Adrian Mole: The Cappuccino Years Part 18

After watching the news, I now know that 'Michael' is Michael Owen, an eighteen-year-old footballer, and 'Glenn' is Glen Hoddle, the England football manager. From now on I will have to read the sport pages of the Independent. Until this day I have used them to line the waste-bin under the sink.

Eleanor Flood came again tonight. She was wearing lipstick and she smelled of ripe mangoes. It was all I could do to stop myself from stroking her delicate wrists.

I realize now that I have always been attracted to women's joints: I am a knee, shoulders, neck, ankle and wrist man. Though I can take or leave their fingers.

Eleanor told me after Glenn's lesson that she thinks he is 'a very intelligent boy, though culturally impoverished'.

I said that I was trying to address the problem. We were talking in the front room, sitting either side of the fire. She glanced around the room at the books and my print of Matisse's goldfish and said, 'He's very fortunate to have you as his father. My own father was an...' She lowered her grey eyes and looked into the flames of compressed sawdust logs, unable to finish her sentence. The firelight made her black hair s.h.i.+ne. The phrase 'raven's wing' came into my mind.

I said, 'Alcoholic?'

'No,' she replied, but maddeningly she wouldn't say what he was. Then she left as she had an appointment to have her bikini line waxed. At this hour?

Glenn said, when I went in to say goodnight, 'D'you reckon I'll be readin' in time for the World Cup, Dad?'

I said, 'When is the World Cup?'

Glenn frowned and said, 'You gotta know that, Dad, surely?'

I said the date had slipped my mind, but I could tell that he was disappointed in me.

2 a.m. I am in l.u.s.t with Eleanor Flood. I can't stop thinking about her bikini line.

Wednesday February 18th No sign of Les Banks. n.o.bby called at 5 a.m. and took the ladders away. I phoned Les's numbers but only got his message service.

Gateshead City Council has erected a sixty-foot statue called The Angel of the North next to the Ai. My mother and Ivan are cycling up to see it, stopping off at bed-and-breakfast places on the way. Ivan said, 'I'm a long-term fan of Anthony Gormley's.'

My mother said, 'Didn't he used to be married to Joan Collins?'

Thursday February 19th Les Banks rang to say that he couldn't start work today because he was 'at Casualty with the wife. She's gone and cut her fingers up on an electric carving-knife.' n.o.bby brought the ladders back.

Friday February 20th Mrs Banks's fingers have turned septic, necessitating another visit to the hospital. Les is obviously devoted to her. He promised to start work on Monday, 'without fail, Mr Mole'.

Sat.u.r.day February 21st My mother rang from Gateshead and said, 'What day is my book being published?'

I said, 'It's my book, I think you'll find.' I told her it was the 24th. She said, 'Are we celebrating?'

I replied that I would be too busy with publicity.

She said, 'It should be my publicity.' Is this the 'ghost' coming out of the woodwork? She is desperate for fame! Being in the tabloids last year has only fuelled her hunger. I asked her what The Angel of the North was like. She said, 'It's heartbreaking, like everything else in my life.'

3 a.m .: Stop press! Securicor delivered five copies of Offally Good!--The Book! this afternoon. Dev Singh is on the cover! I am a photographic blur next to him. My name is partially obscured by a saucepan, his is not.

Sunday February 22nd Took my Next suit and my Boss overcoat into Safeway's dry-cleaners this morning. I requested the express service. I stressed to the youth behind the counter, 'Darren Lacey, Executive Dry Cleaning Manager', how important it was that the articles be immaculately cleaned and pressed. I told him that I was intending to appear in front of the public in them. As I left the counter with my receipt I heard an old git who had been waiting beside me say to 'Darren', 'Where does he usually wear his clothes then? In a cupboard?'

Monday February 23rd Mrs Banks' fingers have turned gangrenous. 'She could lose 'er 'and.' Meanwhile the house is freezing and the roof is leaking. Will Mr Banks' domestic misfortunes ever allow him to start work on my house?

Tuesday February 24th Publication Day Today should have been a great day in my life. Offally Good!--The Book! may be 80 per cent mother-written and it is certainly not literature but, even so, it is a book and it bears my name. Yet could I enjoy this considerable achievement unfettered by domestic and child-care worries? No! I could not. Publication Day found me ransacking the house looking for Glenn's trainers, which he claimed to have kicked under his bed but which 'disappeared in the night, Dad'.

William's school shoes had also disappeared. I was forced to take him to school in his red Wellingtons. For once I prayed for rain, though none came. Glenn had to wear a pair of my own Marks & Spencer's trainers, which were three sizes too big, obliging him to wear two pairs of wool socks with them. I dropped him off at the school gates and watched as he reluctantly sloped into school. If he wasn't exactly dragging his feet, he was certainly dragging his trainers.

Why are schoolday mornings at Rampart Terrace so fraught with domestic tension? Even Andrew twitches with nerves from 7.30 until 8.45 a.m. Never once have William, Glenn and I sat down to breakfast together with that glow on our faces that the families in advertis.e.m.e.nts are blessed with. William carries on like the Last Emperor, petulantly rejecting all the cereals offered until it's too late and he has to eat a piece of fruit in the car. And Glenn is so slow. It infuriates me to watch him spreading b.u.t.ter on his toast; how he covers the four corners of the bread, then goes back to the centre and starts the whole tedious business again.

This morning in the car, Glenn said, 'You're doin' a lot of shoutin', Dad.'

I shouted, 'Don't talk with your mouth full. You're dropping toast crumbs all over the upholstery.'

William was peeling a satsuma in the back seat and I noticed that his Kidsplay sweats.h.i.+rt was on inside out. And how does the house get itself into such a state? I only have to turn my back and it's littered itself with objects.

At 10.30 I was live on air, broadcasting from Zouch Radio. The presenter, Dave Wonky (surely not his real name), introduced me 'as the latest talent to emerge from Ashby-de-la-Zouch. Who is he, listeners?'

I was puzzled by this introduction until Mr Wonky played an inane jingle.

Mystery Guest That's the test Play the game If you know the name.

n.o.body rang, so Mr Wonky gave out a further clue. 'OK, clue number two. He's a celebrity chef.'

The lines remained silent. Mr Wonky played the jingle and read out the traffic news. A lorry had overturned on the Billesdon bypa.s.s, spilling its load of goldfish food. Still n.o.body rang. I had now been in the studio, totally silent, for ten minutes. I was forbidden to speak until my ident.i.ty had been guessed at by a listener.

After Wonky had read out a list of rummage sales to be held 'in the upcoming week', a woman rang to ask if I was Delia Smith.

Five minutes later Wonky gave out his third clue. 'He married into the Nigerian aristocracy.'

Even I wouldn't have recognized myself from this description. A moronic youth, Tez, from Coalville, asked if I was Lenny Henry. Wonky got slightly irritated and said, 'Tez, Dawn French is not a Nigerian aristocrat, is she?'

Tez said he didn't know and Wonky cut him off quite abruptly, without saying thank you. Wonky has aspirations to be the first Midlands Shock Jock. He told me this while playing Max Bygraves' 'Windmill in Old Amsterdam'. When it finished he said, 'That was for Mrs Agnes Golightly, who is eighty-nine years young today, G.o.d bless her.'

His fourth clue was that 'My mystery guest's family has been in the news lately. His parents have been embroiled in a love-swap tangle, involving a certain lady called Pandora.'

The lines were jammed, though n.o.body remembered my name properly. Was I 'James Vole'? 'Adrian Sole'? 'Lance Pole'? I was hurt and humiliated, especially when Wonky told the listeners that since n.o.body had got my name right, he would be rolling today's prize, a Radio Zouch T-s.h.i.+rt, over to tomorrow's programme.

He allowed me to speak briefly for two minutes on Offally Good!--The Book!, but I was not at my most articulate. He then invited listeners to phone in and ask me questions. A vegetarian called Yvonne rang to ask why I was encouraging the ma.s.s genocide of animals by advocating the cooking of offal. I told her that I was an animal lover and a cat owner, and said that it was a well-known fact that vegetables and fruit screamed in agony when pulled from the ground, or cut from the bough. Yvonne then got hysterical and accused me of being a man.

Wonky said, 'It's not a crime to be a man yet, is it, Yvonne?'

Yvonne then broke down and confessed that her ex-husband, a womanizing carnivore, had left his goodbye note under a plate of calves' liver in the fridge. Wonky began to counsel the woman and indicated to me that I was to leave the studio. I was glad to do so.

William came home with a note from Mrs Parvez: Dear Mr Mole, If you require help in purchasing school shoes for William, may I draw your attention to the enclosed Social Security leaflet, 'Help with Footwear'.

Sincerely, Mrs Parvez There was a message on the answerphone to say that Glenn had not attended morning or afternoon registration. When I tackled him on this, he said, 'I couldn't do it, Dad. There was no way I could go walkin' in that school in Marks & Spencer's trainers.' Tears sprang to his eyes. He looked surprised at this.

I took him and William to the out-of-town shopping complex The Pastures, where it is now possible to shop until 10 a.m. seven days a week. We went to Footlocker. A handsome black shop a.s.sistant said to Glenn, 'These equal respect, man.' He handed Glenn a pair of trainers that to my eye looked like those vehicles that pick up minerals from the surface of the moon. Glenn tried them on and I could tell he had a moment of epiphany. He said, 'Oh, Dad, they're top!' They were PS75.99.

I said, 'Almost PS76 for two bits of rubber! It would kill me, Glenn.'

He handed them back to the shop a.s.sistant, who put them back in the box. Then I remembered the grey slip-ons I was made to wear to school, instead of the Doc Martens that everyone else in my year was wearing. I heard Barry Kent's taunts in the playground and went back into the shop and bought the trainers. PS75-99! It has made me ill.

Bought William some Lion King slip-ons. He wanted some t.i.tanic zip-up boots, but I said no. We looked around the bookshop on the complex. There was no sign of Offally Good--The Book! My sons were disgusted.

I buried Barry Kent's book, Blind, under a pile of Stephen Kings.

Thursday February 26th n.o.bby came round for the ladders.

Radio Leicester interview at 12.30. Larry Graves, the interviewer, said he had tried the pig's trotters recipe at home last night, but he had found them inedible. He'd watched the TV series and thought that Dev Singh was 'a comic genius'. He asked me if I would get Dev to sign his copy of the book.

Friday February 27th Eleanor very gloomy tonight after the lesson. I said that I hoped Glenn was not to blame. She told me Roger Patience was not going to renew her contract at Neil Armstrong Comprehensive. I asked why, but she was curiously evasive. She put her oversize black coat on and left in rather a hurry.

Patience is a fool: she is a brilliant teacher. Glenn's reading age has improved by two years in as many weeks. He is now almost on a par with the average nine-year-old.

Sat.u.r.day February 28th Heard on Radio Leicester that several cars were set alight in the staff car park at Neil Armstong Comprehensive at lunchtime yesterday. 'Mindless vandalism' is thought to be the cause.

I hope Eleanor's Fiat wasn't damaged. The headmaster's Volvo was a write-off.

Sharon Bott has given birth to a girl. She has called the poor child Caister, after the place where conception took place. Took Glenn to see his half-sister. On the way home he said, 'I'm worried about me mam, Dad. How's she goin' to manage?'

I diverted the conversation to Gazza. 'Will Hoddle play him?' I asked.

'No, Dad, he's too fat,' he predicted.

Sunday March 1st Glenn and I both got pinched and punched 'first day of the month' by William. I noticed that Glenn has already started instinctively to cover his genitals when William is within hurtling distance. Women don't know how lucky they are to have their s.e.xual paraphernalia tucked inside their bodies.

A review in the Sunday Times Book Section. Under 'Briefly' it said: Love by Lamplight--Hermione Harper Gritty tale of Crimean War romance.

Filth--Spike McArtney Thinly veiled autobiography of life in Glasgow's sewers.

Offally Good!--The Book!--Adrian Mole 100 ways with offal--a hoot.

Went to the BP garage and bought six copies of the ST. The boys were so proud to see my name in what Glenn called 'one of them long newspapers'. My mother phoned at 10 a.m. to ask if I'd seen 'her' review.

Tuesday March 3rd Met Les Banks buying cigarettes in the BP shop tonight. I asked after his wife. He looked me in the eye and said, 'She's not good, her father dropped down dead last night.' I laughed a bitter, cynical laugh and walked away.

Banks shouted after me, 'You callous b.a.s.t.a.r.d.'

Thursday March 5th Was shocked to see a photograph of Les Banks and his family in tonight's Leicester Mercury. A headline said', 'What Next?' Asks Tragic Banks Family'.

I couldn't bring myself to read the article. I wished I hadn't noticed that Mrs Banks was described in the caption under the photograph as 'Lydia Banks, 41, Brave Amputee'.

Glenn asked where Kosovo was tonight. I handed him the Times Atlas of the World and told him to look it up in the index. He looked at me blankly. He doesn't know what an index is.

I rang Les Banks and apologized. He said he'd come round tomorrow, 'weather permitting'. I asked him what would preclude him from starting. He said, 'Anything that's gonna blow me off the roof.'

Friday March 6th Gale force winds all day. Attended the small-claims court with my mother this morning for her hearing: Mole versus Shoe Mania!.

That legal buffoon Charlie Dovecote had led her to believe that she stood a good chance of winning sizeable damages for injury, stress and trauma suffered when the heel of a stiletto broke off as she reached the summit of Snowdon, believing Sir Anthony Hopkins to be making a public appearance there on that day. When asked in court why she was wearing such unsuitable shoes she said, 'I only wore them for the final stages, I didn't want Sir Anthony to see me in my hired climbing boots.' Charlie Dovecote cross-examined Justin Swayward, representative of Shoe Mania!. 'Did the said stilettos bear a health warning, Mr Swayward?'

'Of course not.'

'Of course not? Why not?'

'Because any reasonable person could see at a glance that these shoes are unsuitable for--'

'Ah, yes! A reasonable person might. But, Mr Swayward, my client, Mrs Mole, was not a reasonable person at the time. She was a middle-aged woman in the grip of a menopausal fixation about Sir Anthony Hopkins, the film actor, who had recently donated one million pounds towards the purchase of the said mountain.'

She won damages of PS2,000 plus costs. The judge/magistrate said that Shoe Mania! 'intended, by the use of the word 'mania' followed by an exclamation mark, to excite and encourage vulnerable women into making unwise and unsuitable purchases'.

I am, quite frankly, disgusted at this flagrant misuse of our overcrowded civil courts.

Eleanor has started another job at the Keith Joseph Community College. She is head of remedial studies. She said, 'But nothing will come between me and my weekly visits to Rampart Terrace. I live for Fridays.'

Sunday March 8th Les Banks rang to say that an articulated lorry reversed over his dog yesterday. I was careful to sympathize. He said he would send a subcontractor round: Bill Broadway. He said, 'He's sound, Mr Mole.' I said I hoped his dog made a full recovery.

Monday March 9th Dev Singh was on with Richard and Judy this morning, promoting Offally Good!--the Book!.

I got on the phone to Brick Eagleburger immediately and left a message on his voicemail protesting in the strongest possible way about Dev's usurping of my role.

Bill Broadway is on the roof playing Radio Two at full volume. I'd guess from his accent that his parents come from Jamaica. His hair is almost entirely grey, yet he's only thirty-seven. He blames the stress of being in the building trade. He doesn't like heights.

Friday March 13th While the boys were in bed I did some work on my Royal Archers Radio series. Experimented with adding the Blairs.

THE ROYAL ARCHERS.

Agricultural bagpipe music which fades to: Sound: Helicopter landing in barleyfield.

QUEEN: More bacon, Philip?

PHIL: (Grumbling) Who's that landing a helicopter in my barleyfield, just as I'm eating my breakfast?

QUEEN: I'll just cross from the Aga to the window, while still carrying the frying-pan, and look out and tell you. Oh, it's Charles and there's somebody with him...a woman in jodhpurs.

PHIL: Who is it, Liz? Who? Who is with our eldest son?

Cut to: CHERIE AND TONY'S DAIRY.

Sound: Of yoghurt pots being washed.

CHERIE: (Deep sigh) I can't get the yoghurt scab virus out of the yoghurt pots, Tony (sigh).

TONY: Does it matter, Cherie?

CHERIE: (Screaming) If I don't, the whole of Ambridge could go down with yoghurt scab!

TONY: Oh, let them, Cherie. Let them. (Agricultural bagpipe music.) The End A strong start, I think.

When the hour was up I went downstairs and paid Eleanor. I offered her a gla.s.s of Bull's Blood. She accepted. We sat by the fire and discussed Glenn's progress. He is doing well, and can now read nearly everything in the sport pages of the Sun. Eleanor gazed into the flames and gave a loud sigh. I asked her what was wrong. She said, 'I've been wrestling with my personal demons.' But she didn't go into details. I told her of my netting phobia. Something I have never spoken of to another human being. Baby and Child Care was my parents' bible. They followed Spock's advice to the letter. When at the age of eighteen months I started to climb out of my cot several times a night, they looked up the appropriate remedy in the index. Spock advised my gormless parents to imprison me at night by throwing a badminton net over the side of the cot, securing it to the legs. (The cot's legs, not my legs.) My parents followed this advice slavishly, though it is on record* that my grandma Mole objected violently.

[?] Source letter from Edna May Mole, mother of George Mole, to Mrs Sugden, mother of Pauline, May 2nd, 1968.

She maintained that 'A good hard slap across the back of his legs would have helped him to settle down at night.' I well remember trying to fight myself out of that badminton net. Spock may have been sound on Vietnam, but he was oh-so-wrong on badminton nets. I have never been able to enjoy Wimbledon because of him. Even the sound of Virginia Wade's voice makes me break into a light sweat. Because of this childhood trauma I let William sleep where he drops, then carry him to bed.