t afford to buy any more. I put the old ones on the fire to try to breathe some life into them, but no joy. Obviously can’t ask Mum for any money, after the budgie affair. She is getting some new budgies next week to keep her company after Adnan has gone. More prisoners, but this time I cannot form an emotional attachment to them. There will be no names, and I am going to refuse to even feed them.

  Sunday 17.9.89

  9.14 p.m.

  WENT TO SEE NAN TODAY and took her some dinner. I know I’m too old really to enjoy belting down Drift Road hill on my bike, but secretly I still love it. Nan admitted she doesn’t like caged budgies either, and no one had them in the war so why should people want them now? I don’t think she is keen on Mum being with Adnan, but she won’t say anything as she is kind of dependent on Mum to look after her. We watched the Antiques Roadshow on video (well, Nan just listened because she is blind), and we played ‘guess how much it’s worth’. Nan thrashed me. Even with no eyes.

  Came back. No one said hello to me. So just sat here in my bedroom listening to some old Motown albums, dreaming of eating one of my favourite recipes – white bread filled with Walkers prawn cocktail crisps, dipped in milk.

  Beauty is apparently only skin deep according to the Temptations. Try moving from Detroit to Lincolnshire, mate. Things are different here. I shouldn’t slag the music – it’s the only thing getting me through at the moment.

  Monday 18.9.89

  7.36 p.m.

  ADNAN IS FLYING BACK TOMORROW after four weeks of being here. Mum is packing his case as we speak. I know he will be back, so I don’t know why she is getting so emotional about it. And if I come home from school tomorrow and bloody ‘Without You’ by Nilsson is anywhere near the hi-fi, I will personally smash it to pieces. Mum is cooking him a special tajine tonight, and the smell of cooking olives is honestly making me want to boff big time.

  In Coronation Street, Gail Tilsley has got a toy boy. That’s the last thing I need to see, thank you. I know they are all the rage – my mum has got one!!

  Tuesday 19.9.89

  9.05 p.m.

  A DNAN HAS GONE. I DIDN’T say goodbye to him before I went to school. I know that was bad of me, because actually he is an all right bloke. It’s just that he just represents . . . crap things. Like Mum acting like a love-struck teenager. I do not want to walk into the front room to see my mum kissing – it’s foul and pathetic when you are a woman of nearly 50. Of course now he is gone, she is sitting on the sofa looking mournful. OH, JUST GROW UP, WOMAN!!

  And, no – I am not jealous of her before you say anything – and I know she is thinking the same thing. Yes, I would love a boyfriend. But unlike her, I am going to be choosy.

  It’s Haddock or nothing.

  Wednesday 20.9.89

  11.23 p.m.

  WHAT A BLOODY DREADFUL DAY. Will I ever get on with my mum?

  It was her birthday today. She was 47 – big deal – it’s hardly being 21, is it? I am totally skint – so I made her a card from a bit of A4. I spent about ten minutes on it and used felt tips – it was pretty impressive. She practically burst into bloody tears. Stomped around for ages hardly saying anything, then started whistling – which is always an indication something very bad is up – and then EXPLODED. Usual pre-rehearsed speech involving usual elements: me being selfish, me being a ‘taker’, me not doing enough round the house, etc., etc., etc. How materialistic is that? Sorry I couldn’t afford a gold watch, love – but I’m an A-level student. The expectations put on me are totally unrealistic. Get over it, woman! I’m the kid – ACT LIKE THE PARENT.

  MUM

  Mum, you bore me,

  But now you can’t bear me.

  Well . . .

  The feeling is mutual –

  And I’m bored now.

  Thursday 21.9.89

  Late

  IHAVE TAKEN DOWN MY BRITISH Number Ones Chart wall freeze 1960–87. I love it but it just reminds me of the child psychiatrists. I made it when they suggested that I needed something to focus on when I was going loony. It took me ages to do – on every page of a massive line of computer paper I wrote down all the number ones and stuck in pictures of the artists. For the pictures of 80s artists I just used my old Smash Hits, for the 70s I used old Jackie annuals, and for the 60s I cut up some of Mum’s old album covers. She would normally have gone ballistic – but I was so mad at the time no one dared to say anything to me.

  Funny to think that this time last year I was off it. Funny to think I am still off it, but keeping it quiet. Funny that one of the psychiatric nurses thought it was important to tell me that Hermann Goering would have lived in Burghley House in Stamford if the Nazis had invaded Britain. Why do I remember that? Actually, I remember everything about that place. Wish I didn’t. And that will now be on my medical records for ever. Everyone will always know I am a nutter. Behavioural problems. I’m just a bloody label . . .

  A label written on a white board in a single room without a radio, in a place where everyone else was at least 20 years older than me. Can’t think about it. It’s anger that goes nowhere.

  Friday 22.9.89

  7.01 p.m.

  BETTY SLATER WAS IN TEARS at school today. She has done something so unbelievably stupid. She had read in one of Daisy’s Mills and Boon books of a character that sent flowers to herself just to make her husband jealous. Well, she thinks her boyfriend has been treating her like shit lately, so she did the same thing. She wrote the message: ‘Betty, thank you for Wednesday night, M x’ and had them sent to scho
ol. Of course it got back to her boyfriend – and in a jealous freak-out, he rang the florist to find out who sent them. Unfortunately the florist – who must be a man or a total bitch – told him. So the boyfriend has told everyone that she is a weirdo, and dumped her.

  Betty is worried that she will never shag again. I said, ‘Come on – look on the bright side. He is a total cock – and at least from it all you have a lovely bunch of flowers. It will all be forgotten in two weeks’ time.’ She said thanks and tried to hug me, but I was having none of that. Then she said, ‘I used my dad’s credit card to order the flowers. I will be in the shit.’ I couldn’t help her with that problem; but how come I can give advice and cheer up other people, but I can’t do that with my own life? I don’t understand it.

  Saturday 23.9.89

  11.45 p.m.

  JUST GOT BACK FROM THE pub. Bethany turned up with DIETER!! Her mum is even allowing Dieter to stay in the same BED as Bethany. Hippy or what?! Dieter is tall and blond, like Henry from Neighbours, with a semi-crap curly perm. I don’t fancy him.

  He was hanging off Bethany like a bogey hanging from a nose. Everywhere she went, he went. ‘He is possessive,’ she says. Just like that boyfriend Vroom she had ages ago. She must go for jealous types who can’t bear the thought of being without her. Bitch.

  She sat with me and Battered Sausage for a time, and Dieter was laughing at everything Battered Sausage said and I was getting well fucked off. Then HADDOCK came in!! He is always a bit off with people he doesn’t know, so he just sat there looking fantastically pissed off with everything . . . with one eyebrow ten foot above the eye . . . twiddling his fingers round his pint. Everything he does my brain records, I can’t help it. In a lull in the conversation he said, ‘FUNKY CHICK(!) – come to the bar with me and help me get the drinks.’ So I did, and we had a very interesting conversation:

  HAD: You don’t seem to be very good mates with Bethany any more.

  ME: No, we don’t really get on.

  HAD: I can’t stand her. She’s a prick tease, and she always slagged you off behind your back, which I was never happy with.

  (I NEARLY DIED WHEN HE SAID THAT! NOT THE FACT THAT SHE SLAGGED ME OFF, BUT THAT HE WAS PISSED OFF AT HER FOR SLAGGING ME OFF.)

  ME: Yeah.

  HAD: And she loves herself.

  ME: She does a bit.

  HAD: And she’s not as good at shagging as she thinks she is. Apparently her love bites draw so much blood she’s like a fucking vampire.

  ME: Pardon?

  HAD: She gave Battered Sausage one in the Vaults beer garden. It was so painful he nearly cried – he thought he might have to go to hospital. It looked like he had done ten rounds with Mike Tyson.

  Battered Sausage went on about it for weeks. But don’t tell anyone I told you.

  Then he winked at me and we went back to the table, where he kept grinning at me. When no one was watching he was gnashing his teeth trying to make me laugh. Then his girlfriend came in and he went and . . .

  Oh God, I love him so much it feels like the cramp you get in the arch of your foot. It is painful.

  I was left with Dieter, Bethany and Battered Sausage. At the end of the night when I went to go, Dieter went to give me a continental two-kiss goodbye. Bethany said, ‘Don’t do that, Dieter, she doesn’t like being kissed – she’s a bit of a frigid one,’ then quickly said, ‘Only joking.’ No she wasn’t. Battered Sausage found this hilarious – until I said, ‘What’s that on your neck? Looks like an injury. Bethany, can you see it? Do you know what it is?’ There was nothing there but they both shut up. Dieter looked confused. I may be fat and frigid, but I can come up with nasty shit if I need to.

  When I left, Haddock winked. Haddock makes me unfrigid with an eye.

  Sunday 24.9.89

  6.25 p.m.

  MUM JUST CAME IN AND said, ‘Where has your Number One wall freeze gone? I liked that.’ I said, ‘I have taken it down because it reminds me of having a nervous breakdown.’ Mum got angry and said, ‘You have got to stop living in the past, move on from your problems, and stop harping on about your nervous breakdown!!’ I said, ‘THAT IS WHAT I AM TRYING TO DO.’

  You can’t win. I am not allowed to mention the psychiatric ward, and we all know why. She feels guilty that I went in there. Not my problem to deal with.

  I have to write an essay on Caliban in The Tempest. He is the ugly, misunderstood, monster character. I should get a fucking A grade for this.

  Monday 25.9.89

  7.32 p.m.

  WELL, I HAD TO PUT the A-level work first yesterday, but now it’s time for a rather massive . . .

  EMOTIONAL UPDATE!

  Right, here we go:

  Haddock

  We have so much in common. I just feel there is a genuine connection there. But my ‘fat cloak’ means I am in the Fourth Division of women: he is a Liverpool – I am relegated. He loves his girlfriend – I love him and I am very fond of her, but they are always so wrapped up in each other and always going through a rough patch. I have been instructed not to talk to her about him. But when I think about it, no one comes close to the way I feel about him. He is just different to all other men I know. Oh, this is hopeless. I can’t stop thinking about him. But there is no point thinking about him.

  Battered Sausage

  Continues to mystify me as ever. I mean, at the moment he is being pretty gorgeous to me – such a love. But how long will it last? And he has a real tendency to turn into a right wanker when he gets drunk. He hit someone the other day and they threatened to get the coppers on him. He got out of it with a smooth apology; but how can someone who is capable of being so caring, funny and generally extremely lovable be such an utterly despicable bastard in the same breath? I mean – which one is he really?

  I am too fat. I need to lose weight. I have potential, but it is wrapped under mounds and mounds of lard. Loads of people say I have nice hair and a nice face, but what use is that when I look like the bloody Marshmallow Man out of Ghostbusters?

  Really looking forward to the party on Saturday. My dress is sorted. Hanging up there, it looks huge – ginormous black velvet bodice and silk purple skirt. And then I think, ‘It’s my body that fits in that – that’s my shape.’ That fits to every roll of fat I have, and I hate me – I hate me.

  But even seeing that does not stop me coming home and eating a Walnut Whip and a packet of Twiglets.

  Tuesday 26.9.89

  IT’S ALL COME OUT TODAY. I go down the phone box to ring Mort, and Mum is already in there. I ask her what she is doing, and she tells me she is making enquiries. Turns out Mum IS going to try to get Adnan into the country permanently. Thanks a bunch. In my A-level year, she is moving in a Moroccan bodybuilder who she has known for all of five minutes. She just leaps from one husband to the next, like . . . like . . . WHY CAN’T SHE JUST BE SINGLE FOR FIVE MINUTES??!!

  What was I meant to do when she told me? Be delighted?! She says stuff like, ‘It’s my time now – you are nearly 18.’ BUT IT’S ME WHO SHOULD BE DOING STUFF LIKE THIS! I should be having exotic affairs!

  The good news is that this process will take ages, even if they do get married. The immigration service is apparently really strict. I hope they are. I’m just a bit worried because that South African runner Zola Budd got a British passport just like that! If I remember rightly, technically Adnan is an athlete. I hope they don’t fast-track him or something.

  Wednesday 27.9.89

  Late (too fucked off to even read the clock)

  MUM HAS SPENT MOST OF the late afternoon and evening going down the phone box or filling in forms trying to get Adnan into the country. All day at school everybody was talking about relationship troubles. I am so sick of being alone.

  Everywhere I am a gooseberry.

  BIG, FAT, DIRTY GOOSEBERRY

  Big, fat, dirty gooseberry

  Juicy, good for a laugh, makes the set

  While the strawberries go out and play

  It spends the night alon
e

  Don’t pity the gooseberry

  Understand it

  Hold it, nurse it, hurt it not

  Don’t leave it alone on the plate

  Even though it’s a big, fat, dirty gooseberry

  Like the strawberries

  It needs the cream of your love too.

  Thursday 28.9.89

  6.05 p.m.

  JUST WHEN YOU THOUGHT THINGS couldn’t get any worse in my life, there is a rumour going round that the school nurse is coming next week. And you know what that means: nit check, teeth check, how are your periods? and then those bloody clinical scales will be out. The ones where she moves the little thingy up and down to try to balance it. I am telling you now – I am finding out when she is coming in and then I am faking illness big time.

  I can’t face being given that pie chart again. The one that has ‘eat lots of these’ and ‘eat less of these’. The ‘eat less of these’ section is full of the only things I have got to look forward to at the moment.

  10.15 p.m.

  Just watched Blackadder Goes Forth. Can I just say Ben Elton is my bloody hero for ever. If it wasn’t for him I would still think voting Tory was OK. And he is piss funny.

  Friday 29.9.89

  11.10 p.m.

  FOR SOME REASON I HAVE developed the most humongous crush on Rowan Atkinson (but only when he is wearing a WWI uniform). I don’t know where the hell that has come from!