Adrian Mole: The Cappuccino Years Part 9

Dear Stephen Fry, My name is Adrian Mole. I once had the honour of cooking you a dish of tripe, which you p.r.o.nounced 'unforgettable' (Hoi Polloi, Sept. 15th, 1996). You didn't pay us a second visit, to lunch or to dine, but no matter, I still admire your erudition and wit.

I have recently decided to become celibate, and will shordy be turning into a celebrity, and I wondered if you, as a celebrity celibate, have any tips on how to cope with both of these conditions. I expect you are busy but I'm sure you won't mind taking some time out of your schedule to advise someone who is practically your doppelganger. I too am a bit of an intellectual.

Cheers, Steve, Yours, Adrian Mole PS. I would appreciate an early reply.

Wednesday August 6th An invitation card in the post, redirected from Hoi Polloi. Against a background of photographic offal was written: Pie Crust invites Adrian Mole and Guest to the wrap of Offally Good! Attractions include posh nosh, champagne and Dev Singh.

Justine read it and said, 'I thought you were the star, Adrian.'

I said, 'I am. There has obviously been a mistake at the printer's.'

Justine asked if she could come as my guest. She wasn't my first choice, but after ringing Pandora four times and getting no reply, I informed her that she could come with me on Friday.

She was pleased but said she had nothing to wear.

I seized the opportunity and nipped out to Marks & Spencer last night and bought a very attractive, loose-fitting, full-length dress in sludge-green viscose. I presented it to her when she came home from work at 3 a.m. I said, 'Please wear it tomorrow, at the wrap party.'

She looked at it with amus.e.m.e.nt and said, 'It's the sort of thing your mother would wear.'

It just goes to show- she has never met my mother.

Friday August 8th It was a mistake to take Justine to the Pie Crust studios. She was the focus of attention from the moment she stepped off the fire escape in her pink Versace slip dress and her cerise sling-back Manolos. Everyone in the studio looked at me with a new respect. Zippo said to me under his breath, 'I knew that the idiot-provincial persona you project was an act, Adrian. Christ, she's a w.a.n.ker's dream! She's a dislocated wrist! She's duvet heaven!'

I abhorred his crude language, and told him so. Later, he confessed to me, standing at the urinals, that he had fallen in love with Justine at first sight. I know this is possible because I loved Pandora as soon as I clapped eyes on her.

Zippo said, 'Introduce me to her. Please, Adrian.'

In his excitement he splashed urine on his pale suede Gucci loafers. I kept this knowledge to myself. Why spoil the party for him?

We joined a throng of Justine's new admirers, who were listening in some amazement to her tips on caring for the domestic python.

We pushed through and I introduced Zippo to Justine. He held on to her hand for longer than etiquette demanded.

Eventually she said, 'Can I have my hand back? I'm getting cramp.'

Zippo grabbed two gla.s.ses of champagne from Cath's tray and gave one to Justine saying, 'I've waited all my life to meet you. We must celebrate this momentous occasion.'

Justine was instantly sucked into the vortex of Zippo's smarmy talk. He did his Labrador retriever trick with his eyes, and she did her Marilyn Monroe thing with her mouth.

I asked Zippo if he thought we would get a second series, but he ignored me and asked Justine if she could cook. 'Not really,' she said. 'I just warm up ready-made meals in the micro.'

'Warm Up with Justine!' shouted Zippo.

I pointed out that it sounded like an exercise video. I suggested calling it A Guide to Push-b.u.t.ton Cookery.

Zippo and a few Pie Crust people got very excited at this but they were all on skunk weed so none of them will remember.

Zippo took Justine aside and I heard them swapping birth signs: Scorpio him, Aries her (a disastrous conjunction, in my opinion).

Dev Singh turned up late, accompanied by a Sikh bodyguard in a turban. He was soon surrounded by a small crowd of sycophants, who hung on to his every suggestive word.

Pie Crust Productions have applied to the Lottery Fund for the money to make a doc.u.mentary about Dev--called, in post-modernistic style, Making a Doc.u.mentary About Dev. Secretly, Diary, I am still crushed by this news. How much lower can dumbing down go? It's already in the bas.e.m.e.nt.

The party moved on to a restaurant in Sh.o.r.editch called Shock's. The place was full of installation artists and examples of their art. Everything seemed to be black, including the food: squid in black ink, cheap caviar, blackberry coulis, finis.h.i.+ng with espresso coffee.

Zippo prised himself away from Justine and made a speech about filming Offally Good!. He mentioned me in pa.s.sing, but heaped praise on Dev 'for his glorious humour, so reminiscent of that comic genius, Norman Wisdom'.

Whoops and hollers greeted this tribute--even the installation artists joined in. Wisdom is obviously big in Sh.o.r.editch, as well as Albania.

Zippo asked if I wanted to say anything. My mind went blank. Then I found myself on my feet apologizing for my performance on programme four when I had stumbled over the word 'disestablishmentarian-ism' eighteen times. Zippo said, 'Eighteen retakes is nothing.' He'd heard on the grapevine that Fergie, d.u.c.h.ess of York, held up the filming of her cranberry-juice advertis.e.m.e.nt in America 103 times because of her inability to articulate 'I like it' with conviction.

I felt vindicated by this piece of information.

Dev got up and thanked Pie Crust and me for giving him his big break. He said, 'I couldn't have done it without Adrian. He's a brilliant stooge.'

I took this compliment graciously, I hope--but my ego shrivelled up and ran out into the dark Sh.o.r.editch night. It hasn't been seen since.

I was sitting between silent Cath and the rumour-monger Belinda, who said she knew somebody who knew somebody who'd worked on Chariots of Fire, partly produced by Dodi Fayed. This person said that Dodi had no conversation. His only hobby was collecting baseball caps. Belinda said there was a story doing the rounds that Dodi and Diana were planning to co-produce a film about an elephant who steps on a landmine.

I nearly made a fool of myself when I mistook a piece of installation art for the men's toilet. Luckily I didn't pull my zip all the way down before realizing my mistake.

Sunday August 10th Leicester I was shocked to my marrow to see the front page of the Sunday Mirror today. The headline said, 'THE KISS'. Underneath was a blurred photograph of Princess Diana and the baseball-cap collector, Dodi Fayed. They were embracing while wearing very little clothing indeed. Prince Charles must have choked on his organic toast.

My mother and Rosie pored over the photographs, then ordered me to drive to the BP garage and buy all the scandal rags I could lay my hands on. I took William and the New Dog in the car with me. I b.u.mped into Archie Tait, the one-legged pensioner, inside the garage shop. He was buying a Ginster's Cornish pasty for his Sunday dinner. He saw that I was buying the News of the World and the People and raised his eyebrows. I explained that they were for my mother and sister, and he said, 'Ah, the insatiable appet.i.te that women have for trivia and gossip.' I agreed. He invited me and William for afternoon tea. I didn't want to go--in fact, it was the very last thing in the world I wanted to do--but before I could think of an excuse William had accepted for both of us. The kid doesn't get out much.

By the time our visit was over my brain hurt. Archie's conversation was very intense, and he was constantly asking me to provide the evidence for my opinions. He asked me what I was doing in London now that Hoi Polloi had been closed by the public health. (He is very well informed for a provincial.) I told him about the TV series Offally Good! and he took out his W.H. Smith's tartan-covered diary and wrote 'Adrian TV 10.30 a.m.' under September 10th. He doesn't have Cable, but he knows somebody who does.

When I got back from Ashby-de-la-Zouch Zippo was lolling on Justine's futon. She was heating up moules mariniere in the microwave for him. They were laughing at a Norman Wisdom film. Their chrome mobile phones were side by side on the perspex Conran coffee table. Wallpaper was open at a feature about galvanized buckets (the new vases).

I felt out of place, as though I was wearing a cloak of provincialism. I offered to leave but Justine said, 'No, Adrian, please stay. We want somebody to witness the first full day of our love.'

I had eaten on the motorway earlier, so I turned down the moules. In between feeding Justine mussels straight from the sh.e.l.l, Zippo said that a focus group had been shown the first Ojfally Good! programme that morning and their response was so good that the ratings for the show were predicted to be one million. I went to bed at 11.30 and left them both propped against the futon, surrounded by sh.e.l.ls and skunk-weed equipment.

12.10 a.m. They have just consummated their love. Justine knocked on my door to tell me that Zippo was an 'incredible, caring, exciting lover'. I said I was pleased for her.

She asked if I would come into her bedroom to rea.s.sure Zippo that she and I had never been lovers. She said Zippo was madly jealous.

I put on my dressing gown and stumbled into the bedroom. The dimmer switch was turned down to three. A lava lamp bubbled by the side of the bed. The python slithered in its tank. Zippo sat up, his loins barely covered by a white sheet. He asked me if I had 'slept' with Justine. I said truthfully that we had not had s.e.xual intercourse, due to my vow of chast.i.ty. And also to my antipathy to Justine's python. I then went back to my own bed.

It's time to get out.

Monday August 11th After twenty minutes of electronic procrastination, I found out that I have got PS3,796.26 in the telephone bank. This is not enough for a deposit on a London flat. And I need living expenses until my Pie Crust money comes in in September. I'm moving back to Leicester.

My mother is not pleased, but it's my family home and I am ent.i.tled to live there. My mother said that in her opinion, at thirty, ent.i.tlement didn't come into it. I pointed out to her that, in English law, there was no statute of limitations when it comes to returning home to live. She said, 'Perhaps not, but there should be!'

Tuesday August 12th As I pack I am shocked by the breaking news about Robin Cook's secret life of subterfuge with black bin-bags and parking meters, and a mistress waiting in a darkened room. All that trouble just to slake their l.u.s.t! I am glad, indeed proud, to be celibate.

Wednesday August 13th Wisteria Walk, Ashby-de-la-Zouch Here I am again--in my old bedroom. Older, wiser, but with less hair, unfortunately. The atmosphere in this house is very bad. The dog looks permanently exhausted. Every time the phone rings my mother s.n.a.t.c.hes it up as though a kidnapper were on the line.

Rosie is complaining bitterly because she is now sharing a room with William. I pointed out to her that I am paying for my room. Yes, my own mother is charging me PS40 per week for bed and board! Once I'd moved my possessions into the bedroom I was staggered at how little I'd collected over the fourteen years of my working life. I made an inventory.

2 duvet covers and matching pillowslips, 1 black and green zigzags, 1 burgundy/cream swirls 1 high-tog-value fibre-filled duvet 4 bath towels 1 shaving mirror with magnification options 1 travelling clock 1 Anglepoise lamp + halogen bulb 1 MFI folding desk, in black ash 1 typist's chair 500 books (approx.) 1 faux Indian rug 2 Habitat director's chairs 1 Sony mini-stack sound system 27 compact discs (hardly used) CD rack TV/video (loaned by Zippo) Dualit toaster (4-slice) Black-ash bookcase Willow coffee table with magazine shelf Fruit bowl Kettle (safety) Ikea cutlery set Ikea dinner service Ikea cork noticeboard Floor cus.h.i.+on (burgundy) I thought back to the sumptuously furnished flat in Battersea which I'd shared with Jo Jo for most of our marriage. Now I'm nearly thirty and a half years of age, and I haven't got a sofa to call my own. I'm sick of lolling on a floor cus.h.i.+on. I said so to my mother. She said, 'Anybody over twenty-five looks ridiculous on a floor cus.h.i.+on.'

I agree.

I gave the thing to Rosie as a peace-offering, but she threw it back at me saying, 'Burgundy sucks. It's the colour of executives' wallets.'

William rejected it, saying that it smelled of'something hobbollall'.

In the end I took the cus.h.i.+on down to the New Dog, who appeared to appreciate the gift though it is too big for the basket, so the poor animal perches on top of the cus.h.i.+on somewhat precariously with a nervous look in its eyes.

I have finished arranging my things. I will have to learn to live with the Barbie doll wallpaper--but I wish Rosie hadn't disfigured them with a black felt-tip pen and given them all moustaches and underarm hair.

Friday August 15th Justine rang. She said Alan has got a vacancy for a barman at The 165 club. Was I interested? I said no. Serving drinks to Conservative Members of Parliament was my idea of pitchfork purgatory. I asked her how her true romance with Zippo was going. She said it was over. Zippo had asked her to wear something more conservative as they were dressing before leaving the flat to visit his parents at their family seat near Cheltenham. Justine had refused, saying she had to be true to herself. He had shouted, 'My father's on borrowed time as it is. If he sees you in that skirt he'll have a heart attack and die.' Versace has a lot to answer for.

Sat.u.r.day August 16th Support for the Royal Family has fallen below 50 per cent for the first time. Quelle surprise! I remember seeing a photograph of Prince William on his first day at Eton. The poor kid was wearing a green sports jacket! The last time I saw a green sports jacket it was hanging on a rail in a Cancer Research charity shop.

Princess Diana flew to Athens in a Harrods Gulf-stream jet, before going cruising in the Greek Islands with her friend, Rosa Monckton. I hope that in the excitement of her new romance she has not forgotten her promise to buy an artificial leg for that bloke Mohammed.

In the afternoon I took William to visit our MP's surgery, which was being held in an office at the health centre. There was a queue often people, mostly men. From overhearing their conversation I could tell that nearly all of them had come with trifling complaints. The majority seemed to be requesting council-house transfers because of noisy neighbours. I made sure that I was the last to go in.

I was shocked at her exhausted appearance, and said so.

'Thanks,' she said, while lighting a cigarette. 'I was up until four a.m. with Mandy.' She stifled a yawn.

'Doing the samba?' I asked. I had heard about Mr Mandelson's predilection for the rhythms of South America.

'No,' she said. 'We were writing a spoiler for Jack's disclosures in the News of the World next week. He's been threatening me with this since we split up on May 1st.'

I asked her why the split had occurred.

She said, 'Take your b.l.o.o.d.y pick. There was his one-and-a-half-bottles-of-Stolly-a-day habit. The hysterical midnight calls from his last ex-wife. His s.e.xism: he would sulk if I asked him to pick up a loo brush.' She said she had heard from Alastair Campbell that Cavendish had been paid in excess of PS50,000 to spill the beans about her past. He's got two of his children in the Priory and one in the Betty Ford,' she said. 'The poor sod needs the money.'

'That's no excuse to betray you, Pan,' I said. I tried to hold her hand but she slid it out of my grasp and towards her cigarette packet.

She showed me the spoiler. It was a brave doc.u.ment.

'I WAS FREE SPIRIT' ADMITS THE PEOPLE'S PAN Pandora Braithwaite, 'the brightest star in Blair's firmament', issued an extraordinary statement last night, admitting that in s.e.xual matters: 'I was a free spirit; I had many lovers.' Speaking from her home in her const.i.tuency of Ashby-de-la-Zouch, she said, 'Yes, it's true. At one time in the eighties I was enjoying the s.e.xual attentions of three lovers. We were all perfectly happy with the arrangement.'

'Erotic'

Asked if she wore erotic underwear in the debating chamber of the House of Commons she said, 'Yes, I buy my undies from Agent Provocateur in Soho. This in no way affects my ability as a politician. I work tirelessly on behalf of my const.i.tuents.'

'Blair s.e.xy'

Asked if her leader was s.e.xy, Pandora said, 'Clearly.'

'Chanel--Pa.s.se'

Asked about Cavendish's allegations about financial irregularity regarding election expenses, Pandora said, 'I borrowed a couple of couture suits from Karl--I've since given them back, they were terribly pa.s.se.'

We had to fight our way out through an unruly pack of press photographers who had tracked Pandora down to the health centre.

William was excited by Pandora's Mercedes coupe and made her put the hood up and down several times as we drove to our house. My mother was excited to see her, and more excited still by the press pack, who were soon camped outside our garden gate. Even my father left his bed for a look. My mother made him change into clean pyjamas, both in honour of Pandora and in case he should be photographed accidentally.

An odd-looking boy in gangsta rap clothes stood on the opposite side of the road, staring at the house and eating crisps as though he was on a day out. I asked him to move on, but he affected not to hear me.

My mother read Jack Cavendish's copy and then Pandora's spoiler with barely contained glee. At 3 a.m. Ivan and Tania Braithwaite arrived, ashen-faced.

Ivan said to my mother, 'Pauline, my darling, I've told Tania. I had to do it before the News of the World did it for me.'

My father, the poor dolt, said, 'You've told Tania what?'

My heart stopped beating.

Ivan strode, in his smart casuals, up to my pyjama'd, unshaven father and said, 'I'm sorry to have to tell you this, George, but I'm in love with your wife.'

I crossed to my father and touched his shoulder. Pandora took her mother in her arms.

I watched my father's face age as the realization dawned that his wife was in love with somebody else, and that that someone else was Ivan Braithwaite, a family friend.

The New Dog slunk out of the room and went to perch on its burgundy cus.h.i.+on--aware, perhaps, of its role in the affair.

Tania disentangled herself from Pandora, smoothed her long, loose-fitting, floral-print frock over her hips and said, in a quavery voice, 'Ivan, I want you out of my house and garden by tonight.'

Pandora shouted, 'How could you do this to Mummy, Daddy?'

Ivan replied simply, 'Love captured us on May the first, and we have been its prisoners ever since.'

The saggy lovers exchanged a pa.s.sionate glance.

I almost vomited. He should try writing for Mills and Boon.

My father sat down and lit a Rothman's. The fly on his pyjamas was open. He wasn't wearing underpants. I hastily positioned myself in front of him.

Ivan said, 'Come along with me now, my darling,' to my mother.

She picked up her make-up bag and they left.

I watched them pus.h.i.+ng their way through the press at the gate. The boy was still there, eating from a bag of cheese and onion crisps.

Sunday August 17th It takes a long time to write a short paragraph. Pandora and I sat up until 5 a.m. composing the following, which Alastair Campbell approved at 6 a.m.

Pandora Braithwaite, MP for Ashby-de-la-Zouch, and Adrian Mole, Celebrity Chef, are delighted to announce that Mrs Pauline Mole and Mr Ivan Braithwaite (BA) are to marry in the spring.

Pandora (30) said, 'I'm thrilled for them,' and Adrian (30) said, 'Ivan is a lovely man, I couldn't be more pleased.'

The wedding will take place in Ashby-de-la-Zouch Castle, which is now licensed for marriage ceremonies. Neither Mrs Tania Braithwaite nor Mr George Mole was available for comment.