No Negro’s, Irish or fat birds please….

Today I had to go to a place in London where people with eating disorder pretend to get help.  I wasn’t in the mood for it, having spent 20 on shopping and treat for Dominic, I had 20 quid left and I knew that wasn’t enough to get me there and back in a cab.  So I looked everywhere at home and thank goodness, finally found some cash (15 quid of it) strewn in the bottom of my gym bag.   *gym?  Did you say gym?*  I actually thanked God and thought; maybe this will be a good day after all. Like fucking hell!  I had booked my cab for a quarter past 8am to make sure it was there in time.  He said ok, no problem.  Having thought I called my usual cab firm and not the ‘B’ labelled cab used for desperate needs in the phone address book.

The cab arrived at 8.15.  A silver Mercedes, brand new with an old man with an ear peace in the front seat, I saw him staring at me and he was fast to react as he rolled down the window, the car still moving.  He made some excuse that he wasn’t the cab for my address.  At that point, I thought, ‘odd’ but I let it go, and in the back of my mind I already knew what had just taken place.  I called the cab controller who then told me a silver mercy should be pulling up..right..About…I interjected (just because I could and because I like the word)…’He was already here, and he already left saying he wasn’t the cab.. .’

The controller then disappeared and then came back with a few too many lies which followed the line of ‘Oh he’s just by the bins’…ummmmm ‘He will be there in a minute, a silver merc’.  I stated that I already knew that the car that went past was my cab, on time but for ’some’ reason not wanting to have a big bird screw with his suspension.  The controller said to wait.  By this time the time was witling away and getting nearer to the time of my appointment.  The anger in me was becoming more and more apparent and began to curse - loudly.  I called several times, and this time the controller didn’t even bother picking up the phone.

So I began to walk to the bus stop having rung my proper cab firm who didn’t have any for another half hour.  I rang and rang and by the time I hit the bus stop, and started looking for a black cab, the time was pretty much hitting 8.45am.  I was going to be late.


*Ring fucking ring*
‘your cab's outside’
‘too late, I have gone’ *insert all forms of expletive, letting them know they were a shite cab firm and that I’d be popping in later to see them face to face*
‘very sorry’
*disconnect*
******************************

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[Their conversation]
‘why didn’t you pick up that fare?’
‘Too fat, she’ll ruin my suspension’
‘its work’
‘But who will pay when my suspension dies?’
‘Ok, Ok, I’ll lie for you this time’
************************************************************

‘CUNTS!’

Having then waited for another black cab, the first having turned me down and drove past I managed to get a cabby who was not only polite and chatty but who also had a very similar point of view on the way this country is going down the fucking drain.  From people who have no ethics, to liars and cheats and people who judge others how they wish never to be treated themselves…  I am tired, really tired.  Neither paranoid nor schizophrenic I am sick of the attitude in this country - so why not just join forces with the rest of the fuckers.

I arrive at the appointment ten minutes late to face an African woman at the entrance of the eating disorder clinic, of no small size herself standing staring at me as though I were an alien that just landed in a pair of lime green hot pants.  She watched me walk up the stairs scowling at me.  I looked at her, smiled and said ‘I have an appointment’ I didn’t look rough and ready to go, I don’t look like a drug addict and I certainly don’t stink of alcohol, so what’s with the glare you stupid ugly freaky bad weaved trollop?

‘What? ‘She said in disgust ‘You’re here for appointment, in this clinic?’
As my ears sifted through her mumbling, I wondered how she dealt with the majority of women in the clinic who are anorexic, suffer from bulimia and also the same eating disorder as I do… Granted, she could stop and be shocked, but hide it on your hard nosed ugly cunting face as it’s not the first thing of a morning I choose to see.  At least know what service the place provides you obviously work at, you ignorant excuse of a hairdressers dream.

So I went in, saw a skinny arse, tall creepy looking guy who looked as though he had just crawled through a TV screen escaping from South Park. I just couldn’t be bothered now; already a shite day and I can imagine what else was yet to come.  But full of interesting things to say about how the ‘programme’ will work.  Nothing like how Denise runs her sessions, and I knew she didn’t know what the hell she was doing.  There is no format to her sessions. AND it seems that she shouldn’t have even allowed me to go on any form of diet during the process. They can only check my behaviour as it stands by monitoring me as I am now.  Too late, I’ve paid for weight watchers and I am hardly likely to stop now.

Do I like him? No.  I don’t.  But then I don’t have to like him really do I?
I just have to make sure I have more than 40 quid for cab fare each week to
get me there and back.  I left knowing his therapy sessions would probably be the kind of to make a difference and as I walked away (because of course a clinic like that doesn’t have a cab firm to call for patients – ‘cause no one ever leaves there alive) I realised just how fed up I am of my life, of this country and the people in it. All the things I see and deal with daily. Today, I know for a fact if I had a gun, I would have killed.  I know it. 

I have spent the morning thinking how I can get back at the cunt of a cab firm. They cost me 7 quid in additional fares instead of 13 today and so I shall waste their time too.

You see, I see it this way - now all my life I have pretty much done things the way THE MAN tells you to. You know, straight up, tried to be as honest as I could, tried to stay on the straight and narrow and not shit on people.  In all of my 44 years I know it doesn’t work.  It’s a no win situation.  If you fuck up, if you go to prison, if you’re a bad kid labelled with behavioural issues, if you fuck with people, beat people, rip people off, if you’re long term unemployed, if you’re scamming the system,  ripping off the housing by subletting and owning your own property, claiming whilst working, buying property whilst claiming housing benefit – YOU WIN.

That’s the truth, YOU WIN.  Straight up-no lie try it. I SEE IT DAILY, I HEAR ABOUT IT, I READ ABOUT, I KNOW ABOUT IT IN THE COMMUNITY I WORK IN. I don’t believe I treat those I don’t know disrespectfully for any apparent reason.  I attack when attacked and more than not I will keep out of trouble – in fact I have never been in trouble, not with the authorities.  I have a big mouth and a bad attitude but I use it with caution.  No conflict, no drama = no grief.  So why, when you’re going about your very own business, does this crap continue to happen?

I thought it would be a normal day today and instead, I feel tears well up in my eyes on the (had to get public transport) bus back to work.  I held back and again as I scrunched myself up as small as I could get into the seat so no one would moan that I was taking up too much space – it’s a fat girl trick.

On the way off the bus, an old woman sat across from me just staring.  So I
smiled, because again, rather than be arrested for attacking an elderly bird because of paranoia more than cause, I would rather that her thoughts were dispersed by warmth than anger.

But it was obvious from her look what she was thinking and it’s getting more and more apparent these days. The bigger I got the more I realised I am being judged on how I look. Yes, we all get judged and those that say they don’t judge are probably liars. As fat as I was in the past, I have never experienced this level of fat and so can now see the difference in the way I was treated when in the public eye. I guess I am hating the haters today.  So much for this rant.

It’s doing crap things to me; it makes me feel lost and really very sad.  There’s little I can do but do what I am doing to try to sort it out.  Mr South Park can squeal at me in the tones of a councillor who blatantly starves himself, really I am getting more from the book I bought for 7 quid and it’s turned out to be worth more, so far than anyone of these ‘trained’ people I’ve seen.  I have been taken out of my comfort zone and no, I don’t like it at all.  But I don’t deserve the latest bashing; I can do bashing on me quite well without the rest of the world joining in. Am I angry?  Yes I’m fucking furious at where I put myself in my life and how others judge me because of my fucking fat! 

And before any self righteous twats claim this to be a racist rant, I’m mixed race, part Swiss & part Jamaican, so stick that in your liberal pipe and piss off.