The Lost Diaries of Adrian Mole Part 2

"The last bloke what lived in your 'ouse murdered his brother-in-law then 'ung himself from that tree," she said with obvious relish. I went back inside and phoned the homeless unit. I left a message on Pamela Pigg's voicemail, demanding an immediate transfer.

Friday, February 18 Nigel came round tonight and brought me a bunch of Stargazer lilies. As he handed them to me, he said, "Congratulations on finally coming out, Moley."

After I had vehemently protested my heteros.e.xuality, Nigel said, "Well, I was told by a council worker that you had claimed on an official form that you were a gay single father. You're obviously in denial."

He and his partner, Cliff, have planned a "coming out" dinner party for me. "It'll just be a few close friends," he said. "Cliff's doing the Naked Chef's aubergine-and-pasta bake." I told him that I loathed aubergines, and he s.n.a.t.c.hed the lilies back and left. A pity. He is my best, indeed only, friend and I need to confess to somebody about my growing pa.s.sion for Mrs Peggy Ludlow.

Sat.u.r.day, February 19 Glenn's maths homework project is to draw a graph ill.u.s.trating the result of the Livingstone, Dobson, Jackson mayoral race. Clorette Ludlow, the eldest daughter, is pregnant! I heard the row through the party-wall. Peggy screamed, "Why din't you take precautions, you stupid mare?" Clorette screamed back "Tony an' Cherie slipped up, an' they're both brain-boxes, so shurrup, our mam". I fear that the PM and his wife are not setting a good example to the nation's young, contraception wise.

Sunday, February 20 Glenn is in despair over his maths homework: "It's no good, dad," he said after putting the Electoral College results into his calculator. "It don't matter how I do the percentages, I still can't work out how Mr Dobson won." I wrote a note to the school saying that the boy had tried his best.

Sunday, February 20, Arthur Askey Way (Continued) Nigel rang and apologised for his faux pas about my s.e.xual orientation. He begged me to go to dinner tonight, saying Cliff, his partner, was longing to meet me.

Just returned from dinner. There was one other guest, a gay headmaster, who until recently was having a clandestine affair with his school caretaker, who broke it off when he heard his headmaster lover on local radio hypocritically arguing for the retention of Clause 28.

Glenn was visiting his mother's, so I took William with me - much to the annoyance of Cliff. On opening the door to their loft apartment in the old dog- biscuit factory alongside the ca.n.a.l, Cliff said, "This is a kiddiewinkie-free zone, stranger." I said, "I'm Adrian Mole, and this is William." Cliff said, "This is not a child-friendly household, we have objets d'art and white slip covers ..." Nigel hurried across the industrial flooring to greet us. "Don't mind Cliff, Aidy, he's famously rude." Cliff smirked, and went to a stainless-steel kitchen area, where he began to throw whiskery prawns into a batter and then into a smoking wok.

The headmaster arrived and proceeded to yak on in tedious detail about his bust-up with the caretaker. I tried to change the conversation by asking Nigel about his new job as a feng-shui adviser, but the odious Cliff interrupted me: "We have a house rule, Mole, no work talk at la table. "

It was the first time I had eaten j.a.panese food cooked by an Englishman. William eyed the sushi with alarm and whispered, "Please, Dad, can I have a bowl of Coco Pops." The headmaster suspended his whispered monologue to Cliff about the goings-on in the boiler room to lecture William on the perils of E numbers in breakfast cereals. I left soon after I had initiated an argument about the prawn tempura. I told Cliff that he should have cooked it at the last moment before serving rather than trying to keep it warm on a hostess trolley for 20 minutes. He went berserk. When we got home, Glenn told me that Peggy Ludlow had called round to borrow some HP sauce. I forgot myself and asked Glenn what Peggy was wearing. He said, "A leopardskin." I said, "A leopardskin what ? He said, "Just a leopardskin, dad." I slept fitfully. Why am I s.e.xually attracted to such a common woman?

Monday, February 21 The BBC Drama Department has finally returned the script of my serial killer comedy, The White Van. The letter said, "This department is not minded to produce a 12-part series about a serial killer who uses a white van for his nefarious activities. Especially as this is Mr William Hague's chosen mode of transport for his "Keep The Pound" campaign.

Tuesday, February 22 Nigel is living here temporarily. He and Cliff are finished. It seems the prawn tempura row went on after I left and continued non-stop for almost two days. Nigel turned up on my doorstep sobbing. To comfort him I told him that I hated Cliff. Nigel whined, "But I lurve him," like one of those pathetic trailer-trash morons on the Jerry Springer Show.

Wednesday, February 23 Pamela Pigg from the Homeless Unit called unexpectedly this afternoon. She said that an anonymous caller had left a message on her voicemail exposing me as a heteros.e.xual who'd lied about my s.e.xuality in order to procure a council house. Fortunately, I was half-way through bleaching Nigel's roots at the time, so she took in the scene, apologised and left.

Sunday, February 27 Leicester won the Worthington Cup today. Glenn said, "Dad, I ain't never been so 'appy." For once, I didn't correct the boy's grammar.

Monday, February 28, 2000, Arthur Askey Way Glenn returned home from school today with a letter from his physical education teacher, Mr Lunt. It said: "Dear Mr Mole, Glenn gave me the following note at the beginning of games today. Although it is not written in Glenn's handwriting, I feel sure that it is not written in yours either."

I read the enclosed ill-written note. It said: "Dear Mr Lunt, something tragic 'as happened to Glenn my son he has got a terminal decease and he wont live long it is only a matter of time he dous not no so dont tell him it wood be better if he did not do cross country running as it mite set him off yours sinserly Mr Mole."

Glenn broke down and admitted that he had persuaded his mother, Sharon Bott, to write the note. He said,"I 'ate cross-country runnin', Dad. We 'ave to wear shorts an' run through villages an' the villagers laugh an' call me chicken legs."

I confronted Sharon in her chaotic kitchen, where she was defrosting chicken korma for the kids' tea. Not for the first time, I was appalled that I had once enjoyed s.e.xual relations with this woman. She now makes Moby d.i.c.k look dainty.

As she prised the lids off the foil containers, she whined, "I've gotta soft heart, Aidy, I don't like to think of our Glenn 'aving the p.i.s.s took out of him."

I asked her not to interfere in Glenn's education in future. She said, "I am his mother. 'E's got 'alf my genes."

I said, "Yes, the grammar, punctuation and spelling genes, unfortunately." As I was leaving, she said, "I still love you to bits, Aidy." I pretended not to hear her I wrote Mr Lunt the following reply: "Dear Mr Lunt, My own adolescence was made a torment by taunts about my acned complexion. Glenn has a similar complex about his abnormally thin legs. Will you please allow Glenn to wear tracksuit trousers on his next cross-country run, or change the route and stick to unpopulated fields and lanes in future, thus avoiding the taunts of ignorant fox-killing, songbird-culling, hedge-removing, river-polluting country dwellers. I remain Sir, AA Mole."

Tuesday, February 29 Leap Day. A letter from the Rt Hon Neil Kinnock! Whom I met once when I was the offal chef in Hoi Polloi, the Soho restaurant before it was reopened as the Oxygen Bar, H2O.

The letter said: "Dear Mr Mole, I have great pleasure in enclosing your invitation to the Labour Party Centenary Dinner on Monday, April 10, 2000. I will be hosting the evening, and I am delighted that once again the Prime Minister will be our guest of honour.

"As you may expect there will be very strict security. I regret therefore that I am unable to give you the exact location at this stage except to say that it will be at a central London hotel..."

I obviously made a lasting impression on Mr Kinnock. He must have truly enjoyed his sheep's t.e.s.t.i.c.l.e in blackcurrant coulis.

8.30pm Sharon Bott has just left this house in tears. She arrived uninvited at 7.30 in a taxi. She produced a bottle of Safeway's Cava, then got down on one huge knee and asked me to marry her. I turned her down. Glenn was disappointed. He said, "I would 'ave bin the only one in our cla.s.s to 'ave a mam and dad livin' together."

Wednesday, March 1 A terse reply from Lunt: "Dear Mr Mole, The wearing of tracksuit trousers is prohibited during cross-country runs. Best wishes, Mr Lunt. PS As a country dweller, I find your remarks about country folk extremely offensive."

Friday, March 3 My mother has just pointed to the small print at the bottom of my Centenary Dinner invitation. The tickets cost PS600. I have made an optician's appointment.

Sunday, March, 5, 2000, Arthur Askey Way I spent the day debating with myself - should I continue to fight the tracksuit-trousers ban on Glenn's behalf or should I give in, thus subjecting the lad to mental torture during cross-country runs and possible trauma in later life? I rang around and sought the opinion of others. My father reminded me that he had "gone out on a limb" to support me when I stood up against the tyrannical headmaster, pop-eyed Scruton, by wearing red socks to school, thereby defying the black-socks-only rule. My mother said, "Give in, Aidy - you can't beat Jack Straw's authoritarian regime."

I rang my MP, Pandora Braithwaite, who had joined me in my red-socks rebellion 20 years ago. She said, "Can't talk now, darling, I've got Ken and Frank round for dinner, and I'm about to serve the pig's brains in goat's cheese." So, it is as I suspected all along! Ken Livingstone and Frank Dobson are hand-in-glove with each other. Their true enemy is Tony Blair. They have conspired to make Mr Blair look as though he can't control his party.

After Glenn had gone to bed, I wrote to his headmaster, Roger Patience: Dear Mr Patience, My son, Glenn Bott, has abnormally thin legs, of which he is very self-conscious. In the circ.u.mstances, would you please make an exception to your PE-shorts-only rule and allow him to wear tracksuit trousers during cross-country runs.

Yours, A A Mole Tuesday, March 7, Shrove Tuesday Peggy Ludlow came round at tea-time to borrow flour, a lemon, eggs, milk, a frying pan and oil. I said, sarcastically, "Wouldn't it be simpler if I made your pancakes in my kitchen?" She agreed, and the whole Ludlow family trooped round and sat in my living room watching Jerry Springer while I tossed in the kitchen until my wrist was aching.

Vince Ludlow doesn't seem to do any work, though his family are always well rigged-out in designer clothes. Peggy continues to invade my thoughts. Today she was wearing a snakeskin sleeveless shift dress. It was the first time I'd seen her upper arms. She has several tattoos, the most recent being a depiction of Jeremy Paxman's head. When I said that I, too, was a fan of Newsnight, she said that she had asked for Jeremy Clarkson and was suing the tattooist.

Wednesday, March 8, Ash Wednesday My mother invited me and the boys to a No Smoking Day party to celebrate her proposed new status as a non-smoker. We arrived slightly late, at 7.30. She answered the door looking irritable: "You've missed the ashtray-smashing ceremony." At 7.45, she smoked her last cigarette in the garden, surrounded by family and friends. Tears ran down her tobacco-ravaged face. Ivan then ceremoniously applied a nicotine patch to her upper-arm. When I strolled back into the house, it didn't seem the same without its perpetual pall of smoke. No reply yet from Patience regarding the tracksuit trousers.

Thursday, March 9 A telephone call from the school secretary to tell me that Roger Patience can now be reached only on the following e-mail address: Friday, March 10 I called on my mother unexpectedly this afternoon: she was smoking a cigarette and both wearing nicotine and chewing it. She begged me not to tell Ivan.

Sat.u.r.day, March 11 I went to see Pandora at the ceremony to close down the community centre on this estate. She told me that her dinner guests were Ken Dodd and Frank Skinner - a grim night, then.

Sunday, March 12, 2000, Arthur Askey Way The tracksuit row drags on. The headmaster is refusing to budge. I ordered Glenn to don his tracksuit before the cross-country run, and to return home if he was ordered by his PE teacher to take it off. Glenn was home by 11.15 with the following note.

Dear Mr Mole, As I have stated ad nauseam, Glenn is not allowed to wear a tracksuit during cross-country runs. It was the wearing of shorts and vests in sub-zero temperatures that put the backbone into our young men and enabled our great country to win two world wars and several rowing medals at the Atlanta Olympics in 1996.

Yours, R Patience (Chief Executive), Neil Armstrong Community College I rang Pandora at the Commons and was put through to a call centre where a recorded voice told me to press the star b.u.t.ton if I was a const.i.tuent, or the hash b.u.t.ton if I had a complaint about the NHS, street lighting or council house transfers.

I listened in fury as the voice took me through numbers one to eight before telling me to "press b.u.t.ton nine if you wish to speak to a person directly". "At last," I said, "I get to speak to Pandora." But it wasn't she. It was Lorraine from the call centre, who, after acrimonious exchange, informed me that "my call was being recorded".

I rang my new stepmother (and Pandora's mother), Tania, and asked for Pandora's email address. "I'm cleaning out the koi carp pond, Adrian," she said. "Could you ring me back at a more convenient time?"

"So, you are putting your koi carp pets in front of your step-grandson's dilemma, are you?" I said angrily.

"As a matter of fact, I am," she snapped. "I agree with Patience. Shorts and vests did make this country great." It's true: advancing age does turn people right-wing. Tania used to be a leading radical in the political circles of Ashby-de-la-Zouch.

Tuesday, March 14 Now William is in trouble at school for opining that Posh Spice should be the next Queen of England. According to him, Mrs Claricoates, his teacher, made him sit in the Wendy-and-Kevin house alone during storytime. As a punishment, I know that's not exactly in the bamboo-under-the-fingernails league, but he was still upset when he got home and totally confused about the hereditary principle.

I kept Glenn at home today while I considered my next move in the tracksuit row: a letter to Jeremy Corbyn? Alert the Leicester Mercury? Or a pet.i.tion?

Wednesday, March 15 Vince Ludlow has been arrested for failing to pay PS140 arrears! Four policemen served a warrant on him at 7.30am. Apparently, he was fined PS280 in October 1997. He stole the bra.s.s k.n.o.b from the door of the magistrates court after celebrating his birthday at Sn.o.bs in town. Peggy was distraught as, from our respective doorsteps, we watched the police van turn the corner. She sobbed, "Vince gone, and not a bleedin' f.a.g in the 'ouse."

Thursday, March 16 My father is worried about Longbridge. "It's b.l.o.o.d.y tragic. How'mi gonna get spares for the Rover?"

Saw Lizzie Broadway, my old schoolfriend, in the newsagents. She was buying cat food. I asked if she lived on the estate. "G.o.d, no," she said. "Do I look socially excluded?" before hurrying towards her BMW on the kerb, where a gang of local lads were measuring the hub caps with a tape measure.

Friday, March 17, St Patrick's Day Pandora rang and ordered me to stop hara.s.sing her. In only three minutes she used the words "clear" or "clearly" 19 times. Is it now compulsory for politicians to use this word?

Monday, March 20, 2000 Glenn's photograph is on the front of tonight's Ashby Bugle. The headline said, "Glen cross about country run." It was not a flattering portrait: the combination of his new Beckham haircut and the way he was scowling into the sun gave him the look of a youth at a fascist training camp. As I paid for my copy, a pensioner behind me looked at Glenn and said, "I wunt like to meet him down a dark alley."

I longed to tell the mustachioed lard-belly that Glenn was a good boy, but she picked an argument with the newsagent about non-delivery of her People's Friend, so I left without defending my son. When I got home, I read the article with growing disgust; it was littered with inaccuracies.

To the Editor, the Ashby Bugle

Dear Sir, It is not my habit to write to the papers, but I must on this occasion as you have written an ill-informed and inaccurate article about my son, Glenn, and his refusal to wear shorts during cross-country running at his school, Neil Armstrong Comprehensive.

1. Glen is Glenn. You misspelt his name throughout.

2. I am Adrian Mole, not A Drain-Mole.

3. I am 33 years old, not 73.

4. I am not 'unemployed'; I am currently writing a serial-killer-comedy for the BBC called The White Van.

5. Glenn does not wear an earring in his right ear. He wears it in his left lobe.

6. Glenn does not have the support of our MP, Dr Pandora Braithwaite. She refused to back our campaign. I quote from her recent email: "I am too fg busy with the Onion Working Party to faff about with fg school uniform issues."

I remain, Sir, yours, A Mole, father of Glenn Tuesday, March 21 Glenn came to me tonight as I was ironing and listening to the Archers. He begged me to allow him back to school, and said he would happily wear white shorts on cross-country runs. I reminded him that Midlands Today was interested in covering his campaign on its news spot.

He said, "It's not my campaign any more, Dad. It's yours." As I ironed his white shorts, I reflected on the sacrifices parents make for their children. I'll be a laughing stock at the next parents' evening.

Thursday, March 23 The following letter was in the Bugle tonight.

Dear Editor

The BBC would like to make it clear that Adrian Mole has not been commissioned by us to write a serial-killer-comedy called The White Van.

Yours sincerely, Geoffrey Perkins (Head of Comedy) So, the BBC now employ spies to read the regional newspapers, does it? Inst.i.tutional paranoia or what?

Friday, March 24 Pamela Pigg from the homeless unit called round on her way home from work, to tell me there's a vacant maisonette on the Prescott Estate. "It's a new housing complex, purpose-built for tenants aspiring to join the new middle cla.s.s."

She said that Alan t.i.tchmarsh had been consulted about the design of the patio/wheelie bin area. He had declined, but as Pamela said, "At least he was consulted."

I made her a cup of Kenco and broached the delicate matter of changing her name by deed poll. She got very defensive and said there had been a Pigg in the Domesday Book, a Pigg at Ypres, and recently a Pigg had been awarded an OBE for services to the post office. When I said tentatively, "Yes, but how can a Mole go out with a Pigg?" she said shyly, "Well, we'd be Pamela and Adrian, wouldn't we?"

Sat.u.r.day, March 25 Pamela and I had our first tryst watching the boat race. I bet her PS500 that Cambridge would win, but I don't care. I think I may be in love with a woman called Pigg.

Tuesday, March 28, 2000 It's Pamela! Pamela! Pamela! I keep whispering her name to myself. However, I don't whisper her surname - Pigg - though I remain optimistic that she will eventually seize the day and change her name by deed poll.

But oh, those sublime three syllables: Pam-e-la. It's Abba's music! It's a mountain stream. It's Leicester Town Hall gardens with the cherry blossom out. It's Edward Heath's laugh. It's a refrigerated Crunchie bar.

But Pigg. Pigg is brutish and short. It's slurry. It's the Queen Mother's teeth. It's that local authority p.r.i.c.kly stuff that thrives next to inner ring roads. It's the predictable twist at the end of a Jeffrey Archer story. It's Ann Widdecombe's fringe.

Wednesday, March 29 Am I in love? I rang Nigel at work, and he faxed me a questionnaire. Some of the questions were relevant, some were not. He told me that if I answer yes to any four, then I am definitely in love. He had scribbled on the bottom that the questionnaire was obviously prepared for gay men, but it probably works for straights, too.

a) Do you think about him constantly?

b) Have you had your chest hair waxed?