Funny Ha, Ha

by Paul Merton

  They went out through the revolving doors that made a faintly derisive whistling sound when you pushed them. It was two blocks to the parking lot. At the drugstore on the corner she said, “Wait here for me. I forgot something. I won’t be a minute.” She was more than a minute. Walter Mitty lighted a cigarette. It began to rain, rain with sleet in it. He stood up against the wall of the drugstore, smoking… He put his shoulders back and his heels together. “To hell with the handkerchief,” said Walter Mitty scornfully. He took one last drag on his cigarette and snapped it away. Then, with that faint, fleeting smile playing about his lips, he faced the firing squad; erect and motionless, proud and disdainful, Walter Mitty the Undefeated, inscrutable to the last.

  From THE SECRET DIARY OF ADRIAN MOLE, AGED 13¾

  Sue Townsend

  Sue Townsend (1946–2014) was an English writer and humourist, best known for creating the character Adrian Mole. Born in Leicester, she left school at fifteen and worked in a variety of jobs including factory worker and shop assistant, joining a writers’ group at the Phoenix Theatre in her thirties. She won the Thames Television Playwright Award for her play Womberang, which kick-started her writing career. The Secret Diary of Adrian Mole aged 13¾ was published in 1982 and was followed by The Growing Pains of Adrian Mole in 1984. These two books made her the bestselling novelist of the 1980s.

  Thursday January 1st

  BANK HOLIDAY IN ENGLAND,

  IRELAND, SCOTLAND AND WALES

  These are my New Year’s resolutions:

  1. I will help the blind across the road.

  2. I will hang my trousers up.

  3. I will put the sleeves back on my records.

  4. I will not start smoking.

  5. I will stop squeezing my spots.

  6. I will be kind to the dog.

  7. I will help the poor and ignorant.

  8. After hearing the disgusting noises from downstairs last night, I have also vowed never to drink alcohol.

  My father got the dog drunk on cherry brandy at the party last night. If the RSPCA hear about it he could get done. Eight days have gone by since Christmas Day but my mother still hasn’t worn the green lurex apron I bought her for Christmas! She will get bathcubes next year.

  Just my luck, I’ve got a spot on my chin for the first day of the New Year!

  Friday January 2nd

  BANK HOLIDAY IN SCOTLAND. FULL MOON

  I felt rotten today. It’s my mother’s fault for singing ‘My Way’ at two o’clock in the morning at the top of the stairs. Just my luck to have a mother like her. There is a chance my parents could be alcoholics. Next year I could be in a children’s home.

  The dog got its own back on my father. It jumped up and knocked down his model ship, then ran into the garden with the rigging tangled in its feet. My father kept saying, ‘Three months’ work down the drain’, over and over again.

  The spot on my chin is getting bigger. It’s my mother’s fault for not knowing about vitamins.

  Saturday January 3rd

  I shall go mad through lack of sleep! My father has banned the dog from the house so it barked outside my window all night. Just my luck! My father shouted a swear-word at it. If he’s not careful he will get done by the police for obscene language.

  I think the spot is a boil. Just my luck to have it where everybody can see it. I pointed out to my mother that I hadn’t had any vitamin C today. She said, ‘Go and buy an orange, then’. This is typical.

  She still hasn’t worn the lurex apron.

  I will be glad to get back to school.

  Sunday January 4th

  SECOND AFTER CHRISTMAS

  My father has got the flu. I’m not surprised with the diet we get. My mother went out in the rain to get him a vitamin C drink, but as I told her, ‘It’s too late now’. It’s a miracle we don’t get scurvy. My mother says she can’t see anything on my chin, but this is guilt because of the diet.

  The dog has run off because my mother didn’t close the gate. I have broken the arm on the stereo. Nobody knows yet, and with a bit of luck my father will be ill for a long time. He is the only one who uses it apart from me. No sign of the apron.

  Monday January 5th

  The dog hasn’t come back yet. It is peaceful without it. My mother rang the police and gave a description of the dog. She made it sound worse than it actually is: straggly hair over its eyes and all that. I really think the police have got better things to do than look for dogs, such as catching murderers. I told my mother this but she still rang them. Serve her right if she was murdered because of the dog.

  My father is still lazing about in bed. He is supposed to be ill, but I noticed he is still smoking!

  Nigel came round today. He has got a tan from his Christmas holiday. I think Nigel will be ill soon from the shock of the cold in England. I think Nigel’s parents were wrong to take him abroad.

  He hasn’t got a single spot yet.

  Tuesday January 6th

  EPIPHANY. NEW MOON

  The dog is in trouble!

  It knocked a meter-reader off his bike and messed all the cards up. So now we will all end up in court I expect. A policeman said we must keep the dog under control and asked how long it had been lame. My mother said it wasn’t lame, and examined it. There was a tiny model pirate trapped in its left front paw.

  The dog was pleased when my mother took the pirate out and it jumped up the policeman’s tunic with its muddy paws. My mother fetched a cloth from the kitchen but it had strawberry jam on it where I had wiped the knife, so the tunic was worse than ever. The policeman went then. I’m sure he swore. I could report him for that.

  I will look up ‘Epiphany’ in my new dictionary.

  Wednesday January 7th

  Nigel came round on his new bike this morning. It has got a water bottle, a milometer, a speedometer, a yellow saddle, and very thin racing wheels. It’s wasted on Nigel. He only goes to the shops and back on it. If I had it, I would go all over the country and have an experience.

  My spot or boil has reached its peak. Surely it can’t get any bigger!

  I found a word in my dictionary that describes my father. It is malingerer. He is still in bed guzzling vitamin C.

  The dog is locked in the coal shed.

  Epiphany is something to do with the three wise men. Big deal!

  Thursday January 8th

  Now my mother has got the flu. This means that I have to look after them both. Just my luck!

  I have been up and down the stairs all day. I cooked a big dinner for them tonight: two poached eggs with beans, and tinned semolina pudding. (It’s a good job I wore the green lurex apron because the poached eggs escaped out of the pan and got all over me.) I nearly said something when I saw they hadn’t eaten any of it. They can’t be that ill. I gave it to the dog in the coal shed. My grandmother is coming tomorrow morning, so I had to clean the burnt saucepans, then take the dog for a walk. It was half-past eleven before I got to bed. No wonder I am short for my age.

  I have decided against medicine for a career.

  Friday January 9th

  It was cough, cough, cough last night. If it wasn’t one it was the other. You’d think they’d show some consideration after the hard day I’d had.

  My grandma came and was disgusted with the state of the house. I showed her my room which is always neat and tidy and she gave me fifty pence. I showed her all the empty drink bottles in the dustbin and she was disgusted.

  My grandma let the dog out of the coal shed. She said my mother was cruel to lock it up. The dog was sick on the kitchen floor. My grandma locked it up again.

  She squeezed the spot on my chin. It has made it worse. I told grandma about the green apron and grandma said that she bought my mother a one hundred per cent acrylic cardigan every Christmas and my mother had never ever worn one of them!

  Saturday January 10th

  a.m. Now the dog is ill! It keeps being sick so the vet has got to come. My father told me not to tell the
vet that the dog had been locked in the coal shed for two days.

  I have put a plaster over the spot to stop germs getting in it from the dog.

  The vet has taken the dog away. He says he thinks it has got an obstruction and will need an emergency operation.

  My grandma has had a row with my mother and gone home. My grandma found the Christmas cardigans all cut up in the duster bag. It is disgusting when people are starving.

  Mr Lucas from next door has been in to see my mother and father who are still in bed. He brought a ‘get well’ card and some flowers for my mother. My mother sat up in bed in a nightie that showed a lot of her chest. She talked to Mr Lucas in a yukky voice. My father pretended to be asleep.

  Nigel brought his records round. He is into punk, but I don’t see the point if you can’t hear the words. Anyway I think I’m turning into an intellectual. It must be all the worry.

  *

  p.m. I went to see how the dog is. It has had its operation. The vet showed me a plastic bag with lots of yukky things in it. There was a lump of coal, the fir tree from the Christmas cake, and the model pirates from my father’s ship. One of the pirates was waving a cutlass which must have been very painful for the dog. The dog looks a lot better. It can come home in two days, worse luck.

  My father was having a row with my grandma on the phone about the empty bottles in the dustbin when I got home.

  Mr Lucas was upstairs talking to my mother. When Mr Lucas went, my father went upstairs and had an argument with my mother and made her cry. My father is in a bad mood. This means he is feeling better. I made my mother a cup of tea without her asking. This made her cry as well. You can’t please some people!

  The spot is still there.

  Sunday January 11th

  FIRST AFTER EPIPHANY

  Now I know I am an intellectual. I saw Malcolm Muggeridge on the television last night, and I understood nearly every word. It all adds up. A bad home, poor diet, not liking punk. I think I will join the library and see what happens.

  It is a pity there aren’t any more intellectuals living round here. Mr Lucas wears corduroy trousers, but he’s an insurance man. Just my luck.

  The first what after Epiphany?

  Monday January 12th

  The dog is back. It keeps licking its stitches, so when I am eating I sit with my back to it.

  My mother got up this morning to make the dog a bed to sleep in until it’s better. It is made out of a cardboard box that used to contain packets of soap powder. My father said this would make the dog sneeze and burst its stitches, and the vet would charge even more to stitch it back up again. They had a row about the box, then my father went on about Mr Lucas. Though what Mr Lucas has to do with the dog’s bed is a mystery to me.

  Tuesday January 13th

  My father has gone back to work. Thank God! I don’t know how my mother sticks him.

  Mr Lucas came in this morning to see if my mother needed any help in the house. He is very kind. Mrs Lucas was next door cleaning the outside windows. The ladder didn’t look very safe. I have written to Malcolm Muggeridge, c/o the BBC, asking him what to do about being an intellectual. I hope he writes back soon because I’m getting fed up being one on my own. I have written a poem, and it only took me two minutes. Even the famous poets take longer than that. It is called ‘The Tap’, but it isn’t really about a tap, it’s very deep, and about life and stuff like that.

  The Tap, by Adrian Mole

  The tap drips and keeps me awake,

  In the morning there will be a lake.

  For the want of a washer the carpet will spoil,

  Then for another my father will toil.

  My father could snuff it while he is at work.

  Dad, fit a washer don’t be a burk!

  I showed it to my mother, but she laughed. She isn’t very bright. She still hasn’t washed my PE shorts, and it is school tomorrow. She is not like the mothers on television.

  Wednesday January 14th

  Joined the library. Got Care of the Skin, Origin of Species, and a book by a woman my mother is always going on about. It is called Pride and Prejudice, by a woman called Jane Austen. I could tell the librarian was impressed. Perhaps she is an intellectual like me. She didn’t look at my spot, so perhaps it is getting smaller. About time!

  Mr Lucas was in the kitchen drinking coffee with my mother. The room was full of smoke. They were laughing, but when I went in, they stopped.

  Mrs Lucas was next door cleaning the drains. She looked as if she was in a bad mood. I think Mr and Mrs Lucas have got an unhappy marriage. Poor Mr Lucas!

  None of the teachers at school have noticed that I am an intellectual. They will be sorry when I am famous. There is a new girl in our class. She sits next to me in Geography. She is all right. Her name is Pandora, but she likes being called ‘Box’. Don’t ask me why. I might fall in love with her. It’s time I fell in love, after all I am 13¾ years old.

  Thursday January 15th

  Pandora has got hair the colour of treacle, and it’s long like girls’ hair should be. She has quite a good figure. I saw her playing netball and her chest was wobbling. I felt a bit funny.

  I think this is it!

  The dog has had its stitches out. It bit the vet, but I expect he’s used to it. (The vet I mean; I know the dog is.)

  My father found out about the arm on the stereo. I told a lie. I said the dog jumped up and broke it. My father said he will wait until the dog is completely cured of its operation then kick it. I hope this is a joke.

  Mr Lucas was in the kitchen again when I got home from school. My mother is better now, so why he keeps coming round is a mystery to me. Mrs Lucas was planting trees in the dark. I read a bit of Pride and Prejudice, but it was very old-fashioned. I think Jane Austen should write something a bit more modern.

  The dog has got the same colour eyes as Pandora. I only noticed because my mother cut the dog’s hair. It looks worse than ever. Mr Lucas and my mother were laughing at the dog’s new haircut which is not very nice, because dogs can’t answer back, just like the Royal Family.

  I am going to bed early to think about Pandora and do my back-stretching exercises. I haven’t grown for two weeks. If this carries on I will be a midget.

  I will go to the doctor’s on Saturday if the spot is still there. I can’t live like this with everybody staring.

  Friday January 16th

  Mr Lucas came round and offered to take my mother shopping in the car. They dropped me off at school. I was glad to get out of the car what with all the laughing and cigarette smoke. We saw Mrs Lucas on the way. She was carrying big bags of shopping. My mother waved, but Mrs Lucas couldn’t wave back.

  It was Geography today so I sat next to Pandora for a whole hour. She looks better every day. I told her about her eyes being the same as the dog’s. She asked what kind of dog it was. I told her it was a mongrel.

  I lent Pandora my blue felt-tip pen to colour round the British Isles.

  I think she appreciates these small attentions.

  I started Origin of Species today, but it’s not as good as the television series. Care of the Skin is dead good. I have left it open on the pages about vitamins. I hope my mother takes the hint. I have left it on the kitchen table near the ashtray, so she is bound to see it.

  I have made an appointment about the spot. It has turned purple.

  Saturday January 17th

  I was woken up early this morning. Mrs Lucas is concreting the front of their house and the concrete lorry had to keep its engine running while she shovelled the concrete round before it set. Mr Lucas made her a cup of tea. He really is kind.

  Nigel came round to see if I wanted to go to the pictures but I told him I couldn’t, because I was going to the doctor’s about the spot. He said he couldn’t see a spot, but he was just being polite because the spot is massive today.

  Dr Taylor must be one of those overworked GPs you are always reading about. He didn’t examine the spot, he just said I mu
stn’t worry and was everything all right at home. I told him about my bad home life and my poor diet, but he said I was well nourished and to go home and count my blessings. So much for the National Health Service.

  I will get a paper-round and go private.

  AURELIA’S UNFORTUNATE YOUNG MAN

  Mark Twain

  Mark Twain (1835–1910), born Samuel Langhorne Clemens, is one of America’s most beloved writers, famous for his novels, The Adventures of Tom Sawyer and The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. An adventurer himself, Twain left school at twelve, travelled through North and South America, became a steamboat captain on the Mississippi, served in the Confederate army, and became a successful journalist. His two novels made him wildly rich and famous, but he then lost his fortune on a typesetting machine he invented. Undeterred, he made another fortune, and lost it again. Lauded as ‘the father of American Literature’, he was witty, entertaining, irascible and superstitious. Born shortly after an appearance of Halley’s Comet, he predicted he would go out with it as well. He died a day after the comet returned.

  The facts in the following case come to me by letter from a young lady who lives in the beautiful city of San Jose; she is perfectly unknown to me, and simply signs herself “Aurelia Maria,” which may possibly be a fictitious name. But no matter, the poor girl is almost heart-broken by the misfortunes she has undergone, and so confused by the conflicting counsels of misguided friends and insidious enemies, that she does not know what course to pursue in order to extricate herself from the web of difficulties in which she seems almost hopelessly involved. In this dilemma she turns to me for help, and supplicates for my guidance and instruction with a moving eloquence that would touch the heart of a statue. Hear her sad story: