Adrian Mole: The Cappuccino Years Part 8

When he juggled with the chicken gizzards and caught them in the wok I almost walked out of the studio. However, I pride myself on my professionalism, so I called on my inner resources and managed to maintain my composure. Plus I threw in some literary aphorisms in an attempt to raise the intellectual tone. While demonstrating how to darken gravy, by the use of PG Tips, I quoted the following bon mot 'A woman is like a tea-bag--only in hot water do you realize how strong she is.' Nancy Reagan said it first. As a mot it's not that bon, but it impressed Zippo. I think.

In between shows, Zippo speed-dialled LA, sometimes switching to the conference phone so we were all party to his manic conversations about the (surely doomed) True Love film. Nathan Stag, the director of Love as they call it, screamed at one point, 'Listen up, Zippo, there ain't a wigmaker in the business who can make Burt Reynolds pa.s.s for thirty-five years of age. It's a mother f--no-no.'

Offally Good! is offally bad. I will be a laughing stock.

Tuesday June 24th Lay awake until 4 a.m., listening to the rain and worrying about the News of the World. I could worry for the Olympics and win a medal. Gold.

William rang me at 5.30 a.m. to remind me that it's his birthday on July 1st. How do I tell an almost-three-year-old not to ring me before nine o'clock in the morning? I love the kid, but I wish BT had never invented automatic dial.

Humfri not seen for two days.

Wednesday June 25th Read about President Clinton and the s.e.x allegations. Everybody is having s.e.x, apart from me. Even Malcolm is enjoying a carnal relationship, with Annette, a woman who sells the Evening Standard on the Strand. I went to observe her today, from the opposite pavement. She makes Ann Widdecombe look like Kate Moss. Her legging-clad thighs look like those redwood trees that Americans drive their cars through. However, she's got a pretty face, and with a decent haircut would look OK.

I can always tell when Malcolm's had a good mauling from her the night before. His face, neck and chest are covered in newsprint the next morning. Malcolm is convinced that 'the c.h.i.n.ks' have kidnapped Humfri and turned him into beef with black bean and ginger sauce. He claims that he once found a name-tag, 'Fluffy', inside a carton of takeaway chicken chop suey, in Wolverhampton in 1993. He went to the public health with the Fluffy tag, but the officials didn't take him seriously. 'I was on the Woodp.e.c.k.e.r at the time,' he conceded, when I inquired about his general demeanour in the public-health office. 'The stuck-up git called the filth, who chucked me out.' It was obvious from his bitter tone that Malcolm still bears a grudge against the authorities.

Rosie rang me at 2 a.m. begging me to rescue her from the Glas...o...b..ry rock festival. She thinks she's got trench foot. The ground is a quagmire. She has lost her shoes and has queued for two hours to use the phone. I am her only hope. I said I had no petrol in the car and advised her to put her faith in her own caring, sharing generation.

Sat.u.r.day June 28th Luigi rang me today and told me that several rich investors have come forward to 'save' Hoi Polloi. There is to be a complete refurbishment and the cellars are to be turned into an oxygen bar (!). The present restaurant is to be refitted in a 1950s working-cla.s.s kitchen style, using Utility furniture, and the upstairs (including my flat) is to become a Members Only club for smokers.

Luigi said that smokers applying to join will have to provide a doctor's letter to prove that they are serious and not opportunistic clean-lunged wannabes.

Michael Caine is rumoured to be one of the investors. Not many people know that, and I am sworn to secrecy. None of the present staff have been retained. Luigi is helping his brother-in-law with his window-cleaning round in Cadogan Gardens. I have started looking for somewhere else to live in London. I don't want to move back to Wisteria Walk: I have outgrown the provinces.

Sunday June 29th The Savoy Hotel has been invaded by a small plague of mice. They are offering a free drink to any guest who spots one. I sat in the American Bar, nursing a gla.s.s of sparkling water, for an hour and a half tonight. I paid particular attention to the skirtings and floor, but saw no vermin of any kind. This is just my luck.

Monday June 30th I am lonely. The only person I spoke to at any length today was a j.a.panese tourist, who stopped me outside Tesco's in Covent Garden (where I was bulk-buying Opal Fruits). She asked me how to get to Torquay. I was pleased to be able to direct her to Paddington station where she would be able to buy a ticket to Devon. I offered to accompany her in a black cab, but she declined.

I fantasized in bed about her on the beach at Torquay, wearing a black Lycra bikini, but nothing came of it. Even my p.e.n.i.s has gone off me. Have I inherited flaccidity from my father, together with hair loss? Perhaps it's time I visited Dr Ng again. If I ring today I might get an appointment three weeks hence.

7 a.m.

I am seeing Dr Ng on July 17th at 10.10 a.m. It's a good job that of my multifarious ailments none is immediately life-threatening.

Chris Patten and Prince Charles gave Hong Kong back to Communist China today. I predict that, by tomorrow night, Hong Kong will be attacked by the pillaging Chinese, desperate for Levi's and Sony Walkmen. Hong Kong will be aflame. Question: Why didn't Chris Patten wear a uniform for such a solemn occasion? There must have been something (a c.o.c.ked hat) he could have borrowed. You can't hand back our Empire in a lounge suit--it's simply not appropriate.

Tuesday July 1st I was waiting outside Hamleys at 9 a.m. As soon as the doors opened I escalated myself up to the dressing-up clothes department, where I asked about a Jeremy Clarkson outfit. The personage in charge, Kevin, sneered at my inquiry, saying, 'We only do fictional characters.'

I immediately pointed out to him a garish Robin Hood outfit (ages four and a half to eight years), which came complete with a feathered hat, and bow and suctioned arrow. Kevin said that Robin Hood 'was a fictional character', and went on to say that his dissertation, 'Men and Myths in Sixteenth-century Nottinghamshire', which gained him an MA from Nottingham University, explored society's need for heroes.

I asked Kevin why he was flogging kids' dressing-up clothes when he was in receipt of a Master's degree. He said, 'To pay for my PhD.' He's already mapped out his subject: 'Coffee: Its Introduction and Effect on English Literary Life, from Dr Johnson to Martin Amis'.

My heart was beating fast with jealous rage. I asked him how such a subject would help him find a fulfilling and well-paid job. He fiddled with the Sleeping Beauty boxes and said, 'Well, Nescafe might take me on.' I bought the Robin Hood outfit. William must learn to be proud of his East Midlands heritage.

Wednesday July 2nd Ashby-de-la-Zouch--William's Third Birthday My father got out of bed for the blowing-out-of-the-candles-on-the-cake ceremony, which is such an important part of our English culture. William tried hard, but couldn't blow the candles out in one go. It took five of his little puffs and a little surrept.i.tious help from me before he extinguished the tiny flames. It's my mother's fault. He's tied too tightly to her ap.r.o.n strings. He needs to toughen up. It's a hard world out there.

Jo Jo sent him some traditional silken garments, as worn by the Yoruba people. He preferred these to the Robin Hood outfit, and refused to take them off when it was time for bed. My mother told me that she is thinking of suing Imperial Tobacco for one million pounds. She blames them for her nicotine addiction, persistent smoker's cough and wrinkles.

Thursday July 3rd It was in the paper today that a j.a.panese woman had been found wandering around Torquay 'in a state of distress'. Apparently she had wanted to go to Turkey and had been misdirected to the Devon resort by a Londoner unable to understand her heavily accented English. Coincidence!

Friday July 4th At the Bar Italia Two Americans are celebrating Independence Day by ordering straight coffee, rather than decaff. But now that the cups are put in front of them I notice that they are sipping the coffee as though it were liquid nitroglycerine.

Sat.u.r.day July 5th Savage used his key to let himself into the flat today. He was accompanied by an architect, who was wearing what appeared to be a round-collared dentist's overall, though I suppose it was a shirt. They walked in and out of my bedroom as if the room were empty whereas, in fact, I was there in bed. My slight depression worsened into misery. I almost wept when they'd gone.

It rains unendingly.

Sunday July 6th I must get out of bed and find somewhere to live. Savage brought three builders round today for quotes. They didn't have a n.o.ble or honest facial feature between them. Rain continues.

Monday July 7th Nigel rang to say that his mother had taken the news badly that he was gay. She was still 'in denial' about Rock Hudson, and was convinced that Nigel would turn heteros.e.xual as soon as he met the right girl. His father had muttered something about 'horseplay in the showers at Catterick' then gone out to his shed.

Wednesday July 9th Malcolm came round to see if Humfri had returned. I was forced to tell him that the cat had not been seen for days. I quipped, 'It's probably drowned in all the rain!' To my horror, Malcolm burst into tears.

I know that we late-nineties men are allowed to cry in public, and to show our emotions now, but it still doesn't feel right to me. I had to resist the urge to tell him to pull himself together. I gave him PS20 and told him to buy a Tamagotchi computer pet.

2 a.m. I've just remembered that Malcolm won't be able to read the instructions on how to care for his Tamagotchi. It's probably already dead.

Thursday July 10th Pandora has been attacked in the press for 'crimes against the environment'! She admitted in an interview with Chat magazine to wearing Chanel Ndeg5, and the Green Party were down on her like a felled oak. It seems that Chanel Ndeg5 contains an oil which is extracted from a rare and exotic tree found in endangered Brazilian forests. I rang Edna to commiserate, and she told me that Alastair Campbell has ordered Pandora to go to her const.i.tuency and plant some trees. English oaks, preferably. There is a press call outside the KP nut factory in Ashby-de-la-Zouch on Sunday at 10.30 a.m. I might be there, I need to talk to Pandora in person.

I bought an electronic organizer today on the Tottenham Court Road. I spent all night typing my personal data into it. It's time I streamlined my affairs and became cutting-edge. The thing is amazing in what it can do, yet it's small enough to fit in my pyjama pocket.

Friday July 11th Harriet Harman, the Social Security secretary, has been on radio and television trying to explain about the government's 'Welfare to Work' scheme. Several times she called it a 'crusade'. It has to be said that Mrs Harman has the look of the zealot about her, as well as a constant air of irritation. She should let her fringe grow out, stop wearing smocks and buy an uplift bra. Also, she should stop complaining about s.e.xism in politics. It's most annoying.

Sunday July 13th I was outside the KP nut factory by 10 a.m. with a reporter and photographer from the Leicester Mercury, and a photographer bloke from the Independent, who told me that Pandora was the thinking man's Princess Di.

A small crowd of const.i.tuents were watched by eight policemen, who sat in two patrol cars.

Ahelicopter appearedin the sky over the soap works, hovered about a bit, then landed in the grounds of the nut factory. Pandora jumped out, wearing Rohan-labelled clothes in khaki. She was carrying a gleaming stainless-steel spade. She is the only woman I've ever seen who looked good in outdoor-pursuits wear.

Pandora's entourage emerged from the helicopter with a scruffy man, in a stained jacket and crumpled trousers, called Charlie Whelan. He lit a f.a.g and said, 'Where's the rest of the f--press?'

The photographer from the Independent said, 'They're staking out Kensington Palace. Princess Diana's got a new squeeze, an Arab bloke.'

Pandora said, 'Charlie, where are the trees I've got to plant?'

Charlie slapped his nicotined fingers to his rumpled forehead and said, 'I've left the bleeders at the heliport.'

At this point I took off my baseball cap and dark gla.s.ses and made myself known to Pandora. She didn't look thrilled to see me. She said, 'Adrian! Again! Are you stalking me?'

I a.s.sured her that I was just pa.s.sing, on the way to see my son William. I invited her and her entourage to Sunday lunch at my mother's house. Charlie said, 'I wouldn't mind a beef and Yorkshire pudding job.' They agreed to come, providing I helped them locate some trees. I drove them to Bob Perkins Garden Centre Ltd.

The press followed, and Pandora and the eponymous Bob Perkins were photographed pretending to admire some mildewed saplings, which were leaning up against an industrial greenhouse.

The Leicester Mercury quizzed Pandora about her green credentials: she was all for recycling, clean air and Leicestershire County Council's plans to plant a New Forest, and she was very much against air pollution, poisoned rivers and 'profligate use of electricity and gas'.

As the interview continued, I went into a greenhouse full of hanging baskets and mobiled my mother, who didn't yet know I was in the area. When I told her that I had invited myself and three guests to Sunday lunch, she screamed down the phone. She didn't say anything at first, she just screamed. Eventually she shouted, 'I've got a scraggy breast of lamb, which will just about stretch to feed me, your dad, Rosie and William, I'm out of Oxos and my Yorkshire-pudding tin is badly buckled. You'll have to take them to a restaurant.'

I said, 'If this was Arabia you would give your own eyeb.a.l.l.s to such honoured guests.'

My mother pointed out, quite unnecessarily, that this wasn't Arabia, it was Ashby-de-la-Zouch--and, anyway, why wasn't Pandora going to visit her parents, who only lived round the corner from Bob Perkins Ltd? She said, 'I know they're in because I b.u.mped into Ivan this morning while I was taking the New Dog for a walk.'

I gave a hollow laugh and put the phone down. It was socially embarra.s.sing to have to s.n.a.t.c.h back the invitation to Sunday dinner.

Charlie Whelan moaned, 'I've got the idea of Yorkshire pudding in my head now. My mouth's watering for it.'

When I asked Pandora if her parents would be up to cooking a traditional English roast at short notice, she laughed and said, 'A and C haven't touched meat for years. On Sundays their main meal is scrambled eggs on toast while watching The Antiques Road Show.'

Bob Perkins suggested C. leylandii trees for the KP nut roundabout. So, after Pandora had been photographed planting them, we retired to a McDonalds on the bypa.s.s. It was mainly full of access-day fathers, trying desperately to control their children.

Pandora was constantly pestered by const.i.tuents. Her Filet o' Fish remained untouched.

An old man in a golfing sweater complained that a streetlight outside his bedroom window flickered and kept him awake. An Indian bloke said he had nowhere to park his car. And a mad-looking woman said she was disgusted that Pandora had not paid public tribute to James Stewart, the actor, who had apparently died on July 2nd.

As we were leaving, a bloke in a beige car coat with a walking-stick limped up to Pandora and gave her a sob story about his evil next-door neighbour, who had planted C. leylandii trees along their boundary fence, five years ago. 'They're fifteen feet tall now,' he said, 'and they're blocking my daylight.'

Pandora tapped his name and address into her electronic organizer and said she would see what she could do.

There was a little crowd of schoolchildren on bikes waiting to see the helicopter take off; there was a ratio of one policeman for every two kids. I watched until the chopper was a tiny dot in the darkening sky, then I sat in my car for a long time before driving to Wisteria Walk to see my son.

Monday July 14th Bought an Independent today. Pandora's photograph was on the front. If you look very carefully you can just make out the tip of my nose in the background. I've decided to delay deciding about decision-making until I feel decidedly better. My mental state is fragile.

The ma.n.u.script of my novel, Lo! The Flat Hills of My Homeland, was returned today from a publisher in Osaka, j.a.pan. He wrote that it was 'derivative' but didn't say of what. Perhaps I should change the t.i.tle to something punchier, in the Trainspotting mode. After a lot of thought I have settled on Birdwatching.

Tuesday July 15th I had to leave the flat to shop for Opal Fruits this morning. Then I hurried home and parcelled up Birdwatching- I think I might send it off to Iceland, where I understand they are enjoying a cultural renaissance. I rang a publisher in Reykjavik using the restaurant phone. A woman answered in a language entirely foreign to my ear: Icelandic, I presume. I put the phone down. Until they adopt the English language I fear they will remain totally isolated from the rest of the world.

Wednesday July 16th What am I going to do with the rest of my life? Where will I live? How will I make a living when my work with Pie Crust comes to an end? Am I now formally separated from my wife? How long can a person go without a bowel movement? How much have I got in the bank? Will Savage offer me a job in one of his new enterprises? How long have I got before I am entirely bald? Which reminds me--will the Dome at Greenwich be finished on time? How does Mr Mandelson live with the worry?

Thursday July 17th Dr Ng said that anxiety and insecurity are entirely sane responses to a mad world. He advised me to start a pension plan. So, the National Health has come to this.

I struggled for an hour and a half to evacuate my bowels. Somebody rang on the doorbell of the flat, but whoever it was left no note. In future I will make sure that there is always a book in the lavatory. An hour and a half with my own thoughts was unbearable. A.A. Gill's 't.u.r.ds' review was a particularly painful memory.

Belinda rang to say the Millennium Channel have finally given us a slot. It is 10.30 a.m. Wednesday mornings. I was bitterly disappointed and reminded her that we would be up against Richard and Judy. She said, 'Believe you me, Adrian, if it comes to a ratings war, they'll wonder what hit them.'

Friday July 18th I searched fruitlessly through my fail-safe electronic filing system today, trying to discover the balance of my various accounts. For some reason it wouldn't divulge the information. I went out and bought a new battery from the electrical shop on Old Compton Street. The helpful bloke in there said his electronic organizer had refused to give him his Christmas-card list last year. He went on to tell me about the family row that ensued, but I wasn't listening properly. I spotted Justine coming out of Patisserie Valerie opposite, so I paid the helpful bloke and ran outside to catch up with her. She took my arm as we walked towards Wardour Street. Was she signalling that she wanted to have s.e.x with me? Or was it because she needed support? (She was wearing five-inch platforms.) You can never tell with women, these days.

A colleague of Justine's is giving Malcolm literacy lessons between shows. We arranged to meet on Tuesday and go for a j.a.panese meal.

Sat.u.r.day July 19th My mystery caller on Thursday was Malcolm. He was desperate for news of Humfri. I asked him why he hadn't put a note through the door. 'I can only write 'The cat sat on the lap'!' he said.

Sunday July 20th I spent most of the day poring over Loot, looking for reasonable accommodation in the Soho area. Some joker is asking PS500 a week for a converted linen cupboard (plus access to fire escape), in Poland Street, main services not included. I need to get an update on my financial situation.

I rang my telephone bank and gave my code numbers, 9999, and my pa.s.sword, Yarmouth. The bank official, a pleasant-sounding woman who told me that she was called Marilyn, was horrified that I had disclosed the full pa.s.sword to her. She had been about to ask me what the second letter of the word was. And, had I answered 'A', she would have been able to give me the balance of my Instant Access High Interest Account. 'As it is,' she said, 'you'll need to open a new account. As from now all of your codes are null and void.'

I begged and pleaded with Marilyn to let me into the secrets of my own account, but she said, 'The computer has now closed this account. I'll put another application in the post.'

I said to her, 'Where exactly is my money, Marilyn? Is it in an actual place, like a vault?'

Marilyn said, 'Your money doesn't exist, as such.' She went on, 'Your money, Mr Mole, is an abstraction wafting in the air between financial inst.i.tutions, at the mercy of inflation and interest rates, dependent on the health of the global economy.' She recovered herself and apologized for showing her human face. It was a kamikaze speech.

Marilyn had already told me that our conversation was being recorded. (I tried to extend the conversation, but Marilyn, who admitted to being forty-four, dark-haired, the mother of three and married, said, 'Other customers are waiting, Mr Mole.') Monday July 21st I can't remember the last time I felt the warmth of a naked body.

3 a.m. I remember now, it was last Sunday. The New Dog sat across my lap when I read Grimms' Fairy Tales to William.

4 a.m. Can't sleep for worrying that Justine will turn up for our j.a.panese meal looking like a cheap tart. I know she wears expensive clothes, but she wears them in such a way that they look like News of the World catalogue wear.

Tuesday July 22nd It was as I feared. I couldn't relax in the restaurant. We were hopelessly mismatched. Justine was wearing skimpy red Versace, in honour of his memory, and I was wearing substantial grey Next. I knew my way around the sushi and the tempura and the chopsticks; she shuddered at the raw fish and asked the stern waiter for a knife and fork. She is an intelligent girl, but she hasn't read a book since leaving school. We talked about Cherie Blair, who had spent PS2,000 flying her hairdresser, Andre Luard, out to last month's summit meeting in Denver. We agreed that this was a very American thing to do. 'It's a bit like Elvis flying his favourite cheeseburgers from Memphis to Las Vegas, isn't it?' said Justine.

I replied, 'Power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely.'

Justine said, 'You're so clever, Adrian. Just being with you is an education.'

Wednesday July 23rd Received another application from my telephone bank, Money Direct. I chose 1111 as my number code, and Cromer as my letter code.

Why did I withdraw all my money from the building society in 1995? All I had to do then to check my balance was to ring old Mr Lewisham and he would tell me immediately, and he would even ask after the progress of Lol. It must have broken his heart when I withdrew my PS2,709.26 from the Market Harborough.

Friday July 25th Princess Diana's cleaning bill must be enormous. She is always wearing white clothes lately, giving her the appearance of a virgin or a saint. If I were the boss of Sketchley's I would offer to sponsor her charitable work. She has promised to buy an artificial leg for a bloke called Mohammed.

Sat.u.r.day July 26th I rang Money Direct this morning to check the balance of my account. A non-human voice answered the phone and asked me to wait as 'The lines are busy.' I listened to four minutes of Vivaldi's Four Seasons, before hanging up in disgust.

Rang Front-line Insurance to request a claim form--some b.a.s.t.a.r.d has stolen William's tricycle while he and my mother were in the newsagent's. A robot answered and asked me to hold. It then told me that my call was 'enormously important' to Front-line Insurance. Next it informed me that I was number thirteen in the phone queue. Throughout, Chris de Burgh sang, 'Lady In Red': a song I have always hated. When Rod Stewart started warbling 'Sailing' I slammed the phone down. What has happened to England's telephonists? Has there been a cull? How long have the robots been in charge?

Monday July 28th Justine rang and asked why I have not called her. I could hardly tell her the truth--that I would prefer her to wear something sensible from Marks & Spencer when we are out in public. I told her instead that I was hard at work on my TV series, The White Van. She asked me for a part if it gets commissioned. She's got an Equity card apparently, though how Equity can give out one of its precious cards to a girl who wrestles erotically with a boa constrictor is a total mystery to me. What about the plain-faced, flat-chested drama-school graduate who longs to play Ibsen?

Tuesday July 29th Savage burst into my bedroom at 7 a.m. this morning and ordered me out. I said, 'When?'

He said, 'You've got an hour!'

I said, 'Peter, I've worked for you, on and off, for eight years. I've got nowhere to go. Have mercy.'

He said, 'The builders will be here at eight o'clock, so get the f--out!'

Friday August 1st Justine's Flat--Poland Street Many men would envy me staying here in a penthouse flat in the heart of London with a girl whose name is written in flashing neon lights outside a 'theatre'--so why aren't I happy?

After we'd finished shopping for food in Marks & Spencer, I steered Justine towards the ladies' clothing department. I suggested she try on a nice ecru twinset, in machine-washable wool, together with a pair of easy-fit jeans. She looked at me with horror in her eyes.

Sunday August 3rd Justine's friend, who works on the handbag counter in Harrods, reports that Princess Diana is getting engaged to Dodi Fayed, the son of Mohammed Al-Fayed, the multi-millionaire owner of the Queen's favourite store!

I scoured the press for confirmation of this ridiculous story, and found nothing. I told Justine to stop circulating the rumour.

Monday August 4th Large Alan dropped in today. He didn't look very keen to see me sitting at Justine's kitchen table eating a meal she'd just cooked (angel-hair spaghetti and pesto sauce). He said, 'Justine, you didn't inform me that you'd got a flatmate.'

Justine said, 'It's only Adrian,' as though I were an insentient eunuch. 'We're on separate futons.'

I left the room in some upset, but not before hearing Large Alan say, 'Justine, what do you see in him?'

She replied, 'I like intellectual men. There's more to life than s.e.x, Al.'

Large Alan said, 'Is there?' He sounded genuinely surprised.

Tuesday August 5th I have decided to become celibate. s.e.x is very overrated in my opinion. It's all over in a few minutes and is certainly not worth all the fuss and anguish that goes before.