My Fat, Mad Teenage Diary

by Rae Earl

  For the record – I love my mum, I’m sorry that we don’t get on at the moment, and my biggest regret is that I didn’t do it with Haddock. Pathetic but true.

  Monday 6.11.89

  5.50 p.m.

  MATHS GCSE RETAKE WENT OK. Filled in all the gaps. But you don’t need GCSE maths to be a TV presenter, so frankly I don’t care.

  Talked to Mort about what Haddock meant. Mort said, ‘Are you sure Haddock doesn’t like you?’ I said, ‘Well, of course he likes me – I am like a sister to him, remember? I can’t help but wonder, though – if I was slim, would things be different?’ Mort said, ‘Well, why don’t you lose a little bit of weight and see? My sister lost half a stone when she ate nothing but fruit for three days.’

  I start tomorrow.

  Tuesday 7.11.89

  7.05 p.m.

  HAD A BREAKFAST OF TWO apples. At lunchtime had a massive bunch of grapes – but felt like crap when I realised they were South African and I had inadvertently helped to keep Nelson Mandela in prison for another couple of years. Tonight I have had three more apples, and I think about 70 tangerines. You could make a scale model of Big Ben from the amount of peel that is on my bedroom floor.

  10.22 p.m.

  No you couldn’t. Tangerine peel can’t be made into anything, I have just discovered. Not even into a miniature dog. It crumbles.

  STARVING.

  Wednesday 8.11.89

  5.26 p.m.

  WOKE UP THIS MORNING RAVENOUS. Managed to avoid the smell of roast dinners at school by going for a walk in Burghley Park. Almost can’t write. I feel so weak, and I can’t stop going to the loo. In double politics today I had to go at least five times. The teacher was getting well narked off.

  8.55 p.m.

  Just rang Mort and apparently peaches in syrup are not counted. Buggering hell. I was looking forward to them.

  So hungry I could cry.

  Thursday 9.11.89

  Lasted all through school, but on the way home went past Pacey and Canham’s fruit shop and spotted an apple dipped in chocolate and covered in hundreds and thousands. I had to eat it. I don’t know if I am diabetic or something, but if I hadn’t eaten it I don’t think I would have made it to the Lincolnshire Poacher 200 yards away. Their special today was fisherman’s pie. I saw it through the side door. I smelt it all the way home.

  I don’t think I have lost much weight. My skin might look better, though.

  Friday 10.11.89

  THE BERLIN WALL IS COMING DOWN! THE BERLIN WALL IS DOWN! CAN YOU BELIEVE IT?! THERE ARE PEOPLE ON TOP OF THE BERLIN WALL HAMMERING IT DOWN WITH AXES – CHEERING AND SHOUTING – IT’S BRILLIANT!

  ALL THOSE YEARS BRICKING MYSELF ABOUT NUCLEAR WAR – ABOUT FOUR-MINUTE WARNINGS – ABOUT MELTING – ABOUT BEING AWAY FROM MY MUM WHEN IT STARTS – HAVE GONE! God . . . all that stress for nothing.

  Kids like my nephew have no idea what a better world they will be growing up in. I bet Sting is pissed off, as his song ‘Russians’ will seem increasingly stupid. However, Elton John can go and see Nikita now!

  But I’ve just realised something depressing: even bloody Communism has collapsed and I still haven’t lost my bloody virginity.

  11.25 p.m.

  I went on the world’s crappiest history trip today. Four old boring speakers going on about bollocks. We have only just got back, so I have missed a night down the pub – a night down the pub with Haddock. Nobody mentioned that I had lost any weight. Mort said she thought I had lost some round my face, but she was the only one and she knew I was dieting.

  Rather than take notes, I wrote a poem. Says it all.

  MY KNIGHT

  My knight hides under his armour

  So nobody else will know

  How his soul shines

  When corroded by time

  His inner light will show.

  And I will say I told you about him

  But it will be too late by then,

  I would have missed my chance

  And he will be

  Spearing someone else with his noble lance.

  It’s getting a bit pervy. Never mind, it’s saying all the things I cannot say for fear of mass turbulence.

  Saturday 11.11.89

  LATE (AND WILL TOMORROW EVER happen?) Haddock at the pub acted like nothing had happened last Saturday. I don’t think he even remembers saying anything. When I came in he yelled, ‘Funky Chick, get me a pint – I’ll give you the money,’ then for the rest of the night he mooned over his girlfriend – who I shouldn’t hate but do at the moment with every bone in my body.

  Ryan Bates – the RAF party groper – rubbed my hair tonight when he came in. He says I remind him of his mum’s Labrador, Penny. When I asked why, he said, ‘You just make me laugh when you take no shit.’

  What the fuck is he on?

  Monday 13.11.89

  4.58 p.m.

  EVERYONE TALKING ABOUT THE BERLIN Wall at school. This changes everything. Our GCSE history already means nothing – we did a whole year on the Cold War and the Warsaw Pact and NATO. It’s like a completely new world. And it makes you think. Even things that have been the same for years and years can change. Maybe I can change. I can bring my own wall down, and let people in.

  9.45 p.m.

  Bloody hell – just read that last bit back, and I sound like a right pretentious cow. Sorry!

  Tuesday 14.11.89

  10.10 p.m.

  PARENTS’ EVENING WENT OK. GOOD reports for English, politics, theatre arts. Semi-good for Euro history and British history – same old teacher ‘has run out of inspiration’ crap . . .’ ‘She is capable but she is not working.’ They didn’t add, ‘Rachel thinks it’s a total waste of time to be learning this utter shit as it bears no relevance to today at all, and she is right.’

  I’ve got a head full of dates, when all I want is a date WITH A BLOKE. And why can’t they tell me this? Why does a man grab hold of you, look like he is going to burst into tears, say something really profound, and then the next weekend conveniently forget that he ever had the conversation with you in the first place? Why isn’t there an A level in men? The handling of men, talking to men, being with men. It should be bloody compulsory – and there should be a practical exam!!!

  Wednesday 15.11.89

  9.56 p.m.

  NOW I DON’T WANT TO sound desperate, but honestly, Diary, I am. I need to at least experience love now. The boys’ school is full of looks-fascists. The person I think is my absolute soul mate, the potential love of my life, is with somebody else and can’t see through the fat anyway. So I have to look elsewhere and get some practice in. Preferably with someone who doesn’t know me.

  That’s why I am considering Dateline. It’s in the middle of my mum’s TV Guide. Basically you fill in a questionnaire and they match you up with someone like you in your area. They even seem to cater for people who are really old and not that good-looking, according to the photos in the advert. The couple ‘Rose and Harold’ look ancient, and Mary from ‘Mary and Tony’ looks like a poodle! The advert says, ‘You too can find love,’ and best of all it doesn’t ask you about your looks – and it is FREE! It has to be worth a try. I know this is normally for middle-aged divorced people with droopy bits, but right now I have no choice.

  Thursday 16.11.89

  9.20 p.m.

  MUM HAS JUST BEEN UP. I forgot to cut the Dateline questionnaire coupon out of her TV Guide. She obviously had read it. She sat on my bed (always a bad sign) and said, ‘Can we have a chat about Dateline, please, Rachel?’

  I was dying with embarrassment.

  MUM: Why are you applying to Dateline?

  ME: I’m not – just got bored and filled it in for a laugh.

  MUM: You’ve ticked that you like classical music and pop music.

  ME: Well, I thought – hypothetically – that richer men would like classical music, and that – hypothetically – they would be good to meet.

  MUM: What about saying you are adventurous and shy?

 
; ME: I wasn’t really paying attention.

  MUM: It costs a bit this, you know. It says just three first-class stamps, but there is a membership fee.

  ME: Oh, is there? I’m not really bothered . . .

  MUM: OK, then. It’s funny – for a lot of these people who use this service, if they just looked around a bit harder somebody would be there for them.

  ME: Yeah . . . well, like I say . . . I just did it during The Krypton Factor in an idle moment.

  Then she went. I think she fell for it. I put her off the scent.

  Well, that’s that, then. I haven’t got money for stamps let alone a membership fee. Back to the man drawing-board.

  Friday 17.11.89

  SO, MUM – IF THERE IS somebody waiting for me if I look hard enough, tell me this.

  Why did I go down the pub tonight and feel so totally alone? Why did I have to watch Haddock rubbing his girlfriend’s back, kissing her like she was the best thing on earth? Even Fig came back from polytechnic tonight, so Dobber was in a couple too. Why did I have to watch the entire pub dance to the bloody ‘Lambada’ on the jukebox – with knees sticking in groins – while I stood at the bar making jokes about everyone, and acting like I am the best thing on earth, when inside I am dying? Why do I laugh when they chant ‘Walrus’ at me and say, ‘Mind that belly’? Why do I have something smart to say?

  And why at the end of the evening does Haddock look at me like he wants to say something but can’t – or am I so desperate that I am reading too much into everything?

  Please – I hope other girls feel this way sometimes.

  Saturday 18.11.89

  5.10 p.m.

  RANG UP MORT THIS AFTERNOON and she told me she had to go into Grantham to buy the latest UB40 song for her dad. She was surprised because it was about a transsexual. I said, ‘Pardon?’ She said, ‘It’s about a bloke called Miguel who is now a beautiful woman.’ I said, ‘It’s not called “Oh, Miguel” – it’s called “Homely Girl”!’ Mort was pissing herself. She genuinely thought it was about a Hispanic cross-dresser. It’s always great to come in useful where the subject of pop is concerned!

  7.40 p.m.

  Mum has just announced that Adnan is coming back for Christmas. Oh great.

  Battered Sausage was meant to pick me up in Clarence the Cortina ten minutes ago. He is late.

  Sunday 19.11.89

  11.45 a.m.

  Dear Battered Sausage,

  So you have got yourself another floozy, eh? That’s why you didn’t even turn up last night. Now, I wonder what SHE means to you? Dispensable like me? I wish I could believe your chants of ‘I love you, you’re a classic’, but sometimes I cannot accept them – in fact most of the time.

  One day . . . one day I intend to lose five stone and do my pretty little self up, and see just how you treat me. Because let’s be honest: the only reason you haven’t fallen into my arms is because I am a fat, ugly cow.

  I think you do like me. But do you know what love is? It’s missing someone, wanting to see them happy, and being happy because they are happy. Have you EVER had that?! I doubt it, you selfish, stupid git.

  I’m used to being the centre of attention and you even take that from me! Perhaps this new woman can give you everything you need but I bloody, bloody doubt it. You will flit from one bird to another and still be crap to all of your mates. I don’t want you, though.

  And you will never see this letter – I just need to write it all down. One day either I will realise how daft I’ve been or you will realise how daft you have been.

  Either way – it will be too bloody late.

  Monday 20.11.89

  7.36 p.m.

  GOT BOLLOCKED AT SCHOOL TODAY for not doing enough work and not ‘fulfilling my potential’. History teacher dragged me outside the class to ask me why I hadn’t done my essay on the Duke of Norfolk. I told him that I had had a very heavy period. This is the only excuse guaranteed to shut up every teacher – male or female – but particularly male.

  He said it must be done by Wednesday. Then the theatre arts teacher and the politics teacher said exactly the same thing. So you’ll excuse me if I just give the headlines this week, Diary, as I am in the shit big time.

  Just watching Coronation Street. Ken Barlow is still having an affair with Wendy Crozier. Deirdre is being shafted – like we all are, in the end.

  Tuesday 21.11.89

  8.45 p.m.

  I’M TRYING TO DO A bloody essay on the Senate and the House of Representatives, and all I can hear is Mum wetting herself at Birds of a Feather. I wouldn’t mind, but it’s not even that funny.

  Selfishness. Total, total selfishness.

  Listening to ‘Pacific’ by 808 State, which is like this mad bit of house dance music. It is brilliant – I must try listening to it in a field at dusk as I think it would do my head in – in a brilliant way.

  Wednesday 22.11.89

  10.15 p.m.

  ACCORDING TO DOBBER, HADDOCK AND girlfriend have broken up/are breaking up, and it is hell for them both. I have sympathy for both of them – but for her mainly. Fancy losing that. You would be gutted. No . . . this does not mean I can get right in there. Even though that’s the first thing I thought of too.

  Thursday 23.11.89

  11.01 p.m.

  HADDOCK AND GIRLFRIEND ARE BACK together. I’m still on my own. Funny that.

  All essays nearly done, and all teachers nearly off my back.

  By the way – New Kids on the Block all want shooting.

  Friday 24.11.89

  6.02 p.m.

  MUM HAS JUST COME HOME in a bit of a state. Nan has been put in hospital. Apparently she had a funny do in her bathroom and then keeled over. Mum was there, so she is a bit freaked out by it. I know Nan is not her mother or anything, but she might as well be. I made Mum a cup of tea, and asked, ‘Do you think she might die?’

  I just can’t imagine life without Nan. It just seems ludicrous, and almost funny. I said to Mum, ‘I think she has got a lot more years left in her yet!’ Mum didn’t say anything. Oh God . . . please let her live until I have actually done something with my life. She saw me as a loon last year – and I need to make up for it all. And I was a loon. At one stage I thought she was trying to poison me because her cups of tea tasted funny. It was because she watered down milk to make it last longer – it’s what they used to do in the war apparently.

  How could I have thought she was trying to hurt me? See – I was off it.

  I’ve rung Dobber to tell her I won’t be down the pub later. She was really sweet.

  Saturday 25.11.89

  7.30 p.m.

  JUST BEEN TO SEE NAN. Bloody Stamford Hospital – hateful place. I went in to see her. She is a bit confused. She said as I left, ‘Put the catch down, Rach,’ like she always does when I leave her flat. I said, ‘Nan, you’re in hospital,’ and she goes, ‘Oh yes, I know.’ Left her feeling really upset – so sad. Walked home. Got rid of that horrid antiseptic smell. Hope she won’t have to go into a home – she will hate that. Sitting around smelling of wee, singing ‘We’ll Meet Again’. Oh, just awful places. In fact any institution that has a room called ‘the sluice’ is always bloody awful.

  Not going out. Flat, shit, and done in by it all.

  Sunday 26.11.89

  8.35 p.m.

  JUST BEEN TO SEE DOBBER at her house. We were listening to the charts. (Shockingly she thinks New Kids on the Block are ‘OK . . . just a bit of fun.’ Can I still be friends with this girl?!) According to her, last night Haddock was asking where I was. When Dobber told him about my nan she says he looked really worried and said, ‘Shit – is she OK?’ She thinks Haddock sees me as a really close friend, and ‘You know – he hasn’t got that many.’ I know he hasn’t. I should be grateful, but inside I think a hug from him would make everything better.

  But do you know what I said when she told me that? ‘He’s a big gay girl twat, isn’t he?’

  WHY do I say that? Inside I am melting, but my gob sp
outs shit.

  Listening to Viva Hate. Wish someone would sing ‘Angel, Angel, Down We Go Together’ to me, and mean it.

  Monday 27.11.89

  11.40 p.m.

  CAUGHT MYSELF SINGING ‘THE RIGHT Stuff’ by New Kids on the Block today. Yes, I feel disgusted with myself. Hormones are really playing up. All I want is SOMEONE – ANYONE – to give me a hug and tell me everything will be OK. I want to stop feeling this way by the end of the DECADE!! The 80s are gone – hello, 90s. I’ll be 28 by the year 2000, if we get that far. Apparently Nostradamus says not – we are all dying in 1999. Not now the Berlin Wall is down, mate. Now even I think I could make it to 28 – even though that is bloody ancient.

  Dobber came round tonight. She was wearing quite a short skirt. Mum gave her a lecture on how in the 60s no one had worn shorter skirts than her, and now due to ‘excessive drafts and winds’ her legs were a ‘varicose-vein paradise’. Then she looked at me and said, ‘Thread veins are hereditary, Rachel.’ Dobber had only come round to borrow my notes on Twelfth Night – she didn’t need a lecture. And why did I need to know that one of my few OK features – my legs – will eventually look like a map of the Underground??

  Tuesday 28.11.89

  7.45 p.m.

  GOT HOME TONIGHT FROM A shit day at school (I got two Cs and a D for all the essays I did last week) to Mum – who decided to give me a talk on what medical ailments I should expect in later life:

  terrible diabetes – from her Canadian dad she only met a few times. Not helped by his tendency to lose his temper and brood in his cellar drinking Japanese rice wine for two days. (‘You are like him,’ she said. How would you know, Mum? You have only met him three times.)

  bad legs – from my great-granddad. ‘Ohh . . . your great-granddad’s legs were a mess!’ (Yes, but bless him – he was gassed by the Germans in World War I. That couldn’t have helped.)