The Secret Diary of Adrian Mole, Aged 13¾ (1982)

by Sue Townsend

  8.30 AM. My mother is at my bedside! She is going to put my diary in her organizer-handbag. She has promised (on the dog’s life) not to read it.

  8.45 AM. My mother is in the hospital grounds smoking a cigarette. She is looking old and haggard. All the debauchery is catching up with her.

  9 AM. The operating trolley keeps coming into the ward and dumping unconscious men into beds. The trolley-pushers are wearing green overalls and Wellingtons. There must be loads of blood on the floor of the theatre!

  9.15 AM. The trolley is coming in my direction!

  Midnight. I am devoid of tonsils. I am in a torrent of pain. It took my mother thirteen minutes to find my diary. She doesn’t know her way round her organizer-handbag yet. It has got seventeen compartments.

  Wednesday October 28th

  I am unable to speak. Even groaning causes agony.

  Thursday October 29th

  I have been moved to a side ward. My suffering is too much for the other patients to bear. Had a ‘get well’ card from Bert and Sabre.

  Friday October 30th

  I was able to sip a little of grandma’s broth today. She brought it in her Thermos flask. My father broughtme a family pack of crisps; he might just as well have brought me razor blades!

  Pandora came at visiting time, I had little to whisper to her. Conversation palls when one is hovering between life and death.

  Saturday October 31st

  Hallowe’en

  3 AM. I have been forced to complain about the noise coming from the nurses’ home. I am sick of listening to (and watching) drunken nurses and off-duty policemen cavorting around the grounds dressed as witches and wizards. Nurse Boldry was doing something particularly unpleasant with a pumpkin. I am joining BUPA as soon as they’ll have me.

  Sunday November 1st

  Twentieth after Trinity

  The nurses have been very cold towards me. They say that I am taking up a bed that could be used by an ill person! I have got to eat a bowl of cornflakes before they let me out. So far I have refused: I cannot bear the pain.

  Monday November 2nd

  Nurse Boldry forced a spoon of cornflakes down my damaged throat, then, before I could digest it, she started stripping my bed. She offered to pay for a taxi, but I told her that I would wait for my father to come and carry me out to the car.

  Tuesday November 3rd

  Election Day, USA

  I am in my own bed. Pandora is a tower of strength. She and I communicate without words. My voice has been damaged by the operation.

  Wednesday November 4th

  Today I croaked my first words for a week. I said, ‘Dad, phone mum and tell her that I am over the worst’. My father was overcome with relief and emotion. His laughter was close to hysteria.

  Thursday November 5th

  Moon’s First Quarter

  Dr Gray says my malfunctioning voice is ‘only adolescent wobble’. He is always in a bad mood!

  He expected me to stagger to his surgery and queue in a germ-filled waiting room! He said I ought to be outside with other lads of my age building a bonfire. I told him that I was too old for such paganistic rituals. He said he was forty-seven and he still enjoyed a good burn-up.

  Forty-seven! It explains a lot, he should be pensioned off.

  Friday November 6th

  My father is taking me to an organized bonfire party tomorrow (providing I am up to it, of course). It is being held to raise funds for Marriage Guidance Councillors’ expenses.

  Pandora’s mother is cooking the food and Pandora’s father is in charge of the fireworks. My father is going to be in charge of lighting the bonfire so I’m going to stand at least a hundred metres away. I have seen him singe his eyebrows many times.

  Last night some irresponsible people down our street had bonfire parties in their own back gardens!

  Yes!

  In spite of being warned of all the dangers by the radio, television, Blue Peter and the media they went selfishly ahead. There were no accidents, but surely this was only luck.

  Saturday November 7th

  The Marriage Guidance Council bonfire was massive. It was a good community effort. Mr Cherry donated hundreds of copies of a magazine called . Now! He said they had been cluttering up the back room of his shop for over a year.

  Pandora burnt her collection of Jackie comics, she said that they ‘don’t bear feminist analysis’ and she ‘wouldn’t like them to get into young girls’ hands’.

  Mr Singh and all the little Singhs brought along Indian firecrackers. They are much louder than English ones. I was glad our dog was locked in the coal shed with cotton wool in its ears.

  Nobody was seriously burnt, but I think it was a mistake to hand out fireworks at the same time the food was being served.

  I burnt the red phone bill that came this morning.

  Sunday November 8th

  Twenty-first after Trinity. Remembrance Sunday

  Our street is full of acrid smoke, I went to see the bonfire, the Now! magazines are still in the hot ashes, they are refusing to burn properly. (Our red phone bill has disappeared, thank God!)

  Mr Cherry is going to have to dig a big pit and pourquicklime over the Now! magazines before they choke the whole suburb. Went to see Bert. He was out with Queenie.

  Monday November 9th

  Back to school. The dog is at the vet’s having the cotton wool surgically removed.

  Tuesday November 10th

  My nipples have swollen! I am turning into a girl!!!

  Wednesday November 11th

  Veterans’ Day, USA. Remembrance Day, Canada. Full Moon

  Dr Gray has struck me off his list! He said nipple-swelling is common in boys. Usually they get it when they are twelve and a half. Dr Gray said I was emotionally and physically immature! How can I be immature? I have had a rejection letter from the BBC! And how could I have walked to the surgery with swollen nipples?

  I don’t know why he calls it a surgery anyway; he never does any surgery in it.

  Thursday November 12th

  Told Mr Jones I couldn’t do PE because of swollen nipples. He was extremely crude in his attitude. I don’t know what they teach them at teacher-training college.

  Friday November 13th

  Pandora and I had a frank talk about our relationship tonight. She doesn’t want to marry me in two years’ time!

  She wants to have a career instead!

  Naturally I am devastated by this blow. I told her I wouldn’t mind her having a little job in a cake shop or something after our wedding, but she said she intended to go to university and that the only time she would enter a cake shop would be to buy a large crusty.

  Harsh words were exchanged between us. (Hers were harsher than mine.)

  Saturday November 14th

  Charred Now! magazines are blowing all over our cul-de-sac. They seem to have special powers of survival. The council have sent a special cleaning squad to try and trap them all.

  The dog’s ears are now clear of cotton wool. It only pretends not to hear.

  Went to see B.B. but he is out with Queenie. She is pushing him around the leisure centre.

  Sunday November 15th

  Twenty-second after Trinity

  Read A Town Like Alice, by Nevil Shute, it is dead brill. I wish I had an intellectual friend whom I could discuss great literature with. My father thinks A Town Like Alice was written by Lewis Carroll.

  Monday November 16th

  I came home from school with a headache. All the noise and shouting and bullying is getting me down! Surely teachers should be better behaved!

  Tuesday November 17th

  My father is a serious worry to me. Even the continuing news of Princess Diana’s conception does not cheer him up.

  Grandma has already knitted three pairs of bootees and sent them off care of Buckingham Palace. She is a true patriot.

  Wednesday November 18th

  Moon’s Last Quarter

  The trees are stark naked. Their autu
mnal clothes Litter the pavements. Council sweepers apply fire Thus creating municipal pyres. I, Adrian Mole, Kick them And burn my Hush Puppies.

  I have copied it out carefully and sent it to John Tydeman at the BBC. He strikes me as a man who might like poems about autumn leaves.

  I have got to get something broadcast or printed soon else Pandora will lose all respect for me.

  Thursday November 19th

  Pandora has suggested I start a literary magazine using the school duplicator. I wrote the first edition during dinner-time. It is called The Voice of Youth.

  Friday November 20th

  Pandora looked at The Voice of Youth. She suggested that instead of writing the whole magazine myself, I invite contributions from other talented scribblers.

  She said she would do a piece about window-box gardening. Claire Neilson has submitted a punk poem, it is very avant garde, but I am not afraid to break new ground.

  Punk Poem Society is puke,

  Soiled vomit.

  On the Union Jack

  Sid was vicious

  Johnnie’s rotten,

  Dead, dead, dead.

  Killed by greyness.

  England stinks.

  Sewer of the world.

  Cess-pit of Europe.

  Hail punks,

  Kings and Queens

  Of the street.

  She wants it put in under an assumed name, her father is a Conservative councillor.

  Nigel has written a short piece about racing-bike maintenance. It is very boring but I can’t tell him because he is my best friend.

  We go to press on Wednesday. Pandora is typing the stencils over the weekend.

  Here is my first editorial:

  Hi Kids,

  Well here’s your very own school magazine. Yes! Written and produced entirely using child labour. I have tried to break new ground in our first edition. Many of you will be unaware of the miracles of window-box gardening and the joys of racing-bike maintenance. If so, hang on to your hats, you’re in for a magic surprise!

  ADRIAN MOLE, EDITOR

  We are going to charge twenty-five pence a copy.

  Saturday November 21st

  Pandora’s father has stolen a box of stencils from his office. As I write, Pandora is typing the first pages of The Voice of Youth, I am half-way through writing an expose about Barry Kent. It is called ‘Barry Kent: The Truth!’ He hasn’t dared to lay a finger on me since grandma’s dramatic intervention, so I know I shall be safe.

  Too busy to go and see Bert, I will go tomorrow.

  Sunday November 22nd

  Last after Trinity

  Finished the expose on Barry Kent. It will rock the school to its foundations. I have mentioned Barry Kent’s sexual perversions—all about his disgusting practice of showing his thing for five pence a look.

  Monday November 23rd

  Had a Christmas card from grandma, and a letter from the post office to say that they are cutting the phone off!

  Forgot to call round and see Bert. Pandora and I were too busy putting the paper to bed. How I wish I was putting Pandora to bed.

  2 AM. What am I going to do about the phone bill?

  Tuesday November 24th

  Nigel has just gone off in a sulk. He objected to the editing I did on his article. I tried to point out to him that one thousand five hundred words on bicycle spokes was pure self-indulgence, but he wouldn’t listen. He has withdrawn his article. Thank God! Two pages less to fold.

  The Voice of Youth hits the classrooms tomorrow.

  Must go and see Bert tomorrow.

  Wednesday November 25th

  We have been hit by a wildcat strike! Mrs Claricoates, the school secretary, has refused to handle The Voice of Youth. She says there is nothing in her job description to say she has to mess about with school magazines. The editorial team offered to duplicate copies ourselves, but Mrs Claricoates says that she alone knows how to ‘work the wretched thing’. I am in despair. A whole six hours’ work wasted!

  Thursday November 26th

  Thanksgiving Day, USA. New Moon

  Pandora’s father is photocopying The Voice of Youth on his office machine. He didn’t want to, but Pandora sulked in her room and refused to eat until he agreed.

  Friday November 27th

  Five hundred copies of The Voice of Youth were on sale in the dinner hall today.

  Five hundred copies were locked in the games cupboard by the end of the afternoon. Not one copy was sold! Not one! My fellow pupils are nothing but Philistines and Morons!

  We are dropping the price to twenty pence on Monday.

  My mother phoned and wanted to speak to my father. I told her that he is on a fishing weekend with the Society of Redundant Electric Storage Heater Salesmen.

  A postcard from the post office to say that unless my father phones the post office before five-thirty our phone will be disconnected.

  Saturday November 28th

  A telegram! Addressed to me! The BBC? No, from my mother:

  ADRIAN STOP COMING HOME STOP

  What does she mean ‘Stop coming home’? How can I ‘stop coming home’? I live here.

  The phone has been cut off! I am considering running away from home.

  Sunday November 29th

  Advent Sunday

  My mother has just turned up with no warning! She had all her suitcases with her. She has thrown herself on the mercy of my father. My father has just thrown himself on the body of my mother. I tactfully withdrew to my bedroom where I am now trying to work out how I feel about my mother’s return. On the whole I am over the moon, but I’m dreading her looking around our squalid house. She will go mad when she finds out that I have lent Pandora her fox-fur coat.

  Monday November 30th

  St Andrew’s Day

  My mother and father were still in bed when I left for school.

  Sold one copy of The Voice of Youth, to Barry Kent. He wanted to discover the truth about himself. He is a slow reader so it will probably take him until Friday to find out. We are going to try dropping the price to fifteen pence to try to stimulate demand. There are now four hundred and ninety-nine copies to be sold!

  My mother and father are in bed again and it’s only 9 PM!

  The dog is very pleased my mother is back. It has been going about smiling all day.

  Tuesday December 1st

  I called the post office and pretended to be my father. I spoke in a very deep voice and told a lot of lies. I said that I, George Mole, had been in a lunatic asylum for three months and I needed the phone to ring up the Samaritans, etc. The woman sounded dead horrible, she said she was fed up with hearing lame excuses from irresponsible non-payers. She said thatthe phone would only be reconnected when £289.19 had been paid, plus £40 reconnection fee, plus a deposit of £40!

  Three hundred and sixty-nine pounds! When my parents get out of bed and discover the lack of dialling tone, I will be done for!

  Wednesday December 2nd

  My father tried to phone up after a job today! He has gone berserk.

  My mother cleaned my bedroom, she turned up my mattress and found the Big and Bouncys and the blue phone bill.

  I sat on the kitchen stool while they interrogated me and shouted abuse. My father wanted to give me a ‘to-within-an-inch-of-his-life thrashing’, but my mother stopped him. She said, ‘It would be more of a punishment to make the tight-fisted sod cough up some of his building-society savings’. So that is what I’m being forced to do.

  Now I will never be an owner-occupier.

  Thursday December 3rd

  Drew out two hundred pounds from my building-society account. I don’t mind admitting that there were tears in my eyes. It will take another fourteen years before I can replace it.

  Friday December 4th

  Moon’s First Quarter

  I am suffering from severe depression. It is all Pandora’s father’s fault. He should have had a holiday in England.

  Saturday December 5th


  Had a letter from grandma to ask why I hadn’t sent her a Christmas card yet.

  Sunday December 6th

  Second in Advent

  I am still being treated like a criminal. My mother and father are not speaking to me, and I’m not allowed out. I might just as well turn to delinquency.

  Monday December 7th

  Stole a Kevin Keegan key ring from Mr Cherry’s shop. It will do for Nigel’s Christmas present.

  Tuesday December 8th

  I am dead worried about the key ring; we did Morals and Ethics at school today.

  Wednesday December 9th

  Can’t sleep for worrying about the key ring. The papers are full of stories about old ladies getting done for shoplifting. I tried to overpay Mr Cherry for my Mars bar, but he called me back and gave me my change.

  Thursday December 10th

  Had a dream about a jailer locking me in a prison cell. The big iron key was attached to the Kevin Keegan key ring.

  The lousy, stinking, sodding phone is reconnected!

  Friday December 11th

  Full Moon

  Phoned the Samaritans and confessed my crime. The man said, ‘Put it back then, lad’. I will do it tomorrow.

  Saturday December 12th

  Mr Cherry caught me in the act of replacing the key ring. He has written a letter to my parents. I might as well do myself in.

  Sunday December 13th

  Third in Advent

  Thank God there is no post on Sundays.

  My mother and father had a festive time decorating the Christmas tree. I watched them hanging the baubles with a heavy heart.

  I am reading Crime and Punishment. It is the most true book I have ever read.

  Monday December 14th

  Got up at 5 AM to intercept the postman. Took the dog for a walk in the drizzle. (It wanted to stay asleep, but I wouldn’t let it.) The dog moaned and complained all the way round the block so in the end I let it climb back into its cardboard box. I wish I was a dog; they haven’t got any ethics or morals.