The Lost Diaries of Adrian Mole Part 9

From family and friends

And the rest of the nation.

Tuesday, November 21

Brick Eagleburger has sent my epic poem, The Restless Tadpole, to a certain Geoffrey Perkins at BBC TV Centre. I asked Brick which department Mr Perkins worked in. Brick said, "The guy's head of suckin' comedy." I angrily pointed out that The Restless Tadpole is an entirely serious dramatic work written in the tradition of the Icelandic sagas. Brick said, "Listen up, Adrian, I flicked through the suckin' ma.n.u.script Tadpole and I G.o.dda tell ya I almost peed my suckin' pants, it's so funny." Brick carried on, "My favourite scene is when the tadpole is lying in Marilyn Monroe's garden pond and it overhears Arthur Miller talking c.r.a.p about Tolstoy."

I have always known that Brick Eagleburger is a Philistine; however, he is now totally misrepresenting me and my work.

Wednesday, November 22

In my session tonight I asked my beloved Dave if it was normal to recite the Lord's Prayer before crossing the road. He raised his eyebrows slightly and fiddled with his ponytail before replying enigmatically, "Normal is as normal does".

What does this mean? Dave is obviously my intellectual superior. I am not worthy to be his client.

Thursday, November 23

I have engaged the services of an additional therapist. This will enable me to talk about Dave for 55 minutes non-stop twice a week. My new confidante is called Angelica House. She is middle-aged, that's all I can remember about her. I am seeing her tomorrow after work.

Friday, November 24 Angelica has explained to me that my love for Dave Mutter is nothing more than what is called in the mental health trade "transference". She is a wonderfully empathetic woman and I think I may be a little in love with her.

Geoffrey Perkins is wild about The Restless Tadpole. He wants to cast Dawn French in the t.i.tle role.

Monday, November 27, Ashby-de-la-Zouch Today is only the first day of Ramadan, yet Mohammed at the BP garage is already in a bad mood due to the fasting laws imposed on him by his religion. In a normal day at work, he would eat three packets of cheese-and-onion crisps and a Kit Kat or two. I remarked to him that he could do with losing at least four stone in weight. To my astonishment, he burst into an angry denunciation of my character and appearance, ending up with, "You should take a good look at yourself in the mirror, Moley.

You've got enough hair sprouting out yer nostrils to weave a mouse's shoppin' basket. And you look five months pregnant". I apologised at once for my rudeness. I tried to explain that my therapists, Dave Mutter and Anjelica House, were encouraging me to be honest during social intercourse. This seemed to exacerbate his anger, but thankfully he was diverted from giving me another tongue-las.h.i.+ng by a strident female motorist complaining about the lack of toilet paper in the ladies.

As I walked across the forecourt, I pondered on our conversation. From where did Mohammed get his image of my nasal hairs being woven into a mouse's shopping basket? And what was his reference to my looking five months pregnant about?

Tuesday, November 28 I took off my clothes and examined myself carefully in the wardrobe mirror this morning. My front view is quite nice. My shoulders are slightly stooped, my pectorals are perhaps lacking definition, but I am still above average in the looks department. However, my profile leaves a lot to be desired and, yes, Mohammed, my old schoolfriend, you spoke the simple truth: in profile, I do look five months pregnant. My belly, once a discreet concave, is now distinctly convex. How did this happen without my noticing?

I am shocked to discover that my son, Glenn, is keeping what he calls a top secret dairy . He has also written on the cover in barbed-wire writing "Open This Dairy At Your'e Perul". I was very tempted to find out what the boy had written about me, and had I been able to prise the lock off without it being detected I may well have found out.

Wednesday, November 29 Can anybody tell me why we British export our beef to France and why the French export their beef to Britain? I have asked many people, but n.o.body has been able to provide me with a satisfactory answer. I had a session with Dave Mutter tonight after work. I told him about Mohammed's remark about the mouse's shopping basket. Dave said he found Mohammed's imagery to be "extremely disturbing". He suggested that Mohammed seek professional psychiatric help.

I am pleased to report that my fixation with Dave Mutter is over. He is simply a dull baby boomer with a Minnie Mouse voice and an out-dated pony tail. However, Anjelica House, my second opinion therapist, is a truly magnificent woman. Why did I not appreciate the attractions of late middle-aged women before? How come I have never noticed the beauty of their crows' feet or the delicious way their upper arms sag when they plump a cus.h.i.+on?

Midnight Pandora has just rung to find out if my father has recovered from his hospital-borne infection yet. I told her that he was still being barrier nursed. She was delighted: she wants to use him to ill.u.s.trate a point about privatised hospital cleaning services. Before she rang off, she hinted that the row between John Prescott and Dominique Voynet was in fact more of a lovers tiff! So, were they slaking their l.u.s.t while the world festered on its axis? If so, we, the world's population, should be told.

Tuesday, November 28, Ashby-de-la-Zouch My mother has signed up to be an Earth Watch volunteer. She is hoping to count birds migrating over a lake in Kenya. Frankly, I am disgusted. My mother is abusing a worthy conservation project. To my sure knowledge, she has never shown the slightest interest in birds, Kenya or counting. She is obviously hoping to get a free holiday. Earth Watch should be informed: she can't even count. The figures for migrating Kenyan birds could be hopelessly confused for years to come. This could lead to stress and trauma amongst ornithologists and their possible premature deaths.

I confided in Glenn my worries about the orphans of the Kenyan ornithologists. He furrowed his brow: "Why are you worrying about somethin' that 'asn't 'appened yet, Dad." I had no satisfactory answer. Later, my therapist, Angela House, asked me precisely the same question. Perhaps I should give her PS25 fee to Glenn. At least it would keep the money in the family, and save me the trouble of driving to Mrs House's house, thus avoiding the attendant parking problems and the embarra.s.sment of overhearing Mr House urinating in the downstairs cloakroom.

Wednesday, November 29 I rang my mother's house this morning, and was astonished and outraged to learn that she was in Paris! Ivan Braithwaite told me she had gone to the hotel where Oscar Wilde died 100 years ago this week. How dare she swan about on the Eurostar when people are starving? It is disgusting. Especially when it is me who is the Wildean expert.

Few who saw it will ever forget my depiction of Lady Bracknell in the s.e.x-swap performance of The Importance Of Being Earnest at Neil Armstrong Comprehensive School in 1982.

Friday, December 1 Brick Eagleburger has asked his solicitor, Peter Elf, to take a civil action against the American government. Brick is now convinced that his postal vote has been violated. Apparently, Mr Elf was reluctant at first to take on the US, being more used to doing a little light conveyancing in the Hampton Wick area.

Sat.u.r.day, December 2 I have resigned from my position at Eddie's Layby Cafi. The work was very unfulfilling and I never properly came to terms with the constant smell of rancid fat on my clothes. Eddie took my resignation with equanimity. He said, "I knew you weren't cut out for the caterin' industry the first time I clapped eyes on yer. You ain't got the wrists for it." I asked him in what way my wrists were deficient. He answered, "They gotta be flexible for the b.u.t.terin' and the fryin', an' your wrists are about as flexible as a lump of bleedin' coal."

I related this conversation to Glenn as we prepared lobster nuggets for our dinner. He asked, "What's a lump of coal?" I said, "It was a piece of black, s.h.i.+ny rock that we used to set fire to and burn in fireplaces." He laughed long and hard. The lad thinks that central heating has always been around. He probably thinks that Jesus had a double radiator in the manger.

Sunday, December 3 The rabble on the estate have formed themselves into a choir and are going from door to door demanding money for singing a few discordant notes of Slade's Merry Christmas Everybody. Those of us refusing to hand over a few silver coins are threatened that our wheelie bins will be pushed down the road and possibly overturned. I phoned Greg d.y.k.e, our community policeman, but could only get his voicemail.

Monday, December 4 William has been chosen to play third shepherd in the school Nativity play. I went to Habitat tonight and bought him a new tea towel for his headdress. Only the best is good enough for my son.

Wednesday, December 6, Ashby-de-la-Zouch William still believes in Santa Claus, and he nagged me to take him to see "Santa" abseil down the side of Debenhams last night before ceremonially entering his grotto on the third floor. We stood at the front of the crowd and when Santa landed with his beard askew and his red suit in disarray from the harness, William shouted, "Santa, will you bring me a PlayStation 2 for Christmas." Santa replied, "Of course I will, lad." I could have killed the old git: How am I going to get the money together to buy a PlayStation; they are PS200. And, anyway, there are none to be had in the land. Shall I tell the truth to William and inform him that the abseiling Santa was in fact a grizzled member of The Rockettes, the Leicesters.h.i.+re Rock Climbing Club (a person who has no authority to make promises about Christmas presents), or do I wait until December 25 to see the disappointment on the kid's face?

My extended family is in turmoil about Christmas arrangements. n.o.body knows where to go on Christmas Day, Boxing Day, or New Year's Eve. Only one thing is certain; I will not be entertaining anybody in this house. I can't even afford the Barbie Advent calendar that William has set his heart on. I asked Mohammed in the garage if I could buy one for half price, being, as we are, half way through the month. But he refused! How mean can you get? He said he would put the Barbie Advent away until next year and get the full price. So much for good will to all men.

Thursday, December 7 Tania Braithwaite gave out a grudging invitation to us to join her at The Lawn on Christmas Day as we stood in adjoining queues in Safeway. She said, "Come round if you've nowhere else to go." A quick glance into her trolley reminded me of her turkeyless and chocolateless att.i.tude to the festivities. Soya products predominated, and there were a dozen bottles of elderflower cordial. No wonder my father refuses to get better and shake off his hospital-borne infection. He planned to spend Christmas Day with Tracy Lintel, his barrier nurse. The balloons, crackers and party-poppers are in the hospital steriliser even as I write.

Friday, December 8 Pamela Pigg rang today? She said, "I can't get you out of my mind, Aidey." Glenn overheard (her voice is rather shrill). He said darkly, "You'd 'ave to be outta your mind to go out with her again, Dad." Pamela has got a new job working with tramps, although she calls them the single homeless. She told me that there are several vacancies in the night shelter. She added that she thought I had all the qualities needed to work with such unfortunates. "Yeah, you ain't got no sense of smell," said Glenn. He was alluding to my recent failure to detect a packet of five-week-old prawns which I'd inadvertently left in the car next to the heater. Others were gagging as I drove, to my considerable bewilderment. Perhaps I should go to the Leicester Royal Infirmary and ask for a nasal efficiency test.

Sat.u.r.day, December 9 My mother has covered the front of her house in a life-sized flas.h.i.+ng bulb depiction of Santa on his sleigh. It is vulgar beyond belief. Her front garden is dominated by cardboard cut-outs of Posh, Becks and Baby Brooklyn. Each has a wire coat hanger and tinsel halo about their heads. "They are the holy family of the year 2000," she said. However, I predict that she will soon tire of the crowds who collect after dark every night. Somebody has already stolen Brooklyn's manger.

Monday, December 11 Brick Eagleburger is suing Peter Elf, his solicitor, for failing to protect his rights as an American Postal Voter, after Elf refused to act for Brick, saying he was "a bit rusty" on the intricacies of US const.i.tutional law.

Tuesday, December 12, Ashby-de-la-Zouch Crowds continue to flock to gawp at the Posh, Becks 'n' Brooklyn tableau in the front garden of my mother's house. Encouraged by the attention, she has added three kings bearing gifts. The first king (Tom Hanks) is dangling a Prada carrier bag from his cardboard fingers. The second king (Danny DeVito) is offering Baby Brooklyn a Gap fleece. The third king (Sylvester Stallone) is holding a bottle of Calvin Klein aftershave. I asked her where she got the life-sized cardboard cutouts. She said she had a contact in the film business. I predict disaster. The neighbours are furious because they can't park their own cars outside their own houses. The police have been called twice and warned my mother she could be charged with breaching the peace. Citing his fragile mental health, Ivan Braithwaite, my mother's most recent husband, has gone back to live with his ex-wife Tania, at The Lawns. My mother, Ivan and Tania all claim that this is only a temporary and platonic arrangement. But I'm not so sure.

When I drove Ivan away from Wisteria Walk with his overnight bag and his laptop, I saw him visibly relax. And when he stepped into the s.p.a.cious, white-carpeted, quiet hall he was almost in tears. Tania greeted him with a gla.s.s of elderflower cordial and a homemade mince pie. Playing quietly in the background was a Charlotte Church CD. It was hard to decide which was the most sickly: the cordial, the mince pie or the trilling of Miss Church. I was glad to get out. As I closed the front door, I overheard Ivan say to Tania, "It's been absolute h.e.l.l, Tania." I was alarmed to hear her reply, "You're home now, Ivan."

Wednesday, December 13 My poor father, he knows nothing about the new arrangements at The Lawns. Tracy Lintel, his barrier nurse, said through her mask, "He mustn't be exposed to any emotional trauma, it could kill him." Adding. "He's in line for the Longest-Stay Patient award." I promised not to tell him that his new wife was once again living with her ex-husband. And that his ex-wife was riding roughshod over several laws of the land.

Thursday, December 14 I had to forge the following note from Santa tonight. I laid it on William's pillow before I put him to bed: Dear William Mole,

I have been watching you all year, and have been pleased with your behaviour. However, I am sorry to have to tell you that my elves have failed to manufacture enough Playstation 2s, therefore you will not find this item on the sofa on December 25. Yours, Santa Claus, Greenland

PS. Two thousand elves have received redundancy notices.

He cried for half an hour because Santa had written "yours", instead of "love". He is a very sensitive boy.

Friday, December 15 The Nativity play started 15 minutes late because one of the parents, a certain Mrs Lucy Morgan, tried to smuggle a video camera into the a.s.sembly hall. She refused at first to give it up, citing the Freedom of Information Act. The headmaster, Mr Tree, cited the European Privacy Law. Several Guardian readers got involved in the ensuing debate. Some were on the side of Mrs Morgan, others sided with Mr Tree. William was, quite frankly, a most disappointing shepherd. He dropped his sheep and in a bored manner began to kick it around the stage. At one point, the kicked sheep came dangerously close to toppling the baby Jesus (a swaddled Action Man) from his cradle. Glenn commented as we waited for William, "Mr Blair says it's all right for parents to smack their kids now, Dad." I said, "I can hardly beat William for being a bored shepherd, Glenn." He replied, "If he'd had Jesus outta his cradle, I'd 'ave jumped on the stage an' give him one myself."

Friday, December 22, Ashby-de-la-Zouch Another night out! This time at Neil Armstrong Comprehensive, my alma mater, to see Glenn in The Holiday Play. In my day, it was simply called the Nativity play. In the 1982 performance, Pandora was a mesmeric Mary. Several men in the audience fainted during Jesus's protracted forceps delivery. I sat next to Mohammed, whose daughter Raki was in the cast playing a glue-sniffer running away from an arranged marriage. To my considerable consternation, Glenn had been cast as a homeless abuser of alcohol. The production was confused, because the children had not been given lines or told where to stand or, in fact, when to take their entrances and exits. This led to severe overcrowding on the stage at times, and necessitated Mr Billington, the young drama teacher, to issue loud instructions that could clearly be heard above the horrible din of the school orchestra.

Roger Patience, the headmaster, sat next to the stage with his head in his hands. The action apparently took place in a night shelter. A pregnant female called Marie turned up with her "partner" Joe and asked the social worker in charge for sanctuary. What Marie actually said was, "I gotta lie down coz I'm 'aving a kid an' the filth is after me for nickin' a swaddlin' cloth outta the everythin's a pound shop." To which the social worker/innkeeper in turn replied, "Ya gotta be jokin', ain't ya? There ain't no bleedin' room, it's holiday time, you shoulda booked." Here, Joe intervened: "Don't dis my chick, man". Then Glenn made his entrance and proceeded to give an alarmingly realistic depiction of a man who had consumed several bottles of methylated spirits.

A female derelict/angel came on and shrieked, "I just seen a bright star appear in the east. It weren't there before. It done my 'ead in." Mohammed's daughter then entered sniffing on a tube of Bostick (empty, I hope). I felt Mohammed s.h.i.+ft uncomfortably in his seat. I lost track of the dramatic events after that and turned my attention to the programme. I noticed that Pamela Pigg had been credited with "facilitating research on the homeless".

When I next looked back at the stage, Raki was giving an improvised speech about the difficulties of being a radical feminist growing up in a fundamentalist Muslim household. Mohammed muttered, "If she thinks she's gettin' them Timberland boots for Christmas, she's gotta nuther think comin'." Mr Billington gave a speech at the end thanking the children for their "enthusiastic grasp of improvisational techniques". He wished us all a "merry holiday".

As we walked to the car park together, Mohammed said, "Moley, why don't they do a proper Nativity play no more?" I said that it was felt in some circles that it was inappropriate in a multicultural school. Mohammed laughed and said, "What kinda circles? Crop?"

We went for a Christmas drink at the Kings Head. I asked for a cheese roll, but was told that they only do Thai food now. I didn't fancy slurping on a bowl of noodles as I drank, so I ate nothing. As a consequence, I felt slightly drunk when I got home and phoned Pamela Pigg and asked her out. She accepted eagerly, saying, "I've longed for this moment." After putting down the phone, I cursed the two pints of shandy I had consumed earlier.

Monday, December 25 Christmas Day has been blighted. A tragedy has befallen my family. Last night, my mother was arrested and charged with GBH. The tableau of Becks, Posh and Brooklyn in her front garden drew huge crowds of gawpers. Bail was refused because she gave a policeman a Chinese burn on his wrist when he tried to dismantle Brooklyn's crib. The policeman is undergoing trauma counselling, and is expected to be on sick leave for two months.

Monday, January 1, 2001, 1.30am I saw the new year in alone. Glenn has gone to a fancy-dress party at his mother's house. Rather disturbingly, he went as Hannibal Lecter. William is spending the weekend with his mother and her new husband, who are on honeymoon in London.

I hope my ex-wife and her new spouse can forget their s.e.xual pa.s.sion for long enough to pay proper attention to William. The lad has had two major disappointments in his life lately: a) Santa's broken promise to bring him a Sony PlayStation 2;

b) Santa's broken promise to bring him a Barbie Plane.

As midnight struck, I reopened the bottle of sparkling chardonnay I failed to finish on Christmas Day, but the sparkle had gone out of it. So I poured it down the sink.

As I wrote the numbers 2001, I was transported back to a cla.s.sroom at the Neil Armstrong comprehensive, and a lesson on "the future" given by Miss Elf, the humanities teacher. By 2001, according to Miss Elf, the world would be one, big, happy, cappuccino-coloured family. I remember her drawing this frontier-less world. How the chalk dust flew!

Miss Elf was a pa.s.sionate and committed teacher. In fact, not long after I left school she was committed to the High Towers mental hospital, following a doomed staff-room romance with Podgy Perkins, the games master. He was married with seven children, all boys. (Interestingly, all the boys' names began with G.) Strange what the memory throws up.

Anyway, Miss Elf envisaged that, by 2001, there would be no hunger in the world and that everybody would have access to clean water and a flus.h.i.+ng toilet. She drew a typical 2001 world family on the board, using a fresh box of coloured chalks. They all had brown skin and wore white, s.h.i.+ny, body-suits with pointy shoulders. Attached to their ankles were tiny jet engines. These devices enabled the 2001 family to fly like the birds. Though, as she pointed out, intercontinental travel would necessitate many refuelling stops.

Perhaps it is a good thing that Miss Elf is gibbering behind the high walls of an inst.i.tution. She would be heartbroken to know that her utopian vision is as far away as ever, and that Israel and Palestine are still arguing the toss.

New Year Resolutions 1. I will try and secure the services of Dame Helena Kennedy in a bid to get my mother out of prison.

2. I will persist in trying to get my serial killer comedy, The White Van, made by the BBC.

3. I will try to be less judgmental. Perhaps Jeffrey Archer is innocent. Perhaps the Dome was worth a billion pounds.

4. I will look into the Buddhist religion with a view to becoming a cohort. I have always had a horror of treading on insects. Ants in particular.

5. I will attempt to fall in love with a suitable woman this year. One that doesn't cry a lot or use too much blue eye shadow.