My Madder Fatter Diary (23 page)

When I look at photos of Haddock – YES he is fit BUT he is also a hidden philosopher type. He’s so damn wonderful. I can’t imagine ever topping him. I mean I KNOW I’ve only really been in Stamford. OK so I could probably top him but do I want to? Funny as hell, handsome as fuck, smart, great thighs – what more to want?!

BUT his girlfriend is lovely and I’m Queen of Twats Party United.

AND I am not expecting him to fix me anymore. Or save me. He doesn’t even know he’s meant to. Haddock – see you on the other side of my transformation into the REAL not NUTS me and the THIN me.

Friday 11.1.91

6.34 p.m.

It’s been a weird sort of day. I went to Peterborough with Shellboss. Ended up in Wimpy where a bloke was dressed up like a massive Mr Wimpy beefeater. He fell over and because his costume was so big he started rolling down the street. He was saved by two young lads.

I laughed but then felt instantly bad as he was basically a fat person with no control and a stupid hat.

Shellboss was like ‘WHY do you need to lose weight before you get a boyfriend. You’re fucking fine the way you are. If you want to lose weight, lose it, but don’t put your life on hold till you do.’ I explained to her that I felt like Mr Wimpy and the unsexiest thing on earth. Who wants to sleep with me – a beefeater? I need to do SOMETHING to make ME feel better about ME.

I need to lose weight.

I need to be rid of the shit.

THEN I need him. Do I want anyone else? No at the moment.

Sometimes I think the shrinks might be right. I got fat because I didn’t want to be touched after what happened but, like I told them, I’ve always been chubby. I’ve always felt not like a proper girl. Psychiatrists always look for the easy answer. I remember my mum trying to put me in a sundress with like an elasticated top and being horrified. I wanted to wear my brown Charlie’s Angels jumpsuit. We had a big argument outside Nan’s house.

You see now I’m going over stuff from years ago. Do I feel better? No. Am I in denial? GOD KNOWS. Raking up shit gets you nowhere.

Talking of raking up shit – Iron Maiden are back with some total crap called ‘Bring Your Daughter to the Slaughter’. Piss off – there are scarier things in my mum’s wardrobe that she won’t throw out just in case she can fit in them again – like that crocheted brown and white cardigan.

Sunday 13.1.91

12.09 a.m.

There was a hilarious rumble in the bar tonight. Men fighting like girls. I got between them both and told them to stop it. Tegs said I was brilliant. I knew they wouldn’t hit me. I just had that sense that they wouldn’t punch a woman. It’s that instinct I have.

8.01 a.m.

I had the strangest dream last night. It was a deep winter and Haddock’s girlfriend told me that Haddock was down the pub and because she had something to do I could have dinner with him. Anyway, people kept interrupting me asking me questions that made no sense and I kept thinking HADDOCK IS THERE WAITING FOR ME AND YOU ARE ASKING ME ABOUT FUCKING ZEBRAS??!! I was supposed to be there at 11 p.m. and now it’s 11.10 p.m. and then MY MUM WOKE ME UP! So I don’t know what the dream meant or where it went!

9.22 p.m.

Back in reality (sort of!) Haddock apparently wants to go to the Gulf. Haddock told his girlfriend that she was the only one who could stop him. I did point out the fact he’s not in the Army and unless he goes as a mercenary he can’t go. This is why I’m single. I tell men they are talking shit. And he is talking shit. What can he do in the Gulf?! He isn’t properly trained and his camouflage gear is not army issue – it’s probably from Burton.

I would also tell Haddock that him dying would make life totally bollocks.

Monday 14.1.91

11.38 p.m.

Mum has found out that I stopped a fight in a bar. WHO TOLD HER THAT?! She went – oh mad doesn’t cover it. Apparently I ‘could have got myself killed’ – MUM IT’S STAMFORD NOT NEW YORK! Then she said ‘What happened at the Riverside in Stamford a few years ago – someone was murdered!’ Yes that’s true BUT I told her I have instincts about people and things that are rarely wrong and I knew it would be OK. Then she said ‘Rachel – you also think you can control the war in Kuwait by checking the iron and tapping the door.’ Well PERHAPS I CAN!

No – I don’t need the doctor. I need to stop talking and start doing.

11.28 p.m.

Why do some men (and it is ALWAYS men) have such power to fuck things up?

There’s obviously going to be a war in the Gulf now. And a big one. At least I’m at home. Perhaps that’s why I was meant to leave Essex. To be with Mum when it all goes really bad. It’s that voice again.

Tuesday 15.1.91

7.23 p.m.

A TRAGIC ANTI-WAR POEM

BEAUTY SECRETS OF WORLD LEADERS EXPOSED

Long ago it was decreed

A mark of evil would be conceived.

It was, its creators toyed

A sign to show who you should avoid.

But ages past and years are lost

And what the mark meant was soon forgot,

And go to the present where two red marks on the head

Are simply unfortunate and let no more be said.

Out of his mother’s womb he crept

They thought he’d be the one to cancel Third World debt,

He’d study Shakespeare’s
Julius Caesar
,

And end up marrying Mother Teresa.

‘We have such high hopes’ his parents said,

‘Shame about the mark that is on his head –

But as life goes on and pressure mounts

It’s only what’s inside that really counts.’

All over the world in every different tongue

The same song of parental love was being sung,

As special babies were born in every part foreign,

With one important factor always in common,

The baldness of their small heads showing a dark

Unexplainable, ugly, mysterious mark.

As seasons passed, the once head bare

Was replaced with a crop of thick native hair.

So no longer could the strange stains be seen

Though they were still there where they’d always been

And thus parents forgot all about them focussing more

On the progression of the child and what was in store.

The boys though young knew their direction,

It was to be the fun and games of election.

And though miles apart, beyond geographical confines

They talked of war in their small minds.

Boastful challenges, heroic story

Clever rhetoric, patriotic glory

And they vowed to each other that one future day

In reality the game they would play.

Time moves on, heads still stained,

Campaigns elections, power obtained

And now the boys could really enjoy,

The beauty of their new found toy.

And oh what beauty! Luxury, power and greed,

Satisfaction, happiness, wealth guaranteed.

And no-one has noticed yet, despite much wrath,

That they are leading everyone up the garden path.

But wait! What’s this? A middle-aged feature,

The arrival of mid 40s alopecia,

For every man is touched in his life sometime,

With the onset of a receding hairline.

For most this is unfortunate, but a natural event,

That in life leaves not much of a dent,

But to our boys if their head is uncovered

It means their secret would be discovered.

The red marks that graced them and gave them such power

Would show up, the situation would turn sour.

The public enlightenment would soon ensure

They’d end washed up on life’s political floor.

Squabbling broke out on what should be the plan

To save the knowledge reaching the common man,

‘Only one way’ said one of the marked

‘A complete cover up operation’ he barked

‘So no-one will ever find out the truth

That we are extremely long in the tooth.’

But all that cover stuff spoke another

How do we share it about amongst each brother?

It will take gallons of paint everyday

To cover the marks that litter our way.

Fighting broke out amongst the gang

And thus the first stirs of war were sang

Over allocation of the strange formation

That is the common women’s foundation.

World leaders always keen to keep

Their secrets have gotten in too deep

And now must fight, let us not mock,

For control of the world cosmetic stock.

The red mark they only show at their secret convention,

World leaders with supposed peace intention,

Remove their wigs and display their head

And plan out the route for their mass dead.

Gorbachev is changing the Russian economy as the system stops

You buying foundation in state-owned shops.

And though the recession in the U.S. is foregone,

George Bush is more concerned with the woman from Avon.

And Saddam Hussein only invaded to seek

The woman who’d disappeared with his crate of Clinique.

So don’t fret any wars over religion or oil,

Or some hostile nation treading on another’s soil,

Don’t believe the crap about issues you’re fed,

Every war is over the stuff that covers marks on your head.

Thing is they want to send us all to high heaven,

So they can get their hands on all of Boots’ Number seven.

Is that epically brilliant or epically bollocks? It’s anti-make-up and anti-war. I’ve done A level English and I’ve never read anything like that before.

Thursday 17.1.91

12.03 a.m.

The Black Box Megamix
just got cut halfway through on the radio to announce that a BLOODY WAR HAS STARTED. This is how it all started, in
Threads
, with people invading Iraq.

War – what are we fighting for? A couple of leaders. No-one cares about Kuwait. Fuck it. Fuck petrol. I don’t want to die for FOUR STAR AT THE PUMPS! REJECT CONVENTION! It’s got us nowhere – we should all just start again.

Threads started in Iran. It’s all the Middle East. The Russians are friendly now. I’ve got to calm down.

Mum’s not buying loads of tins. Well no more than normal. I don’t want to survive a nuclear apocalypse and have to eat Morrisons’ tinned salmon forever.

I’m shitting it really.

The house is always full of tins that no-one ever eats.

Friday 18.1.91

11.30 p.m.

It’s war. I’m frightened to death of nuclear war. I feel a lot depends on me. I know that’s mental. I feel by all the stuff I do I’m showing God I don’t want to blow up the world. When I write it I KNOW it’s fucked – so why can’t I stop?

No. I can’t stop it – going for a walk. David Dimbleby can sod off with his predictions.

Saturday 19.1.91

1.23 a.m.

Mum just rushed down the stairs and said ‘Where the hell have you been?’

We’ve been here before so I very calmly said ‘Mum – I felt a bit unwell so I went for a little walk. Sorry to worry you but I needed it.’

She went off swearing but that was it.

Small steps. Small steps. Small steps.

Sunday 20.1.91

12.08 a.m.

I had the most brilliant night down the pub with Ronni and Tegs. We have started to compile a Crappers International tape (based on Erasure’s
Crackers International
EP) – it’s basically a compilation of stuff that is so bollocks it’s brilliant. CHEESE CENTRAL.

‘Shaddap You Face’ – Joe Dolce

‘I’ve Never Been to Me’ – Charlene

‘Don’t Mess with my Toot Toot’ – Denise LaSalle

‘The Chicken Song’ – Spitting Image

‘I Am A Cider Drinker’ – The Wurzels

‘Kinky Boots’ – Patrick Macnee/Honor Blackman

‘Car 67’ – Driver 67 (though I love this song a bit totally)