The Lost Diaries of Adrian Mole Part 13

As we drove to Safeway, I realised I had no idea what the toddler was called or even what its s.e.x was. It was wearing earrings and had an unpleasant scowling expression on its face. I took a guess and registered the child as Emily Ludlow, aged two-and-a-half years. After "Emily" had been divested of its shoes and was being led into the play area by a creche minion, I engaged Mary-Lou in conversation. Knowing her interest in politics, I asked her opinion on the Tory leaders.h.i.+p race. She scoffed, "I'm more intellectually challenged by wondering who will be up for eviction in the Big Brother house." We are both agreed that Paul and Helen's burgeoning romance is horrible but compulsive viewing. It is like watching two very stupid white rhinos attempting to mate - one is repelled by the sight, but touched that two such rare creatures have found each other.

I tore myself away from her to grab a tin of Heinz Organic Baked Beans 'n' Sausages. When I returned, Mary-Lou was stern-faced and "Emily" was wearing a pair of the creche's emergency mini Y-fronts. I am banned from using the creche for life.

Thursday, July 19, Ashby-de-la-Zouch I attended William's school sports day today. The school field was sold off to Nolite Warehouse Ltd in February, so the races took place in a roped-off section of its new car park. I was just about to climb into my dustbin liner bag for the single parents' sack race, when the headmaster announced over the Tannoy that the jury had returned and that Jeffrey Archer had been sent to jail for four years. Spontaneous cheering broke out from the a.s.sembled company, the workmen on the scaffolding of the windowless warehouse broke into song with "You'll never walk alone", pa.s.sing cars sounded their hooters and a light aircraft flying overhead did a figure of eight in the summer sky. The headmaster announced that there would be a five-minute delay for compet.i.tors to compose themselves.

Archer has succeeded in bringing the country together in joy. After Henman, the Lions and England's dropped catches, we needed a glorious victory.

I came last. William would not look me in the eye when I finally pa.s.sed the finish line. The winner was Trixie Woodhead, who I know for a fact is drawing disability living allowance.

Sat.u.r.day, July 21 My parents have been to see me to give me an "update" on what my mother called "the ongoing situation regarding our marriage". They held hands across the kitchen table and my father said sheepishly, "We can't live with each other, but we can't live without each other, son."

William, who had been listening, said with the brutal candour of the child, "You'll both have to die then."

I advised them to try self-discipline. (They are both still married to other people, namely Pandora's parents.) My father whined, "We were both teenagers in the 60s, so haven't got any self-discipline." As they were leaving, I told my mother that blue jeans should never be worn with creases, or wrinkles.

Monday, July 23, 1pm Pandora has invited me to a "shepherd's pie and Krug party" this evening. It is not clear what we will be celebrating.

Midnight n.o.body told me that Pandora's guests were meant to wear Mary and Jeffrey fancy dress. Personally, I found the sight of so many Mary Archer lookalikes slightly disturbing. I like a bit of animation in my women.

Friday, July 27 I allowed William to stay up late to watch the climax of Big Brother. I think it is important that small children be allowed to partic.i.p.ate in events of national importance. My mother and father came round to join us, bringing two large bags of curry-flavoured Twiglets and a bottle of Raspberry Stolichnaya. My mother grew increasingly hysterical after Dean was evicted from the house, leaving Helen and Brian. She pa.s.sionately wanted Helen to win, saying, "Why should the intelligent people win all the glittering prizes? It's time a stupid person won something for a change."

My father said, "I don't mind her being thick, it's her great big gob I object to." I feigned indifference, but secretly I had my fingers crossed for Brian. I slipped into the kitchen and was dialling my vote in when Glenn caught me at it. I had to pretend to be phoning Dial-A-Pizza, so Brian's vote cost me PS32.59.

As we watched Helen squealing like a tortured piglet over Paul Clarke's present of a Gucci handbag and shoes, William asked, "Will Helen and Paul Clarke be having s.e.xual intercourse tonight, Dad?"

My father shouted, "Go and wash your mouth out, you dirty-minded sod."

But, as Glenn said, "He's only sayin' what everbody's thinkin', Grandad."

I lay awake pondering yet again on the true nature of my s.e.xuality. Did I vote for Brian out of gay solidarity or because he is a semi-erudite Irish eccentric? I garnered the evidence: a) I like Kylie Minogue; b) I sleep with a lavender pillow; c) I am no good at s.e.x with women; d) I am very fussy about my sheets, pillowcases and towels.

Sat.u.r.day, July 28 Heatwave. I went to Pandora's surgery this morning. It was the only way to see her, since she does not reply to my emails, or return my frequent phone calls or text messages. She was most unsuitably dressed for an MP. I know it is hot, but her outfit of cropped top and micro-shorts lacked gravitas. I had wanted to ask her about the euro, but I could not concentrate because of the sweat trickling between her tanned, pointy b.r.e.a.s.t.s. So we ended up talking about Big Brother. She is intimate with Michael Jackson at Channel 4, and suggested I put myself forward as a BB candidate in 2002.

Sat.u.r.day, August 4, Ashby-de-la-Zouch William, the ardent monarchist, made a birthday card for the Queen Mother this morning using sc.r.a.ps of card and paper taken from the recycling bag. He had fas.h.i.+oned her hat from milk bottle tops, she looked as if she was wearing a Darth Vader helmet.

I, for one, do not believe the old woman was given a blood transfusion on Thursday. I think she is kept going by a secret serum that is not yet available to us common people (or Princess Margaret). I read somewhere that axolotls can constantly regenerate themselves, thus living for ever. Is it my imagination or does the Queen Mother look a teensy bit lizard-like lately? Will she be the first 200-year-old woman?

Sunday, August 5 I am no financial expert, but I feel in my bones that we will be living under the jackboot of recession by Christmas. I decided to forgo the interest on my Alliance & Leicester 30-Day Notice Deposit Account, and withdrew the entire amount, PS619.07. I took Glenn and William to Safeway and bought a frozen turkey, a Christmas pudding, three packets of Mr Kipling's mince pies, a bag of frozen sprouts and a box of sage and onion stuffing. I also took advantage of the various in-store two for the price of one offers, but was disgusted that Safeway is not yet selling Christmas crackers.

Once the Christmas food shopping was complete, I treated the boys to lunch in the Safeway cafeteria. Pamela Pigg and Alan Clarke were in there canoodling over their All-Day Breakfasts. Pamela told me that she had b.u.mped into Nigel and his new partner, Peter Elf, in the Sea Shanty Folk Club last night. Alan stroked his beard and drawled, "Yeah, we all got on like a house on fire, they're coming to our fondue party tomorrow night, why don't you join us?" Pamela gushed, "Alan is going to sing for us after dinner, he has recently unearthed some haymaking songs written by Isaiah Blackhead, from Stowmarket."

"I'm doing an OU course on 'the music of the idiot savant'," he said. Then, to my horror, he began to sing: "Lay in the hay, my comely gal, And take my sickle in youse hand." Glen blushed fiercely and fled. I followed with William.

Tuesday, August 7, Ashby-de-la-Zouch The fondue party was held at Alan Clarke's thatched cottage in Frisby-On-The-Wreake. According to local gossip, Frisby is a hotbed of paganism. In 1974, several donkeys mysteriously disappeared overnight and were believed to have been ritually sacrificed. Alan Clarke fancies himself as a local historian. As we twirled our fondue forks over the pan of bubbling cheese, he regaled his guests with anecdotes about his life in the village. The guests were Pamela Pigg, me, Glenn, Nigel and Peter Elf.

I took Glenn with me because it is time the boy was taught how to conduct himself in sophisticated company. Before we got out of the car, I warned him not to say serviette, or to inform the other guests that his ambition is to be a heteros.e.xual when he grows up.

To a background of Bob Dylan's harmonica, we chomped through seven varieties of hot cheese. I incautiously mentioned how saddened I had been to hear of the death of Larry Adler and added that, in my opinion, Adler had been the greatest harmonica player the world had ever known. Peter Elf said camply, "I wouldn't slash my wrists if I never heard the harmonica again." Alan jabbed his fondue fork angrily into the rough-hewn table, stormed over to the stereo and removed the long-player from the turntable. There was an awkward silence, which Glenn broke eventually by saying, "When I grow up, I want to be a heteros.e.xual."

I was glad to get out of that cottage and rejoin the 21st century - personally, I think Alan Clarke knows what happened to those donkeys.

Friday, August 10 A bombsh.e.l.l! I was idly turning the pages of the Ashby Bugle tonight, when I saw the headline "Third Time Lucky For Ashby Couple?" On the right-hand side was a photograph of my parents' wedding day, taken in the late 1960s. Underneath was another photograph of my parents' wedding day, taken in the late 1980s. I read to my horror that they were intending to marry again, for the third time. I immediately rang my mother. She said, "We were going to tell you. Some b.a.s.t.a.r.d at the Ashby Bugle has leaked the story."

Sat.u.r.day, August 18 Today, I was a guest at my parents' third wedding. I was a four-month-old foetus when my mother first married my father. I, of course, remember nothing of the occasion - though my dear, dead grandma, May Mole, told me that my mother disgraced herself at the reception by accidentally setting fire to her wedding veil while attempting to light a Capstan with a broken Swan Vesta match.

My father put the blaze out with a bowl of cling peaches in juice, s.n.a.t.c.hed from the buffet. In the resulting confusion, Grandma's 75 home-stuffed vol-au-vents (one per guest) were despoiled. Although only a foetus, I feel sure that this unsavoury incident made me into a non-smoker, with an aversion to swans.

Today's ceremony was conducted at County Hall, the administrative nerve centre of Leicesters.h.i.+re. It was somewhat disconcerting to look up from the baggy faces of my lovelorn parents pledging their vows, to see a County Hall apparatchik photocopying what appeared to be fixed-penalty forms in an adjacent office. If I ever marry again, I will make sure that the setting is suitably romantic. Rutland Water at sunset is said to be a breathtaking sight, though in the summer, midges might present a problem.

The reception took place in the One-Stop Centre function room on a nearby council estate. As we guests queued up to offer our congratulations to the bride and groom, we were forced to rub shoulders with benefits claimants, young offenders and a pensioners' ping-pong group. I'm the most liberal and democratic of men, but surely a hotel would have been more suitable?

The musical entertainment was provided by Alan Clarke and his folk group, The Shanty Men, who wore matching Aran sweaters and sang about herrings. I was glad when one of them, Abbo Palmer, broke off and announced that Clarke was 50 that day. Clarke looked horror-struck and Pamela Pigg, his present amour, said to me, "The b.l.o.o.d.y liar, he told me he was 37-and-a-half."

My father stood up and made a speech about the "happiest day of his life" - his voice was blurry with sentimental tears. Unfortunately he was talking about something Ian Botham did 20 years ago at Headingley.

Sat.u.r.day, August 25 I fear I am losing the battle to mould William's character to my own satisfaction. He does not seem to appreciate high culture and has appalling taste in music and literature. He's only six, but at his age Mozart was selling out concerts all over Europe. I played the whole of Wagner's Ring Cycle on my stereo this week, hoping that constant exposure to the shrieking and wailing would break down his defences. It failed. As the last note faded, William rushed to put on the CD of Mambo No 5, sung (sic) by Bob the Builder.

Since being introduced to WWF (World Wrestling Federation) at my mother's house, he is now addicted - and I use the word carefully. He lives only for Fridays when Sky Sports One broadcasts two hours of this so-called "Sports Entertainment". His heroes are The Rock and The Undertaker, and his antiheroes are Stone Cold Steve Austin and DDP (Diamond Dallas Page). All of the above are hideous looking, over-muscled brutes who do not look as if they have ever read world literature, and probably think that Nabokov is an illegal steroid.

Last night I found William six inches from the TV watching an action replay of The Rock's finis.h.i.+ng manoeuvre. His victim was Booker T. The Rock was smas.h.i.+ng Booker T's head through a table. When I made an objection, William said, "Quiet, Dad. The Rock's going for the one-two-three count. If he gets it, he'll leave the Astrodome with the WWF champions.h.i.+p belt."

I pointed out to William that wrestling was merely a sublimation of sub-erotic activity. The hulks refuse to accept the truth - that they have more in common with Oscar Wilde than they can possibly know. William shouted, "For G.o.d's sake, stop talkin'!" I took the remote from him and flipped through the channels looking for a David Jason drama. William screamed, then held his breath until his lips turned blue. He only resumed breathing when I flicked back to Sky Sports One.

Sunday, August 26 Pandora claims that she has been approached by the News Of The World to visit Jeffrey Archer in prison and acquire, by whatever means, his DNA - PS10,000 was mentioned. After some thought, she turned it down.

Sat.u.r.day, September 1, Ashby de la Zouch, Leicesters.h.i.+re

I am powerless to make my boys either happy or unhappy. External forces dictate their mood. Namely, sport. As Glenn settled down in front of the television with a bag of nachos and a cheese dip to watch Leicesters.h.i.+re play Somerset, in the final of the Cheltenham and Gloucester Trophy at Lord's, he said, "Don't do no Hooverin' in 'ere, Dad, I gotta concentrate on the match."

I pleaded with him to turn down the sound on the TV and listen to the commentary on Radio 4. I said, "At least that way you will hear some erudite conversation." I brought in the Sony portable and switched it on to hear Henry Blofeld and Jonathan Agnew discussing a chocolate cake sent in by a listener, a Mrs Daphne Calf, from Wolverhampton. Then Blofeld said, "Aggers, my dear old thing, you're looking frightfully smart today."

Glenn rolled his eyes at William, who grabbed the TV remote and turned up the sound. I took the radio into the kitchen and fiddled the k.n.o.b until I found Cla.s.sic FM. I washed up to the sound of Gershwin's Rhapsody In Blue, which always reminds me of Skegness. It was playing when my father confessed to my mother that he had sired a child by another woman.

As I dried up, I wondered where my half-brother Brett was, and what he was doing. I worked out that he'd be about 19 by now. William came out of the living room during the advert breaks to s.n.a.t.c.h bits of food and to go to the toilet. But Glenn stayed glued to the TV, groaning and occasionally shouting ferociously at the screen. I heard his cry of despair when Leicesters.h.i.+re lost. I went in to see him and William in tears.

My parents came round later to watch the England-Germany match. When, after six minutes, Germany scored, my father shouted, "I blame Posh Spice for this. It's her fault Beckham strained his groin. She should be put in purdah before a big match!"

At half-time, in the kitchen, I asked my father about my brother, Brett Mole. He said, "Not now, Adrian, England are 2-1 up." At full time, I tried again. But my father was incoherent with xenophobic joy.

Monday September 10, Ashby-de-la-Zouch A letter from Oxford! A vellum envelope, addressed to me in exquisite copperplate handwriting. Inside, a matching piece of personalised notepaper, headed Brett Mole, Balliol College, Oxford. Website: www.brettmole.com.

Dear Adrian, What a lark. We must meet and swap goss about our mutual father. When are you next in Oxford?

Yours fraternally, Brett I logged on immediately to www.brettmole and learned more about my half-brother than I needed to know. There were photographs of Brett mountaineering, white-water kayaking, playing tennis, limboing on a Caribbean beach, modelling on a catwalk and shaking hands with Prince Charles. His website informed me that Brett is 6ft 2in tall, takes a 16-inch collar and size 11 shoes.

On another page I discovered that Brett achieved 14 GCSEs at A grade. His four A-levels were starred. He has published a volume of poetry, called Blow Out The Candle. The reviews were ecstatic. I hate him already.

I emailed him the following message: "Dear Brett, I thank you for your letter of the 10th. Sadly, I am almost never in Oxford. Yours sincerely, Adrian (Mole)."

Disconcertingly, Brett emailed back almost at once. "Hi Bro, Leaving soonest for train to Leicester. See you around 4pm today." I emailed back that I had got the builders in, and that there was no water, heat, light or toilet facilities, and suggested that he postpone his visit for at least six months. I finished with, "Please confirm that you are not coming."

I waited by the machine for over half an hour, but no reply came. I am not ashamed of living in a council house on a sink estate. As for graffiti and abandoned cars, I hardly notice them. But Brett almost certainly will. I tidied up as best I could, and rearranged the bookcase so that he could not fail to see that I was conversant with Dostoevsky, Tolstoy and Chekhov. At 4.05pm, I heard the taxi pull up outside, then a confident voice boomed, "Where's my brother?"

Sunday, September 23. Ashby de la Zouch Brett is still here. He claims that the events of September 11 have traumatised him and have rendered him incapable of using transport of any kind. Over breakfast this morning, he said to me, "I could be here for ever, Adrian." He is formidably clever, and seems to have read every book printed in English, French and German since Caxton invented the printing press. Infuriatingly, he quotes from them constantly, and corrects my own attributions.

He has been helping out Glenn with his homework; consequently, the teachers at Neil Armstrong Community College are now talking excitedly about the boy being only the second pupil to get to Oxbridge (the first was Pandora). William is in love with "Uncle Brett", and follows him around the house like the Old Shep that Elvis sang about. Origami is only one of Brett's many skills. This morning he transformed the G2 section of the Guardian into Balliol College, complete with dons and undergraduates.

He is constantly on the phone to his many friends around the world. He a.s.sures me that he will stump up for his share of the phone bill. Then, a moment later, laughs about his state of penury.

He and my father get on like a house in flames, and talk endlessly about football players, cricketers and rugby oafs - people I have never heard of.

Monday, September 24 I heard with alarm today that, due to the coming "Crusade" or "Infinite Justice" or "The Conflict" or "World War Three", David Blunkett has warned that my civil liberties may be restricted in the future, and that I may have to carry an ident.i.ty card with me at all times. Since I am constantly losing my Sainsbury's Reward Card, the future looks dim for me.

Tuesday, September 25 Brett is making a doc.u.mentary about post-twin towers trauma using a Panasonic hand-held digital video camera. Channel 4 and BBC 2 are bidding for the rights. He interviewed me at length in the kitchen. When he played it back to me, I noticed that my Afghan coat was hanging on the back of the kitchen door. I asked Brett to re-shoot, but he refused, saying that he would not be censored.

Sunday, September 30, Ashby-de-la-Zouch

Brett has written a 1,500-word article for the Independent, headed The Osama Bin Laden I Knew. He claims to have first met Bin Laden in the breakfast room of a boarding house in Blackpool. "I was immediately suspicious of him," wrote Brett. "He claimed to have been in England for five years, yet he did not appear to know that pepper was shaken from the pot with the multi-holes. In the bar that night, he ordered a pint of s...o...b..ll and a packet of pork trotters (sic). When I commented that s...o...b..a.l.l.s were usually drunk by women, and in much daintier gla.s.ses, Bin Laden snarled, 'I am a British citizen, I hate slugs, and I visit a garden centre many times a year. Also, I watch the wh.o.r.es of western culture on EastEnders.'

When our landlady failed to bring him a packet of pork trotters, saying, 'It's scratchings you want, love, an' we're out of 'em due to swine fever', he went berserk and shouted, 'I am a legitimate citizen of this country - here is my pa.s.sport and my HGV licence.'" After I had finished reading the piece, Brett asked me for a critique. I said, "It is a tissue of lies from beginning to end. It is a well-known fact that Osama bin Laden does not speak English." Brett replied airily, "Our conversations were conducted in Arabic throughout." I scoffed, "Are you claiming that a Blackpool landlady is fluent in Arabic?" "Yes," said Brett. "Her name is Fatima Hardcastle - we do live in a multicultural society now, you know." I know Brett is lying, but how can I prove it? I can only pray that the Independent throws this piece of fiction back in his face before he brings shame on the Mole dynasty.

Monday, October 1

I have long suspected that my sister Rosie is not my father's child, and that she was sired by Mr Lucas, our next-door neighbour. My theory was confirmed today when my white-faced mother burst into my kitchen and sobbed, "If they bring in ID cards with DNA profiling, I'm done."

Tuesday, October 2

I phoned Pandora at the Grand Hotel in Brighton, and urged her to speak against the introduction of ID cards. She barked, "Clear this line! Don'tcha know there's a war on?" And then she cut me off.

Sat.u.r.day, October 6, Ashby-de-la-Zouch Dear Diary, My half-brother is still here. G.o.d knows, I am the kindest and most tolerant of men, and I am with the Muslims when it comes to extending the hand of hospitality to those seeking sanctuary. But I have to confess that I am irritated beyond endurance by the presence of Brett Mole in my house. I hate him. I have come to dread the sound of his footsteps on the stairs. I cannot bear the way he seems to suck Rice Krispies down his throat. But I am a lone voice. He is loved and admired by everyone I know.

There is a messianic quality about him. Alarmingly, he told me that he intends to start a new political party financed by the Princess Diana Fund. I told him, angrily, that the day after the Parisian tragedy, I had driven to Kensington Gardens and pinned a PS10 note to a tree, together with a poem: Oh Diana!

Oh Diana! Was a song of my mother's youth.

Sung by Paul Anka, who was small and white of tooth.

The refrain, Oh Diana!

Beats inside mum's head A blank, a blank, a doo-dah That her Diana is dead.

As you may have noticed, Diary, I was unable to find suitable rhymes in order to complete the poem satisfactorily. I still can't. I am thinking about contacting Earl Spencer to inform him of Brett's political ambitions.

Wednesday, October 10 A Harrods van delivered Brett's new bed this morning. It took two men all day to install it in the spare bedroom. It has an in-built telescopic television, a CD player, and will adjust to 19 positions. I gasped when I saw the invoice: PS7,999. Brett said it was a treat to himself; he has been commissioned by Channel 4 to make a doc.u.mentary on poverty, and is filming it on my council estate. The old mattress is in the front garden, waiting for the council to remove the eyesore.

Thursday, October 11 Brett has scattered the contents of my wheelie-bin in the front garden, and slashed the mattress with a Stanley knife. He said it would make a great establis.h.i.+ng shot for his doc.u.mentary, now ent.i.tled Weep, England! Weep!

Sunday, October 14

That monster, Brett, is still living in my house. He is now sharing his electronic Super-Bed with an a.s.sortment of slags from the estate. I have provided Glenn and William with earplugs so that their sleep is not disturbed.

Brett's doc.u.mentary, Weep, England! Weep!, is now in production. Many of the interviews are conducted in this house. Cables cover the floors and most of the doors have been removed to facilitate camera movements. The house is no longer mine. Why don't I tell him to leave? The sad truth is that I am afraid of him. He makes me feel that I am of low cla.s.s, unattractive and provincial.

Monday, October 15