The Lost Diaries of Adrian Mole Part 11

Anyway, diary, what I said to Mohammed was, "It was your own fault you got stopped by immigration at Dover - you were openly smoking a Disque Bleu f.a.g and you were only 12 years old."

Sunday, January 28 My plan is to take Glenn to Paris for his birthday. It is to be a surprise, so my preparations must be made behind his back. Tonight, I washed and ironed his least gangsterish-looking clothes and hid them in my wardrobe. There is nothing I can do about his hair or the Buffy The Vampire tattoo he's now got on his wrist, but with luck it will be cold and he'll have to roll down his sleeves. I'm looking forward to showing him the Louvre - he's a very lucky boy; I was 26 before I saw that the Mona Lisa wasn't worth the wait in the queue.

Tuesday, January 30 I was checking and re-checking my travel necessities list tonight. Two Eurostar tickets, travellers' cheques, Nurofen, map of Paris, French/English dictionary, pa.s.sports, umbrella. There was something missing. Then the realisation hitme like an orange thrown by a toddler in a supermarket trolley: GLENN DOES NOT HAVE A Pa.s.sPORT!

Wednesday, January 31 Pandora has refused to help fast-track a pa.s.sport for Glenn. I phoned Keith Vaz MP, but there was n.o.body available to take my call.

Adrian Mole: The Cappuccino Years is on BBC1 (not Scotland) on Fridays at 9.30pm.

Friday, February 2, Ashby de la Zouch, Leicestershire I was sitting in the kitchen with a chicken noodle Cuppa-Soup this evening, waiting for the Archers to begin, when to my astonishment I heard my name mentioned on Radio 4. I turned up the volume and listened in growing horror to a "trail" of a television programme featuring a man called Adrian Mole, a former offal chef who's family home is in Ashby de la Zouch.

This TV Mole has a mother called Pauline and a father called George. This cannot be mere coincidence - somebody has published my life and is exploiting it for commercial reasons. I immediately rang my agent's solicitor, Peter Elf, and left a message. The BBC must be prevented from broadcasting this series. Surely I have intellectual copyright on my own life?

I was unable to concentrate on the Archers, and thus missed a strand of an important storyline: will Kate go back to South Africa with her black lover and take her first-born child?

Sat.u.r.day, February 3 Several people, including Pandora, have rung up to enquire about the Mole TV series. Pandora was outraged, though I could tell that she is rather flattered that she is being played by Helen Baxendale.

Monday, February 5 I rang Greg d.y.k.e's office at 7am this morning, but the slug-a-bed was not at his bed. Do we licence-payers award a full-time salary to a man who apparently works part-time? It would appear so.

Mr Elf warned me against taking out an injunction against the BBC. He said, "It would be a David and Goliath situation." I pointed out to him that little David was in fact the victor against the giant Goliath. Elf replied, "In my opinion, David struck lucky with that stone. Goliath obviously had a very thin skull."

Tanya Braithwaite brought last week's Radio Times around this morning. Inside, was a "film-set diary" purported to have been written by a bloke calling himself Adrian Mole. This Mole bloke was also upset that his life was being exploited.

A friend of Tanya's in publishing had told her that an old hack called Sue Townsend had been trying for years to publish the secret diaries of Adrian Mole, claiming that they were fiction. She showed me a piece of the ma.n.u.script. I read in increasing astonishment as details of my private life were revealed. How does this woman know so much about me? Is she tapping my phone? Has she bugged my house? Tanya said that Townsend grew bitter after going on an Arvon poetry course led by Adrian Henri and Roger McGough, where Henri told her that she was not a poet and never would be after she handed in a poem called A Contemplation Regarding Earwig Defecation: How to measure earwig poo?

How to know how much they do?

Are there scales to measure it Those tiny piles of earwig s.h.i.t?

Townsend then made a hysterical denunciation of modern poetry and ran out of the cla.s.s and down to the river. She threatened to throw herself in unless Adrian Henri sent her earwig poem to Bloodaxe with a recommendation that they commission a thick volume of her verse. Adrian Henri came to the opposite bank and shouted across the river, "Throw yourself in and give us all a break."

Townsend has hated all men called Adrian since that day. AA Gill is another of her obsessions. Is she the reason my own literary endeavours have come to nought?

Tuesday, February 6 Leicester-born painter Adrian Hemming has fled the country after hearing that Townsend is an admirer of his work. "I heard that she was planning to buy one of my 'wave' pictures and hang it in her bathroom," he said from his hiding place. "I must protect my name."

Sunday, February 11, Ashby de la Zouch Does the psychological medical establishment formally recognise Ikea rage? I think I suffered three separate episodes of it today. The first came in the car park, when a small child, who appeared to be in charge of parking, turned me away from a disabled s.p.a.ce. I showed him a photocopy of a letter from my doctor, which clearly stated that I was suffering from a medical condition, but he indicated that I must back out of the s.p.a.ce and allow an invalid carriage driven by an old git in a neck brace to drive in. Dr Ng's letter: Dear Mr Mole Further to your many visits to the surgery this week. Your blood test results have returned from the lab and show beyond doubt that you are not suffering from HIV, BSG or MRSC. Your heart, kidney, liver, lungs and brain are functioning normally for a man of your age. You are, however, suffering from severe hypochondria. I have discussed your case with my colleagues, Drs Singh and O'Neil, and they are satisfied that my diagnosis is correct. May I suggest that you examine other areas of your life for the cause of your unhappiness.

Dr Ng PS: In future, please do not visit the surgery or request a home visit unless you are certain that you are suffering from a life-threatening illness.

The second Ikea rage attack occurred in the Storage System section, when Glenn disputed my measurements for the run of Billy bookcases I'd planned to install in the living room. "I'm tellin' yer, Dad, you ain't gonna get three of 'em against that back wall," he said. We faced up to each other as weary shoppers tramped by. I was aware of Glenn's testosterone pumping through his teenage body. "I will not have you questioning my calculations," I roared, and Glenn stormed off with his tail between his legs. I eventually caught up with him in Bathrooms, where he was standing in a shower stall, sullenly examining the fixtures. In the warehouse, he silently helped me to lug three flatpack Billy bookcases on to a trolley. If he'd been in the army, I could have charged him with dumb insolence.

My third attack came in the 10-deep queue, when the woman customer at the till insisted on opening the five boxes containing a fitted wardrobe and proceeded to count the screws. My temples pulsed with irritation so much that I feared that I would suffer an aneurysm and be carried out in a flatpack coffin.

Monday, February 12 I rang Pandora at the Commons and asked her to translate the Swedish instructions for a.s.sembling the Billy bookcases. As I waited for her to fax them to me, I marvelled at her courteous and helpful tone. Then I remembered: she will be fighting a marginal seat in May, and every vote will count, including mine.

Tuesday, February 13 I have tried and failed to a.s.semble the Billy bookcases. There is obviously something in my genetic make-up that prevents me from holding a screwdriver in one hand while sinking screws into a hole in a plank of wood with the other. I now divide the world into those who can and those who can't a.s.semble Ikea furniture. Can list: Paul Daniels, Frank Bruno, William Hague, Madonna, Princess Anne, Glenn Bott. Can't list: Peter Mandelson, Caroline Aherne, Prince Charles, Sir Edward Heath.

Wednesday, February 14, Valentine's Day Not a single card. Not one. Nothing. Glenn received 11. They are standing proudly on top of the two Billy bookcases he a.s.sembled last night. The third didn't fit.

Thursday, February 15 A Valentine's card arrived this morning from Pamela Pigg. The cheapskate had affixed a second-cla.s.s stamp. Inside, she had written, "Let's try again."

Sunday, February 18, Ashby-de-la-Zouch I organised my library tonight using my own idiosyncratic alphabetical system. So, the first book on my Billy bookcases was AA Gill's Collected Works. The last was zzz's, The Insomniac's Handbook.

In between, of course, were the tomes penned by the masters and mistresses of literature. How I longed to join them!

I went to bed after loading the washing machine with a pile of mixed coloureds but woke only an hour later worrying about the escalating tension in Iraq. Glenn keeps asking me awkward questions about Britain's role in the protection of the no-fly zone. Such as: "'Ow can it be cold protection, Dad, when old people an' little 'uns got killed?" He is an unsophisticated boy and can't quite grasp the subtleties of the situation. I tossed on my pillow, haunted by past humiliations: the time my mother came to a parents' evening at Neil Armstrong comprehensive wearing yellow tights; the day my father and I sat on a bus together and he began to sing If I Ruled The World; my wedding night, when I couldn't unfasten the cord of my pyjama trousers and my bride, Jo Jo, was forced to cut it with the scissors on her Swiss army knife, my screams brought the night porter to our room having been summoned by an irritable executive next door.

At 4.10am I gave up trying to sleep and went downstairs. I sat at my desk in the living room alcove and found myself beginning the first sentence of a new novel. I don't have a t.i.tle yet but I am rather pleased with the first page.

Chapter 1.

Larry Topper blinked through his owl-like gla.s.ses as the public school, The Academy, hove into view. He turned to his guardian, Uncle Edward (his parents were both dead, killed by a bomb whilst on holiday in Iraq). 'I say, Uncle Ted,' piped Larry, 'I rather think I'm going to be jolly happy here.' Larry's glance took in the topiary which lit tered the large, vibrant green, well manicured, soft underfoot, lawns. Uncle Ted's kindly eyes twinkled like fairy lights before the fuse blows.

'I should hope so, young sir,' Ted rumbled in his voice which sounded like the distant roar of a bomber taking off.

Uncle Edward crunched his antique car along the gravel drive until it came to rest at the main entrance where a bored looking boy stood smoking a St Moritz menthol cigarette. This was Brett Longshank, head boy and aristocrat who was a star of the rugger field and a genius in the cla.s.sroom.

Larry gawped in awe at Brett's exquisite air of nonchalance. 'I say, Uncle,' he said, 'what a spiffing role model that fellow is.'

Uncle Ted's brow furrowed and looked like a ploughed field after several horses had dragged a plough over it.

'That's Lady Nancy Longshank's son,' he said disapprovingly. 'And I happen to know that he is addicted to crack cocaine, keep away from him, Larry, d'you hear me? Keep away from him.'

Monday, February 19 I may give Larry magical powers. I could have an entirely original bestseller on my hands!

Tuesday, February 20 Pamela Pigg is hounding me with romantic, indeed s.e.xually explicit, text messages. I texed her back and asked her to stop, but her ardour seemed only to intensify. Her last message came at 2.15am. She wrote: U R 4 Me I No u Luv Me 2.

I have decided to call my new novel Larry Topper, Boy Wizard. I have emailed the first page to Brick Eagleburger, my agent.

Wednesday, February 21 Dreamt that Gordon Brown was prime minister. Received a text message from Brick. It read: JK Rowling, you aint. But stupid U R.

Sunday, March 11, Ashby-de-la-Zouch Vince Ludlow, my next-door neighbour, has got a new job. He calls himself an Animal Incineration Operative. He is uniquely qualified for this gruesome employment, having served several sentences in youth custody for arson, and actively disliking animals, claiming, "They spoil the countryside." He is the only person I know who is hoping that the foot-and-mouth crisis worsens. He is eagerly awaiting a state of emergency to be declared. He is planning to buy his council house on the overtime hees earning.

I was disturbed to hear that he was in the Lamb's Head car park on Sat.u.r.day night selling cheap cuts of beef from the back of his van.

Monday, March 12 Peter Mandelson sounds increasingly like Joan of Arc. One can practically see the burning f.a.ggots under his feet. I saw him on the news a few days ago, handing out apples to schoolchildren in Hartlepool. He looked vaguely sinister. I was reminded of Snow White, whose simple, trusting nature was taken advantage of by the hag at the window proffering c.o.xes Pippins.

Pamela Pigg's surname has been causing her considerable distress. A woman in Sketchley's openly sn.i.g.g.e.red when Pamela gave her name. She made a cra.s.s joke about foot and mouth and cloven hooves. Pamela fled the shop in tears and drove to my house, where she distracted me just as I was about to finish the first paragraph of my latest novel, Krog Of Gork. I made Pamela a cup of the dandelion tea she is so fond of and tried to listen sympathetically as she recounted the many humiliations she had suffered due to her unfortunate name. However, my thoughts kept straying to Krog Of Gork.

As Pamela sobbed at the memory of her first day as a trainee teacher, I mentally composed the second paragraph of Krog ...Krog climbed to the brow of the hill. He looked down to the mouth of the cave. His woman was poking the fire with a twig. Krog sighed deeply. He wished his woman was beautiful, but make-up and hair dyes had not yet been invented. And neither had Immac. Krog picked a handful of red berries and loped down the hill towards the fire and the woman he loved. Language had yet to be invented but he grunted a greeting to his woman and she grunted back. Krog offered her the berries, she s.n.a.t.c.hed them from his hand and crammed them into her black-toothed mouth. ?'here should be something called manners,' Krog thought, as he watched the juice from the berries spray from her lips. A dinosaur brayed in the distance, the sound echoed across the Neanderthal landscape. Krog picked up his spear and put his arm protectively around his woman. She turned her face towards him, her lips were stained red. 'My G.o.d, youere beautiful,' grunted Krog. His loins stirred. He led his woman into his cave.

Pamela Pigg stayed the night, but intimacy did not take place. At 11pm, I suggested that she change her name by deed poll. She said it would kill her father. The Piggs went back to the Plantagenets. She said that her only salvation was to change her name by marriage. She looked pointedly at me. I turned away and feigned sleep.

Tuesday, March 13 There was a farmer called Brown on Midlands Today, tonight, claiming that he was forced to feed his livestock antibiotics and British Airways leftovers, and to keep them in cages in darkness because the public demanded cheap food. Strange, but I do not recall the citizenry rioting outside Parliament for the cause of 5p off a pound of beef. However, I predict that it won't be long before hoteliers, rugby players, jockeys, canoeists, anorak makers, mountaineering boot retailers and mystery tour coach drivers mobilise and march on Downing Street demanding compensation.

Friday, March 16

I went to visit my father today in the isolation ward. He was due to be discharged yesterday, but has contracted yet another hospital superbug. Some of his blood, and several of his mucous membranes, are in the hospital laboratory being tested. Tracy, his barrier nurse, was reading aloud to him an article on foot and mouth from the Daily Telegraph. When she quoted, "Farmers are the custodians of the countryside", my father roared, "The b.a.s.t.a.r.ds have ruined the bleeding countryside. They have pulled up the hedges, polluted the rivers, fed their animals on s.h.i.t, and bled the taxpayer dry." My father is wildly prejudiced against farmers. In the early days of their marriage, he suspected that my mother had an affair with a maggot farmer. It is strange how such a tenuous connection can colour our opinions. I, myself, have not stepped foot in the county of Kent since my enemy, Barry Kent, had his novel short-listed for the Booker prize.

I didn't stay long at his bedside, as I was anxious to get back to my prehistoric novel, Krog From Grok. I am enjoying the challenge of writing a book set in a time before language was invented. I tried to interest my father in the challenge, but could tell by the way he yawned and closed his eyes that he had little enthusiasm for my latest literary endeavour. After a desultory conversation about the umpiring in Sri Lanka, I left the stifling atmosphere of his isolation cubicle.

Tracy resumed her reading. As I got to the end of the ward, I heard my father shout, "n.o.body compensated me when the electric storage heater industry collapsed. n.o.body came to film the rusty heaps of storage heaters lying in the fields."

Sat.u.r.day, March 17

My mother has been released from Holloway. The Crown Prosecution Service has lost the papers relating to her case. She was distraught to discover that her newish husband, Ivan Braithwaite, was back living at The Lawns with his ex-wife, Tanya. They claim that they are living like brother and sister.

Sunday, March 18, lunchtime

There was a farmer's wife on the midday news sobbing because her healthy baby lambs were going to be slaughtered. Me, William and Glenn watched with tears in our eyes. Then Glenn said, after blowing his nose, "Dad, what would 'ave 'appened to them little lambs if foot and mouth 'adn't broke out?"

I try not to lie to my sons. I replied, "Those little lambs would have been herded into a truck, driven to a far-away abattoir, killed and hung on a hook, before being cut into pieces." Perhaps I shouldn't have been so graphic, as both boys have since informed me that, from now on, they will eat only vegetarian food. This is extremely annoying. As I write, a leg of lamb is cooking in the oven.

Monday, March 19

I rang Pandora on her mobile; she was at Wells-next-the-Sea, trying to charm a crowd of suspicious whelk workers. Apparently, female whelks are still mutating and growing p.e.n.i.ses. "And the b.l.o.o.d.y cod have practically disappeared," she complained. I tried to comfort her by saying, "At least you were not called to give evidence in front of Elizabeth Filkin and her committee in the Vaz case." Her phone immediately cut off. The signal must be weak on the Norfolk coast.

Tuesday, March 20

Progress on the novel:

Krog squatted behind his wife, picking lice from her matted hair. Her belly was big with child. Krog did not know why. Krog wanted to tell his wife how much he loved her. He wished that somebody would hurry up and invent language and clothes and shampoo. Then Krog spoke to his wife: 'You woman, me man.'

Sat.u.r.day, March 31 I'm glad to see the end of this accurs-ed month. William went into the back garden to try out his new red wellingtons. Minutes later, he had to be rescued by me and Glenn after sinking up to his waist in the squelching bog that used to be the lawn.

Michael Fish told me and my fellow British TV gogglers at lunchtime today that the previous 12 months had been the wettest since records had been kept. I said to Michael, "I'm not surprised, Mike."

I was about to tell him about William's near miss when I realised, to my horror, that Michael Fish would not have been able to hear me. I must get out more.

As I was cooking the boys' Quorn burgers tonight, I had a sudden brainwave, and phoned Pandora on her direct number at the Ministry of Agriculture, Fisheries and Food. She answered at once. For a joke, I pretended to be the chief vet of Norfolk. I said, "Moi dear gal, oi'm the chief vet of Norfolk. Oi'm sorry gal, but Oi've got bad news, there's been a serious outbreak of beak and claw down here. More than 11 million chickens and turkeys are affected."

She gave an audible gasp. Then said, "Christ, what next? Is it safe to eat the eggs?"

I answered in my newly acquired Norfolk accent, "No, my dear, they must be gathered from their coops, stamped, ?DO NOT INGEST. THIS EGG IS CARRYING THE BEAK AND CLAW VIRUS'."

There was silence and she stifled a sob. She then shouted across the office, "Get me Tony, at once!" She then spoke urgently to somebody nearby, and I heard a male voice shout, "f.u.c.kin' 'ell, there's beak 'n' claw in Norfolk!" He sounded hysterical.

I was starting to regret my deception, but when Pandora asked me if she should arrange for the poultry to be slaughtered and the eggs to be buried, for some reason I answered, "Put the birds out of their misery, by all means, but the eggs could come in useful - for throwing at politicians during the run-up to the general election."

After I'd slammed down the phone, I was ashamed of myself. Pandora was so proud of her recent promotion to junior minister for poultry. I tried to ring back, but the phones in her office were permanently engaged. What I had intended to suggest to her was that, rather than destroy infected sheep, instead each household in Britain be given a skinned and disembowelled carca.s.s to put in the freezer. After all, foot and mouth presents no danger to we h.o.m.o sapiens. (To keep things fair, vegetarians could be given a token for a bag of turnips or something.) This would surely win votes for new Labour.

Sunday, April 1, April Fool's Day A Leicester courier firm, 24-7, woke me early this morning with the most wonderful letter of my life: Dear Adrian Mole, My name is Louise Moore. I am an editor at Penguin Books UK Ltd. I will cut quickly to the chase. While lunching in the Ivy yesterday with Will Self and Martin Amis, I could not help but overhear a conversation at the next table between two agents. They were discussing your unfinished ma.n.u.script, Krog From Gork. I was gripped by the story of how Krog invents man's first language, thus enabling him to tell his wife that he loves her.

Penguin would like to offer you PS1m for a two-book deal. Please ring me at 9.30am on Monday.

Yours sincerely Louise Moore.

Monday, April 2 My birthday cards were ill.u.s.trated by the usual symbols of masculinity: vintage cards, foaming tankards and fishing rods.

At 9.30 precisely, I rang Ms Moore's number. Pandora answered. "April Fool, you birthday boy b.a.s.t.a.r.d,"she shouted before slamming down the phone.

Friday, April 6, Arthur Askey Way, Ashby-de-la-Zouch A belated birthday card from Pamela Pigg. On the front, a picture of a middle-aged git, sitting at a rustic table outside a thatched pub. A black labrador lies at the git's feet, next to a wicker basket from which protrude several fishing rods, nets, etc. The git is wearing a green waxed jacket and a deerstalker, and is raising a foaming tankard to his self-satisfied lips. In the background is a vintage car, presumably owned by the git.