My Madder Fatter Diary (12 page)

1)
Get A levels and get away!

Not yet

2)
Have a bloody good time.

Sometimes

3)
Keep cool and calm.

Hardly ever

4)
Maintain spiritual stability
.

That actually means not go mad. Trying.

5)
Try to have some remnants of a decent relationship with a real man that exists as a breathing thing.

No.

6)
Become a bit of a sex bitch.

No.

Well it’s not an overriding success is it? Still here goes this one –

ACTION PLAN

1) Whatever A level results I get utilise them in a positive way.

2) Make peace with my head.

3) Body overhaul.

4) Mind overhaul.

Saturday 7.7.90

11.47 p.m.

I didn’t go out tonight because my head is . . . it’s not well. So I watched
War and Remembrance
. This was not a good decision. It was the most horrible thing I have ever seen. Basically they were at Auschwitz and they showed the Nazis gassing people. It was . . . kids and everything. They didn’t give a shit. And they killed John Gielgud’s character – which was brilliant in a way because they just didn’t care. It was evil. Horrific. People screaming to get out the gas chamber.

Now I can’t get it out of my head. I know it happened. I know about it but . . . oh God it was terrible. Now in my head – I’m convinced if I don’t do stuff it’ll happen again. And I’ve said the Lord’s Prayer about 15 times and hit myself for the thoughts that all this has made me think but I can still see kids screaming and I can’t fix it. I can’t make it go away. I can’t take my mind off it with music because that seems like being disrespectful and the bad stuff WILL happen. And what if a government like that gets in power in Britain one day and takes the people I love away? This is when I just want to cut into myself just for the relief. The distraction. The relief. I just want to be in control of everything but I can’t even be in control of my head. It’s a mess and it’s getting messier. Wish I had exams again or something. Might start learning the
British Book of Hit Singles
again.

Sunday 8.7.90

2.15 a.m.

Just woke Mum up because I needed to talk about Auschwitz. She was cross at first because it reminded her of the time I woke her up at 4 in the morning to tell her Indira Gandhi was dead. Her reaction then was ‘Indira Gandhi will still be dead when I bloody get up.’ I told her I couldn’t get it out of my head. She said ‘Look Rachel – it was the worst thing. A bloody terrible thing but you just have to make sure, in your life, you stand up to any nonsense and if you see people getting picked on you say something. And you do. You use your big mouth to good effect most of the time. You can’t change what happened but you can change things now. Now can I go back to sleep as I’m on for 9 hours on fresh produce tomorrow.’

My mum gets it sometimes. I’m listening to All About Eve and trying to sleep.

Monday 9.7.90

3.45 a.m.

Can’t sleep. Horrible feeling. It’s like a huge numbness. It’s partly thinking about the Holocaust and partly thinking about whether I can cope with going to Cornwall. YES! I know how pathetic and appalling that sounds but if I can’t tell you I can’t tell anyone.

Tuesday 10.7.90

10.36 p.m.

I can see hypochondria, anxiety and me just being mad buggering up this holiday. I’ve just been down the meadows for a piss up with Dobber and Battered Sausage. My heart was just thumping like crazy all the time. It could have been the drink but I’ve even got chest pains. That could be my bra though. It’s tight and the boning is coming out. I can’t go to casualty with crap underwear but I don’t want to die either.

I’m losing it again. I can feel it going.

Wednesday 11.7.90

9.21 a.m.

I love
Smash Hits
. I can’t imagine life without it but this week Craig McLachlan is on the cover. It actually says ‘You’re the goat from
Neighbours
’! Am I even getting too old for
Smash Hits
? I already have
Q
every month. Perhaps I should give it up? The truth is I don’t need a free Candy Flip sticker anymore and Check 1-2 are . . . WHERE’S THE STONE ROSES?!

Thursday 12.7.90

10.21 p.m.

The fact is I told people at school that I wanted to be Kate Adie and report from war zones as a career. Or do a Michael Buerk and start a massive protest against famine and make Live Aid happen by going to Ethiopia. I’m having a panic attack about going to Cornwall. Unless the BBC need a foreign correspondent in Rutland I’m fucked.

Two days to go. Just calm down Rae. You can cope with this. It’s still Britain!

Friday 13.7.90

6.26 p.m.

I was a traitor today. I went to the café where the owner was horrible to Mum. Mum had gone in with a teacher from the boys’ school, who she ironed shirts for. The owner said ‘I suppose you are going to tell us you’re just good friends.’ Mum shouted across the shop ‘No – we’re fantastic lovers!’ This wasn’t true but it shut the stupid nosey cow up! Anyway it was years ago but Mum sort of banned me from there but today I just fancied a jacket potato and they were the only ones selling them. It serves me right – it was horrible and had green bits. Now my guts are even more on fire and tomorrow I’ve got a 7-hour drive to Cornwall.

Well I’m just sat in the back but I’m in charge of music. Which is hard because Fraggle likes a bit of Bros. Not in any vehicle I’m in love!

I’m so worried about going away. Normal people would be excited about going on holiday. I’m sat here necking Gaviscon and doing deep breathing in a bag. What am I? A mental virgin who is very unlikely to ever have sex or become a foreign correspondent.

Saturday 14.7.90

7.12 a.m.

Just waiting for Dobber, Fraggle and Ronni to come and pick me up. I’ve made the most amazing compilation tape in history. Nervous though. Scared. It’s miles away and if I lose it there then I’m not near Mum or Mort or most of my record collection. I can’t take that all with me. I’d need a trailer. I need extra space for all my tablets as it is!

10.13 p.m.

We’re here. It’s a lovely flat. We’ve filled the fridge. For some reason Ronni brought one sausage with her. We’ve nicknamed it ‘Gazza’s Sausage’ and we are NEVER eating it! It’s the pork product holiday mascot!

Sunday 15.7.90

2.35 a.m.

The sea is bloody loud. It’s not relaxing. It just reminds me of drowning.

Tummy hurts. Head hurts. And I can’t do what I need to do to keep spiritual stability in case people notice or hear.

Heart thumping. I’m not dying though. Can’t be.

6.29 a.m.

Just looked in the tourist brochure thing in the flat. The nearest emergency department is 59 miles away. That’s further than Stamford to Peterborough.

Listening to Soup Dragons’ ‘I’m Free’. I’m not. Wherever I go there’s THIS HEAD. God is out to get me.

Then Glenn Medeiros comes on the radio. I’m blaming him if I go off it again.

7.12 p.m.

A day on the beach. Joy.

Spent a fiver on an inflatable tyre for the sea only for this massive tanned Australian lifeguard to come and tell me that ‘inflatables are banned as they pose a safety risk.’ Yes Bruce, I have seen the public information films – this is St Ives not Bondi! On the beach all the others looked amazing in bikinis. I had a Daffy Duck T-shirt covering everything and men’s shorts from John Justin. I dragged the inflatable out of the water. I got stares. The wrong ones but I’m used to that. One hilarious boy said ‘Do you really need another spare tyre?’. I said ‘Bet your mouth isn’t as big as your cock.’ I meant to say ‘I bet your cock isn’t as big as your mouth.’ My mum taught me that one. I got it wrong.

Now we are going out for dinner. Daffy Duck covers lots of things. He can hide more chips.

Monday 16.7.90

8.12 p.m.

I’m pretending to smile but . . . head is gone. I had it sorted last year but now SHE is coming back. We went to a nightclub last night. Boys danced round the others. You get the message. You act the tit. My heart was bursting out of my chest. No interest from Cornish men. So at least I know my lack of sex appeal is worldwide and can’t be blamed on Lincolnshire. Tonga is good for fat people apparently but as I can’t pass Clay Cross services without getting palpitations, somewhere in the Pacific is probably a bit far to go to get laid.

Or is it? I’m mental everywhere.

Gazza’s Sausage is going off.

I keep checking my pulse. I’m getting on everyone’s nerves. Everyone’s.

Think I do need a doctor just to be on the safe side. If I die here it will ruin their holiday even more.

Dobber looks like a lobster she is that red. She never bothers with sun tan lotion. She’s heard if you cover yourself in Flora margarine you get a better tan. Men still fancy her though. Even with third degree burns. You can see it.

Why can men see through peeling skin but not through fat?

Tuesday 17.7.90

2.39 p.m.

Fraggle just rang the doctor for me. I feel really, really bad.

6.34 p.m.

Doctor came out. I’ve got hypertension. He said is there a history of it in the family? Probably. There’s a history of everything except malaria and dengue fever. He said my weight wouldn’t be helping and to see my GP when I got home.

Told everyone I’m going home tomorrow. To be honest they didn’t protest too much. I think it’s a relief. Who wants a nutter? I don’t want this nutter. Nutters ruin meals, mess up nightclubs and gooseberry your pulling action.

I hope I’ve got enough money to get me home. I may have overstretched things financially by buying an inflatable tyre that I couldn’t even bloody use.

Wednesday 18.7.90

11.34 p.m.

Nightmare day – I am in so much shit.

Basically got to St Erth station and I only had enough money to get me to either London or Birmingham. So I opted for London. It took ages to get to Paddington then I had to lie to the Underground staff that someone had stolen my purse and I had run out of money. For some reason I put on an Irish accent because I thought they’d feel more sorry for me. It worked. I even said ‘May the Virgin Mary bless you.’ I have no idea why. Got to King’s Cross. Told the bloke there I had no money for a ticket home. He rang my brother, who went round to my mother and she went down to Stamford station and paid for the ticket. When I finally got home she was LIVID. ‘What’s the bloody matter?!’ and ‘There’s nothing bloody wrong with you’ and ‘You’ve got to get over all this.’ Adnan had to stop her having a go at me. I told her I was in pain and she threw a distalgesic at me.

Adnan – a bodybuilder who can barely speak English – has more understanding of me than my own mother. Perhaps Muslims get anxiety and OCD more than SO-CALLED CHRISTIANS!

No. That’s not fair. Mrs Kirby the welfare assistant at school is religious and she totally got my panic attacks. She was cross at everyone else and blamed everything on period pains but she was lovely to me.

I think I would test the patience of Jesus with my head. And I just pretended to a member of British Rail that I was Irish and Catholic. I’m going to hell. I’m in hell.

Thursday 19.7.90

9.09 p.m.

No-one out. Watching TV and avoiding Mum.

I’m pleased for Elton John that he’s got his first solo number one but it’s a right pile of drippy poo. ‘The Bitch is Back’ CRAPS on it. So does ‘Rocket Man’, ‘Goodbye Yellow Brick Road’, ‘I’m Still Standing’ – EVERYTHING ELTON JOHN has EVER done is better than ‘Sacrifice’. Same thing with Stevie Wonder. ‘Master Blaster’ was number two. ‘I JUST CALLED TO SAY I VOMITED’ was bloody NUMBER ONE!!

The world has no fairness. Mandela is out. The Guildford Four are out but the same old injustice reigns.

And people are cross at me because I can’t travel? I’m not a lying, corrupt copper who puts people in prison because they are Irish or someone who buys shit singles to give to boyfriends who probably think they would rather have a gift-wrapped turd than a drippy pile of bollocks.

Wonder what happened to Gazza’s Sausage.

Friday 20.7.90

9.12 p.m.

I’m now nervous about seeing my friends tomorrow. They were . . . I can’t blame them. I don’t understand it. How can others? If I say God is after me and will kill me if I don’t close the door 36 times . . . If someone said that to me I’d be scared. The psychiatric ward. The woman with the itchy skirt going off her head. I wanted to run from that. I’ve kept it all together with school and socialising but if that goes then what? And the tablets do nothing. They just tingle my head and make me dozy. They don’t stop the thoughts, they don’t stop being molested, they don’t stop God coming after me. They stop nothing.