Paskia lifts her head up. She such a big girl, with her large shoulders and chunky thighs, but she’s pretty…in her own way. She has so many freckles on her face that they’re almost touching each other. It’s a shame that they don’t—then she’d look permanently spray-tanned. I’ve thought about sneaking into her room one night while she’s sleeping and joining them all up. Perhaps if she was a nice colour it would distract from the big metal braces running across the front of her teeth.
‘Pask, I need you to show me how to work the computer thing.’
She crawls out of bed, very unwillingly, and shuffles towards the computer. Her Luton Town pyjamas are too tight. She’s obviously putting on weight again. I’m desperately hoping that she won’t develop issues with food like the ones I had when I was younger.
Pask presses a series of buttons and the whole screen lights up. ‘Whoooaahhh…’I say, jumping back from it. ‘What’s it doing?’
‘It’s just coming on, Mum. Relax.’
Finally, the machine is running and Pask ‘opens Word’—whatever that means.
‘There. Just type,’ she says. ‘Next time, use Dad’s laptop instead of waking me up.’
‘I’m not using your father as a lapdog,’ I retort. She’s getting so cheeky.
Right. Here we go.
My advice for Helen, by Tracie Martin.
I can’t work out how to do a little heart above the ‘i’ in Tracie, so I’ll have to write that on by hand afterwards.
Rules for a Wag forced to endure events that are not really very Wag-friendly. Specificalorie—the opera and the horse racing.
Opera can be a trial for any human being to endure, let alone a Wag who will find herself feeling particularly uncomfortable at the sight of very overweight women screaming at each other in Italian. Once the bunch of fat tarts have finished their screeching, with a bit of luck you’ll get a half-tasty bloke on to sing, but nine times out of ten he’ll be fat too, and probably sweat a lot and have a beard. In fact, I think there is really only one male opera singer and he’s called Perverted-hottie, or something like that, and he’s not very good because he just sings the song that he nicked from Italia ‘90 when Gazza cried. It’s called ‘Nests on Dormouse’, which is clearly nonsense.
If you are forced to go to the opera, obviously make sure it’s being performed in a theatre. This may sound like rather an obvious thing to say, but it is important to remember that some people go to watch opera in parks and fields. Fields?! You should avoid fields at the best of times in case you get foot and mouth disease, and I’m sure it goes without saying that you should particularly avoid them when there are fat people singing in them.
Now, as well as opera, another posh social event is horse racing. The nice thing about this is that it does have quite a ‘chavvy’ edge to it—what with the links with gambling and drinking—so it’s not quite as ‘otherworldly’ as opera is, and there’s no reason why a properly dressed Wag should not fit in perfectly. So—how to dress. Obviously, having a ridiculous hat with loads of feathers poking out of it so you look like a bleedin’ budgie is a good start, as is making sure that you’ve got your hemlines exactly right. I think that, because it’s quite a posh occasion, you should have your dress covering your knickers, but only just! A little flash of gusset is always nice (if you’re going to adopt this style of dress, remember not to wear crotchless knickers!).
Obviously, when it comes to choosing colours, baby pink is always nice. Making sure the outfit is expensive is vital, and in manmade fibres where possible. If you can find a top for £500 made entirely of nylon—snap it up. They’re hard to come by. If you don’t fancy pink (and if you don’t, you need to ask yourself why not?) then just go for colours unknown to Nature.
Picking the right size for your outfit is crucial. You know how it is when you see someone in clothes that fit properly—they look so dull and plain. Always dress at least a size too small, making sure as much flesh as possible is on display. This strategy works particularly well with bigger girls.
You need to make sure your skin has been heavily spray-tanned (again—the colour you’re aiming for is one that can safely be described as ‘unknown to Nature’). If you haven’t had a spray tan (and, again, if not WHY NOT), then make sure your skin has been turned bright lobster-pink by the sun. Certainly, you don’t want white flesh on display. That would be like having natural hair or small sunglasses or a small handbag—no, no, no, no. If you have a small dog, take him in a silly little basket and put a ribbon round his neck to match your outfit.
There. That’s good. That should really help Helen.
2 p.m.
‘Oh my god,’ shrieks Helen. ‘You are a complete genius.’
I’ve just handed her the sheet of paper with my advice for Wags in compromising (i.e. posh) social situations on it, and she is delighting in the words as if they were made of diamonds.
‘Thank you, thank you, thank you,’ she says, while I stand back, a little embarrassed at how loudly she’s speaking, and a little frustrated that there’s no one near enough to hear it all. Half of me wants to say, ‘Oh please, Helen, do be quiet’, while the other half wants to say, ‘Speak up, love, Mindy can’t hear you.’
Dean really didn’t want to come to this party today. ‘They’re always crap and there are three old episodes of Minder on UK Gold this afternoon,’ he said. But I know it’s because he’s embarrassed about yesterday, and doesn’t want to face everyone. I asked him but he said, ‘No, it’s just Minder, sweetheart. I love it. It really cracks me up.’ Admittedly, he does love his Minder, so perhaps it’s a combination of the two things. I managed to get him here by promising that we wouldn’t stay long, but now he’s here he seems to be really enjoying himself. That’s the thing with my Dean—he’s a bit like a seven-year-old. Once you get him away from the television he has a really good time, but while he’s watching the box, peeling him away from it is almost impossible—like peeling the skin from a potato with your teeth.
‘Awright, babes,’ he says, coming up to me. ‘What was that bird saying?’
I tell him about the help I’ve given Helen and how grateful she was and Dean gives me a big hug. ‘You’re a doll,’ he says.
Dean’s looking great today. He’s got his mirror shades on and low-slung jeans with a white T-shirt and loads of bling. He’s got all his rings on together, which I think looks really cool. He’s carrying his jacket over his shoulder. I was trying to show him how to carry it with just one finger, but after the incident when someone pulled the jacket and almost broke his finger he clenches it in the palm of his hand these days.
‘I’m gonna get a lager,’ he says, turning and walking towards the bar in a manner that reminds me of Happy Days and that bloke called The Fonz. It was on the telly when I was really little and they keep re-showing it on UK Gold. I think Dean’s watching too much of that channel. As he gets to the bar, he moves to run both hands through his mousy brown hair, forgetting that he’s got his jacket in one of them. He almost takes out the Luton Town directors as his jacket swings wildly. I can see him apologising, mopping up drinks and throwing his jacket down on a nearby table. Bless him. He’s so cool is my Dean.
He saunters back over and I