Adrian Mole 07; The Lost Diaries 1999-2001 by Sue Townsend
Monday, July 16
Ashby-de-la-Zouch
This morning I borrowed a toddler from the Ludlows next door and took it to Safeway’s crèche, which is supervised by the most erotically intelligent woman alive on the planet earth, Mary-Lou Hattersley. It is my only means of seeing her, and William refuses to cooperate, the ungrateful little swine.
The toddler was very quiet in the back of the car. I wasn’t surprised, the Ludlows don’t believe in talking to their children. As Mrs Ludlow told me once: ‘It only encourages ‘em to prattle on an’ ask stupid bleedin’ questions’ Secretly, I have some sympathy with this child-rearing theory. I have often been tormented by William’s constant demands to know ‘how’, ‘when’ and ‘why’. Only yesterday, as we watched the riots on Sky News, he asked me why it was ‘always men and boys fighting and never the ladies and girls?’ I told him that females have a subtler method of conducting warfare, but this led to a further raft of questions, which stopped only when I pretended to fall asleep on top of the washing machine.
As we drove to Safeway, I realised I had no idea what the toddler was called or even what its sex was. It was wearing earrings and had an unpleasant scowling expression on its face. I took a guess and registered the child as Emily Ludlow, aged two-and-a-half years. After ‘Emily’ had been divested of its shoes and was being led into the play area by a crèche minion, I engaged Mary-Lou in conversation. Knowing her interest in politics, I asked her opinion on the Tory leadership race. She scoffed, ‘I’m more intellectually challenged by wondering who will be up for eviction in the Big Brother house’ We are both agreed that Paul and Helen’s burgeoning romance is horrible but compulsive viewing. It is like watching two very stupid white rhinos attempting to mate – one is repelled by the sight, but touched that two such rare creatures have found each other.
I tore myself away from her to grab a tin of Heinz Organic Baked Beans ‘n’ Sausages. When I returned, Mary-Lou was stern-faced and ‘Emily’ was wearing a pair of the crèche’s emergency mini Y-fronts. I am banned from using the crèche for life.
Thursday, July 19
Ashby-de-la-Zouch
I attended William’s school sports day today. The school field was sold off to Nolite Warehouse Ltd in February, so the races took place in a roped-off section of its new car park. I was just about to climb into my dustbin liner bag for the single parents’ sack race, when the headmaster announced over the Tannoy that the jury had returned and that Jeffrey Archer had been sent to jail for four years. Spontaneous cheering broke out from the assembled company, the workmen on the scaffolding of the windowless warehouse broke into song with ‘You’ll never walk alone’, passing cars sounded their hooters and a light aircraft flying overhead did a figure of eight in the summer sky. The headmaster announced that there would be a five-minute delay for competitors to compose themselves.
Archer has succeeded in bringing the country together in joy. After Henman, the Lions and England’s dropped catches, we needed a glorious victory.
I came last. William would not look me in the eye when I finally passed the finish line. The winner was Trixie Woodhead, who I know for a fact is drawing disability living allowance.
Saturday, July 21
My parents have been to see me to give me an ‘update’ on what my mother called ‘the ongoing situation regarding our marriage’. They held hands across the kitchen table and my father said sheepishly, ‘We can’t live with each other, but we can’t live without each other, son.’
William, who had been listening, said with the brutal candour of the child, ‘You’ll both have to die then.’
I advised them to try self-discipline. (They are both still married to other people, namely Pandora’s parents.) My father whined, ‘We were both teenagers in the 60s, so haven’t got any self-discipline’ As they were leaving, I told my mother that blue jeans should never be worn with creases, or wrinkles.
Monday, July 23, 1pm
Pandora has invited me to a ‘shepherd’s pie and Krug party’ this evening. It is not clear what we will be celebrating.
Midnight: Nobody told me that Pandora’s guests were meant to wear Mary and Jeffrey fancy dress. Personally, I found the sight of so many Mary Archer lookalikes slightly disturbing. I like a bit of animation in my women.
Friday, July 27
I allowed William to stay up late to watch the climax of Big Brother. I think it is important that small children be allowed to participate in events of national importance. My mother and father came round to join us, bringing two large bags of curry-flavoured Twiglets and a bottle of Raspberry Stolichnaya. My mother grew increasingly hysterical after Dean was evicted from the house, leaving Helen and Brian. She passionately wanted Helen to win, saying, ‘Why should the intelligent people win all the glittering prizes? It’s time a stupid person won something for a change.’
My father said, ‘I don’t mind her being thick, it’s her great big gob I object to’ I feigned indifference, but secretly I had my fingers crossed for Brian. I slipped into the kitchen and was dialling my vote in when Glenn caught me at it. I had to pretend to be phoning Dial-A-Pizza, so Brian’s vote cost me £32.59.
As we watched Helen squealing like a tortured piglet over Paul Clarke’s present of a Gucci handbag and shoes, William asked, ‘Will Helen and Paul Clarke be having sexual intercourse tonight, Dad?’
My father shouted, ‘Go and wash your mouth out, you dirty-minded sod.’
But, as Glenn said, ‘He’s only sayin’ what everbody’s thinkin’, Grandad.’
I lay awake pondering yet again on the true nature of my sexuality. Did I vote for Brian out of gay solidarity or because he is a semi-erudite Irish eccentric? I garnered the evidence: a) I like Kylie Minogue; b) I sleep with a lavender pillow; c) I am no good at sex with women; d) I am very fussy about my sheets, pillowcases and towels.
Saturday, July 28
Heatwave. I went to Pandora’s surgery this morning. It was the only way to see her, since she does not reply to my emails, or return my frequent phone calls or text messages. She was most unsuitably dressed for an MP. I know it is hot, but her outfit of cropped top and micro-shorts lacked gravitas. I had wanted to ask her about the euro, but I could not concentrate because of the sweat trickling between her tanned, pointy breasts. So we ended up talking about Big Brother. She is intimate with Michael Jackson at Channel 4, and suggested I put myself forward as a BB candidate in 2002.
Saturday, August 4
Ashby-de-la-Zouch
William, the ardent monarchist, made a birthday card for the Queen Mother this morning using scraps of card and paper taken from the recycling bag. He had fashioned her hat from milk bottle tops, she looked as if she was wearing a Darth Vader helmet.
I, for one, do not believe the old woman was given a blood transfusion on Thursday. I think she is kept going by a secret serum that is not yet available to us common people (or Princess Margaret). I read somewhere that axolotls can constantly regenerate themselves, thus living for ever. Is it my imagination or does the Queen Mother look a teensy bit lizard-like lately? Will she be the first 200-year-old woman?
Sunday, August 5
I am no financial expert, but I feel in my bones that we will be living under the jackboot of recession by Christmas. I decided to forgo the interest on my Alliance & Leicester 30-Day Notice Deposit Account, and withdrew the entire amount, £619.07. I took Glenn and William to Safeway and bought a frozen turkey, a Christmas pudding, three packets of Mr Kipling’s mince pies, a bag of frozen sprouts and a box of sage and onion stuffing. I also took advantage of the various in-store two for the price of one offers, but was disgusted that Safeway is not yet selling Christmas crackers.
Once the Christmas food shopping was complete, I treated the boys to lunch in the Safeway cafeteria. Pamela Pigg and Alan Clarke were in there canoodling over their All-Day Breakfasts. Pamela told me that she had bumped into Nigel and his new partner, Peter Elf, in the Sea Shanty Folk Club last night. Alan strok
‘I’m doing an OU course on ‘the music of the idiot savant’,’ he said. Then, to my horror, he began to sing: ‘Lay in the hay, my comely gal, And take my sickle in youse hand’ Glen blushed fiercely and fled. I followed with William.
Tuesday, August 7
Ashby-de-la-Zouch
The fondue party was held at Alan Clarke’s thatched cottage in Frisby-On-The-Wreake. According to local gossip, Frisby is a hotbed of paganism. In 1974, several donkeys mysteriously disappeared overnight and were believed to have been ritually sacrificed. Alan Clarke fancies himself as a local historian. As we twirled our fondue forks over the pan of bubbling cheese, he regaled his guests with anecdotes about his life in the village. The guests were Pamela Pigg, me, Glenn, Nigel and Peter Elf.
I took Glenn with me because it is time the boy was taught how to conduct himself in sophisticated company. Before we got out of the car, I warned him not to say serviette, or to inform the other guests that his ambition is to be a heterosexual when he grows up.
To a background of Bob Dylan’s harmonica, we chomped through seven varieties of hot cheese. I incautiously mentioned how saddened I had been to hear of the death of Larry Adler and added that, in my opinion, Adler had been the greatest harmonica player the world had ever known. Peter Elf said camply, ‘I wouldn’t slash my wrists if I never heard the harmonica again’ Alan jabbed his fondue fork angrily into the rough-hewn table, stormed over to the stereo and removed the long-player from the turntable. There was an awkward silence, which Glenn broke eventually by saying, ‘When I grow up, I want to be a heterosexual.’
I was glad to get out of that cottage and rejoin the 21st century – personally, I think Alan Clarke knows what happened to those donkeys.
Friday, August 10
A bombshell! I was idly turning the pages of the Ashby Bugle tonight, when I saw the headline ‘Third Time Lucky For Ashby Couple?’ On the right-hand side was a photograph of my parents’ wedding day, taken in the late 1960s. Underneath was another photograph of my parents’ wedding day, taken in the late 1980s. I read to my horror that they were intending to marry again, for the third time. I immediately rang my mother. She said, ‘We were going to tell you. Some bastard at the Ashby Bugle has leaked the story.’
Saturday, August 18
Today, I was a guest at my parents’ third wedding. I was a four-month-old foetus when my mother first married my father. I, of course, remember nothing of the occasion – though my dear, dead grandma, May Mole, told me that my mother disgraced herself at the reception by accidentally setting fire to her wedding veil while attempting to light a Capstan with a broken Swan Vesta match.
My father put the blaze out with a bowl of cling peaches in juice, snatched from the buffet. In the resulting confusion, Grandma’s 75 home-stuffed vol-au-vents (one per guest) were despoiled. Although only a foetus, I feel sure that this unsavoury incident made me into a non-smoker, with an aversion to swans.
Today’s ceremony was conducted at County Hall, the administrative nerve centre of Leicestershire. It was somewhat disconcerting to look up from the baggy faces of my lovelorn parents pledging their vows, to see a County Hall apparatchik photocopying what appeared to be fixed-penalty forms in an adjacent office. If I ever marry again, I will make sure that the setting is suitably romantic. Rutland Water at sunset is said to be a breathtaking sight, though in the summer, midges might present a problem.
The reception took place in the One-Stop Centre function room on a nearby council estate. As we guests queued up to offer our congratulations to the bride and groom, we were forced to rub shoulders with benefits claimants, young offenders and a pensioners’ ping-pong group. I’m the most liberal and democratic of men, but surely a hotel would have been more suitable?
The musical entertainment was provided by Alan Clarke and his folk group, The Shanty Men, who wore matching Aran sweaters and sang about herrings. I was glad when one of them, Abbo Palmer, broke off and announced that Clarke was 50 that day. Clarke looked horror-struck and Pamela Pigg, his present amour, said to me, ‘The bloody liar, he told me he was 37-and-a-half.’
My father stood up and made a speech about the ‘happiest day of his life’ – his voice was blurry with sentimental tears. Unfortunately he was talking about something Ian Botham did 20 years ago at Headingley.
Saturday, August 25
I fear I am losing the battle to mould William’s character to my own satisfaction. He does not seem to appreciate high culture and has appalling taste in music and literature. He’s only six, but at his age Mozart was selling out concerts all over Europe. I played the whole of Wagner’s Ring Cycle on my stereo this week, hoping that constant exposure to the shrieking and wailing would break down his defences. It failed. As the last note faded, William rushed to put on the CD of Mambo N°5, sung (sic) by Bob the Builder.
Since being introduced to WWF (World Wrestling Federation) at my mother’s house, he is now addicted – and I use the word carefully. He lives only for Fridays when Sky Sports One broadcasts two hours of this so-called ‘Sports Entertainment’. His heroes are The Rock and The Undertaker, and his antiheroes are Stone Cold Steve Austin and DDP (Diamond Dallas Page). All of the above are hideous looking, over-muscled brutes who do not look as if they have ever read world literature, and probably think that Nabokov is an illegal steroid.
Last night I found William six inches from the TV watching an action replay of The Rock’s finishing manoeuvre. His victim was Booker T. The Rock was smashing Booker T’s head through a table. When I made an objection, William said, ‘Quiet, Dad. The Rock’s going for the one-two-three count. If he gets it, he’ll leave the Astrodome with the WWF championship belt.’
I pointed out to William that wrestling was merely a sublimation of sub-erotic activity. The hulks refuse to accept the truth – that they have more in common with Oscar Wilde than they can possibly know. William shouted, ‘For God’s sake, stop talkin’!’ I took the remote from him and flipped through the channels looking for a David Jason drama. William screamed, then held his breath until his lips turned blue. He only resumed breathing when I flicked back to Sky Sports One.
Sunday, August 26
Pandora claims that she has been approached by the News Of The World to visit Jeffrey Archer in prison and acquire, by whatever means, his DNA – £10,000 was mentioned. After some thought, she turned it down.
Saturday, September 1
Ashby-de-la-Zouch, Leicestershire
I am powerless to make my boys either happy or unhappy. External forces dictate their mood. Namely, sport. As Glenn settled down in front of the television with a bag of nachos and a cheese dip to watch Leicestershire play Somerset, in the final of the Cheltenham and Gloucester Trophy at Lord’s, he said, ‘Don’t do no Hooverin’ in ‘ere, Dad, I gotta concentrate on the match.’
I pleaded with him to turn down the sound on the TV and listen to the commentary on Radio 4. I said, ‘At least that way you will hear some erudite conversation’ I brought in the Sony portable and switched it on to hear Henry Blofeld and Jonathan Agnew discussing a chocolate cake sent in by a listener, a Mrs Daphne Calf, from Wolverhampton. Then Blofeld said, ‘Aggers, my dear old thing, you’re looking frightfully smart today.’
Glenn rolled his eyes at William, who grabbed the TV remote and turned up the sound. I took the radio into the kitchen and fiddled the knob until I found Classic FM. I washed up to the sound of Gershwin’s Rhapsody In Blue, which always reminds me of Skegness. It was playing when my father confessed to my mother that he had sired a child by another woman.
As I dried up, I wondered where my half-brother Brett was, and what he was doing. I worked out that he’d be about 19 by now. William came out of the l
My parents came round later to watch the England-Germany match. When, after six minutes, Germany scored, my father shouted, ‘I blame Posh Spice for this. It’s her fault Beckham strained his groin. She should be put in purdah before a big match!’
At half-time, in the kitchen, I asked my father about my brother, Brett Mole. He said, ‘Not now, Adrian, England are 2-1 up’ At full time, I tried again. But my father was incoherent with xenophobic joy.
Monday September 10
Ashby-de-la-Zouch
A letter from Oxford! A vellum envelope, addressed to me in exquisite copperplate handwriting. Inside, a matching piece of personalised notepaper, headed Brett Mole, Balliol College, Oxford. Website: www.brettmole.com.
Dear Adrian,
What a lark. We must meet and swap goss about our mutual father. When are you next in Oxford?
Yours fraternally,
Brett
I logged on immediately to www.brettmole and learned more about my half-brother than I needed to know. There were photographs of Brett mountaineering, white-water kayaking, playing tennis, limboing on a Caribbean beach, modelling on a catwalk and shaking hands with Prince Charles. His website informed me that Brett is 6ft 2in tall, takes a 16-inch collar and size 11 shoes.
On another page I discovered that Brett achieved 14 GCSEs at A grade. His four A-levels were starred. He has published a volume of poetry, called Blow Out The Candle. The reviews were ecstatic. I hate him already.