Adrian Mole 07; The Lost Diaries 1999-2001

by Sue Townsend

  I try not to lie to my sons. I replied, ‘Those little lambs would have been herded into a truck, driven to a far-away abattoir, killed and hung on a hook, before being cut into pieces’ Perhaps I shouldn’t have been so graphic, as both boys have since informed me that, from now on, they will eat only vegetarian food. This is extremely annoying. As I write, a leg of lamb is cooking in the oven.

  Monday, March 19

  I rang Pandora on her mobile; she was at Wells-next-the-Sea, trying to charm a crowd of suspicious whelk workers. Apparently, female whelks are still mutating and growing penises. ‘And the bloody cod have practically disappeared,’ she complained. I tried to comfort her by saying, ‘At least you were not called to give evidence in front of Elizabeth Filkin and her committee in the Vaz case’ Her phone immediately cut off. The signal must be weak on the Norfolk coast.

  Tuesday, March 20

  Progress on the novel:

  Krog squatted behind his wife, picking lice from her matted hair. Her belly was big with child. Krog did not know why. Krog wanted to tell his wife how much he loved her. He wished that somebody would hurry up and invent language and clothes and shampoo. Then Krog spoke to his wife: ‘You woman, me man.’

  Saturday, March 31

  I’m glad to see the end of this accurs – éd month. William went into the back garden to try out his new red wellingtons. Minutes later, he had to be rescued by me and Glenn after sinking up to his waist in the squelching bog that used to be the lawn.

  Michael Fish told me and my fellow British TV gogglers at lunchtime today that the previous 12 months had been the wettest since records had been kept. I said to Michael, ‘I’m not surprised, Mike.’

  I was about to tell him about William’s near miss when I realised, to my horror, that Michael Fish would not have been able to hear me. I must get out more.

  As I was cooking the boys’ Quorn burgers tonight, I had a sudden brainwave, and phoned Pandora on her direct number at the Ministry of Agriculture, Fisheries and Food. She answered at once. For a joke, I pretended to be the chief vet of Norfolk. I said, ‘Moi dear gal, oi’m the chief vet of Norfolk. Oi’m sorry gal, but Oi’ve got bad news, there’s been a serious outbreak of beak and claw down here. More than 11 million chickens and turkeys are affected.’

  She gave an audible gasp. Then said, ‘Christ, what next? Is it safe to eat the eggs?’

  I answered in my newly acquired Norfolk accent, ‘No, my dear, they must be gathered from their coops, stamped, ‘DO NOT INGEST. THIS EGG IS CARRYING THE BEAK AND CLAW VIRUS’’

  There was silence and she stifled a sob. She then shouted across the office, ‘Get me Tony, at once!’ She then spoke urgently to somebody nearby, and I heard a male voice shout, ‘Fuckin’ ‘ell, there’s beak ‘n’ claw in Norfolk!’ He sounded hysterical.

  I was starting to regret my deception, but when Pandora asked me if she should arrange for the poultry to be slaughtered and the eggs to be buried, for some reason I answered, ‘Put the birds out of their misery, by all means, but the eggs could come in useful – for throwing at politicians during the run-up to the general election.’

  After I’d slammed down the phone, I was ashamed of myself. Pandora was so proud of her recent promotion to junior minister for poultry. I tried to ring back, but the phones in her office were permanently engaged. What I had intended to suggest to her was that, rather than destroy infected sheep, instead each household in Britain be given a skinned and disembowelled carcass to put in the freezer. After all, foot and mouth presents no danger to we homo sapiens. (To keep things fair, vegetarians could be given a token for a bag of turnips or something.) This would surely win votes for new Labour.

  Sunday, April 1, 2001 (April Fool’s Day)

  A Leicester courier firm, 24-7, woke me early this morning with the most wonderful letter of my life:

  Dear Adrian Mole,

  My name is Louise Moore. I am an editor at Penguin Books UK Ltd. I will cut quickly to the chase. While lunching in the Ivy yesterday with Will Self and Martin Amis, I could not help but overhear a conversation at the next table between two agents. They were discussing your unfinished manuscript, Krog From Gork. I was gripped by the story of how Krog invents man’s first language, thus enabling him to tell his wife that he loves her.

  Penguin would like to offer you £1m for a two-book deal. Please ring me at 9.30am on Monday.

  Yours sincerely Louise Moore.

  Monday, April 2

  My birthday cards were illustrated by the usual symbols of masculinity: vintage cards, foaming tankards and fishing rods.

  At 9.30 precisely, I rang Ms Moore’s number. Pandora answered. ‘April Fool, you birthday boy bastard,’she shouted before slamming down the phone.

  Friday, April 6

  Arthur Askey Way, Ashby-de-la-Zouch

  A belated birthday card from Pamela Pigg. On the front, a picture of a middle-aged git, sitting at a rustic table outside a thatched pub. A black labrador lies at the git’s feet, next to a wicker basket from which protrude several fishing rods, nets, etc. The git is wearing a green waxed jacket and a deerstalker, and is raising a foaming tankard to his self-satisfied lips. In the background is a vintage car, presumably owned by the git.

  For how long did Pamela shop for this card? And when she found it, did she exclaim, ‘At last! This is the perfect card for Adrian Mole’? She must know by now that I hate thatch, dogs, tankards, fishing, tweed – in fact, almost everything to do with the countryside. I am urbane to my very fingertips. Inside, Pamela had written: ‘Adrian, Mon Amour, let’s try again. Sex is not everything, Love Piglet.’

  Query: do I want to try again with Pamela? Most of our trysts seem to end in tears, snot and recriminations. She is ludicrously oversensitive: last autumn, when we were walking in the woods, she wept because the leaves were leaving ‘their mothers’ (the trees).

  Saturday, April 7

  Against my better judgment, I rang Pamela and asked her to accompany me to Nigel’s official coming-out party. I could not risk being mistaken for a single gay man. I regretted my invitation as soon as I saw her outfit. No woman over 17 should wear a sequinned boob tube, in my opinion. And her comedy earrings were not at all amusing. Nigel’s parents looked shell-shocked – his mother still thinks his homosexuality is a ‘silly phrase [sic] he is going through’.

  That night, after yet another failed attempt at sexual congress (her fault, not mine), Pamela turned her back on me and began to weep piteously. I longed for sleep, but felt compelled to offer her comfort. Unfortunately, she was still there in the morning, naked, apart from the comedy earrings. When William barged into my bedroom, he said, disapprovingly, ‘You will have to get married now, Dad’ He has never seen me in bed with a woman before, not even his mother.

  Sunday, April 8

  Pamela suggested that we go out for lunch ‘en famille’. She recommended Ye Olde Carvery in Frisby-On- The-Wreake. Glenn and William were excited – they rarely eat out. On the way, in the car, I explained that Frisby-On-The-Wreake was a notorious centre for paganism. Pamela contradicted me violently, saying that Frisby had won best-kept hanging basket prize for three years running. I pointed out that the two could easily co-exist, and Glenn said diplomatically, ‘Yeah, a witch can ‘ave ‘an ‘anging basket.’

  Ye Olde Carvery was full of wax-jacketed gits talking in loud voices about the poor cow who’d put her foot in it. I assumed they were banging on about foot and mouth, but Pamela had picked up a copy of the Mail On Sunday and told me the Countess of Wessex had been entrapped by a reporter dressed as an Arab sheikh into calling John Major ‘wooden’, William Hague ‘a puppet’, and foxes ‘vermin’.

  The carvery did not cater for vegetarians. Indeed, a glance at the trays of ye olde foode congealing behind the bar told me that Ye Olde Carvery did not cater for any person with a normal appetite, tastebuds, etc. On the way out, one of the gits laughed at Pamela’s comedy earrings. I could hardly object.

  Wednesday, April 11
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br />   Awake all night with irritating dry cough. Sweated profusely.

  Thursday, April 12

  TB has broken out only two kilometres from my door! And I have all the symptoms. Dr Ng was summoned. He angrily removed a red sequin from the back of my throat.

  Friday, April 13, 2000 (Good Friday)

  Why do banks close on bank holidays? They should be open when so many are free to use them. I wished to query a statement saying I had spent £104.49 on Belgian chocolates at a shop in Lewes, so rang a call centre in Southend. I told a youth called Gary that I never bought chocolate due to the effect it has on my skin, and had never been to Lewes.

  He said, ‘Perhaps it was an internet transaction’ I repeated testily that I could not tolerate chocolate. He said, ‘Perhaps you bought it for someone else – it is Easter’ I said angrily, ‘I am a poor man: £104.49 exceeds my weekly income’ He snapped, ‘The standing order to your newsagent could keep an African village in food for a month’ At this moment, Glenn shouted from the toilet that there was no paper. I put Gary on hold. When I came back, Greensleeves was playing, so I went to my bank, only to find the doors locked.

  Glenn was miserable all day. He asked if he could paint his bedroom black. When I asked what was wrong, he said,’ Why do they call it Good Friday? It weren’t for poor Jesus, were it?’

  He explained that he had trodden on a drawing pin this morning: ‘It brung it ‘ome to me what it must ‘ave been like on the cross’ He then asked if he could have a Heroes Easter egg. William’s egg of choice is Barbie. Worrying.

  Saturday, April 14

  Had an email from Hamish Mancini: ‘Yo, Adi, I’m FedExing a 100lb bag of Idaho’s finest potatoes, because you don’t got none in England, cos of the floods and plagues. We are praying for you and your family.’

  Sunday, April 15, 2001 (Easter Day)

  Pamela came round with an egg-decorating kit. William’s eggs were a riot of primary colours; Glenn’s depicted Jesus on the cross. He wrote a bubble out of Jesus’s mouth, ‘Father, why hast thou forsaken me?’, which disturbed Pamela: ‘For God’s sake, Glenn lighten up. It’s Easter!’

  Later, while William played with the packing of his Barbie egg and Glenn watched The Greatest Story Ever Told, she led me to my room and gave an erotic Easter egg, the centre of which contained a pair of edible knickers. She was keen for me to break it open and retrieve them. I was less keen: a glance at the ingredients told me they were choc-a-bloc with obscure chemicals and multisyllable flavourings.

  Sunday, April 22

  Ashby-de-la-Zouch

  Last Sunday, I forced the boys to sit and listen to Go4it, the new Radio 4 children’s programme. I was annoyed when, after only five minutes, Glenn complained, ‘It’s for posh kids, innit?’ William fell asleep during the Sir Steve Redgrave interview. I woke him and said, ‘Sir Steve has won five gold medals for this country. The least you can do is stay awake while he’s talking.’

  This evening, we again sat down to listen. I was enthralled by the interview with Thunderbirds creator Gerry Anderson. I was once besotted with Lady Penelope. She was the subject of my first sexual fantasy. I still like women who are a bit on the wooden side. Pandora Braithwaite MP, the love of my life, has a carved look about her. Though it is the Labour party who are now pulling her strings. Ha ha!

  She was on the news tonight, wearing Prada Wellingtons and a tweed suit, trying to assure angry country folk why a massive hole containing hundreds of thousands of noxious, decomposing cows and sheep, would not become a health hazard. A reporter shouted, ‘Have you signed the compact, Pandora?’ She snapped, ‘The only compact I have any use for has the name Chanel embossed on the lid.’

  Monday, April 23

  Pandora’s remark has landed her in trouble with the CRE. She’s been ordered to have her photo taken with a black or brown person. She rang to ask if William was available. I said, ‘The child’s skin is not for hire’ She asked me for Mohammed’s mobile number and then rang off.

  Tuesday, April 24

  When I went to the BP garage for a box of Coco Pops, Mohammed was bursting with the news that Pandora had rung him and had invited herself and a Newsnight crew to dinner last night. She had requested chicken tikka masala. Mohammed said, ‘Me missus were a bit put out, coz she usually gets fish and chips on Tuesdays, but you can’t deny Pandora owt when she orders you about in that posh voice, can you?’ He asked me what side Newsnight was on.

  Naturellement, I viewed the programme with great interest. Pandora was wearing her Alexander McQueen-designed Punjabi suit she’d last worn to the inaugural meeting of Ashby’s Anglo-Asian women’s rugby team.

  Thursday, April 26

  Ashby-de-la-Zouch

  10.30pm: Thank God Phoenix has been reprieved. William cried himself to sleep last night, and Glenn spoke darkly about travelling to Membury in Devon and joining the junior wing of a militant vegetarian splinter group called Sprouts, who were planning to resist evil MAFF, the calf murderers. His motives were not entirely altruistic. He has been bewitched by Joanna Lumley since seeing her pleading so eloquently for the calf’s life on TV. This is worrying: Ms Lumley is enchanting, but she is old enough to be his grandmother.

  Saturday, April 28

  I went to the garage for milk early this morning, and was alarmed to find Mohammad being given oxygen by two paramedics. He had been overcome by the fumes emanating from a pile of the restyled Guardian Weekend magazines. I stayed until he had recovered enough to gasp, ‘This allergy could be the end of my career as a forecourt newsagent, Moley.’

  This afternoon, William ran home from the grotty recreation ground in tears, after a big white kid called him a ‘mongrel’. I reminded him that he had in his veins the blood of a Nigerian aristocrat, a Norfolk potato farmer, a Scottish engine driver, a Welsh witch and that, by virtue of being born in this country, and as defined by the OED, he was as English as John Townend. The kid refused to be comforted, until he was invited by Glenn to watch a video of Joanna Lumley in her role as Purdey in the New Avengers.

  Sunday, April 29

  Filling in the census form took longer than expected. I agonised over the work-related questions. Eventually, I ticked the ‘Yes’ box, and admitted that I had worked for three hours on my novel, Krog From Gork.

  William didn’t seem to belong to any ethnic group. I rang the helpline and spoke to a bloke called Len Cook. He seemed irritated by my explanation of William’s various bloodlines. In the end, I settled for box B – Mixed other, and wrote British⁄Black African.

  Glenn hovered over the religious question, but eventually declared himself to be a Buddhist after I had given him a breakdown of the world’s other great religions. He liked the fact that Buddhists shaved their heads and were careful not to tread on ants.

  Saturday, May 5

  Dear Prime Minister,

  I have just watched your foreign secretary, Robin Cook, on the TV news. However, I have no idea what the man was talking about since I could not understand a word he said. Surely it is time he was given an official translator. Failing this, perhaps subtitles could be used. I am a keen follower of foreign affairs, and resent being disenfranchised by Mr Cook’s incoherent babble.

  Incidentally, I like the new spectacles – they give you gravitas, something you have been lacking lately due to your own casual articulation.

  I remain, sir, AA Mole

  An official called Colin Dodge telephoned from customs and excise at Heathrow airport this afternoon. He informed me, (rather curtly, I thought) that the Idaho potatoes sent as emergency food by Hamish Mancini had been confiscated under the anti-Colorado-beetle restrictions. I emailed Hamish and warned him against sending any more food parcels, and told him that the foot and mouth crisis was now under control and that food was now available in the shops.

  Hamish emailed back: ‘I seen the weekly news round-up today, oh boy! There was crowds of crazy reds an’ anarchists rioting in London town. When’s it gonna be safe for me and mom to vis
it? I wanna vacation in that cute thatched cottage you live in.’

  Monday, May 7, 2000 (bank holiday)

  Vince Ludlow, my neighbour, threw a ‘Welcome Home Ronnie’ party today. He has never met Biggs, but obviously feels an affinity with the train robber. All day, and long into the night, our street was clogged with criminal traffic. A rumour circulated that Mad Frankie Fraser was sitting on the Ludlows’ settee, eating crab paste sandwiches. The noise was intolerable. But I decided not to complain, as I did not wish my feet to be sawn off at the ankles. Instead, I took Glenn and William for a ramble in the countryside. On the outskirts of Little Snickerton, I parked in a lay-by and tried to get the boys to leave the car, but neither of them would budge. They are both under the impression that the countryside is ruled by despotic farmers who hate city dwellers. Eventually, I turned the car round and drove back.

  Tuesday, May 8

  Glenn brought a note home from school today:

  Dear Parent⁄Guardian⁄Principal Carer,

  Dr Pandora Braithwaite MP, a former pupil of Neil Armstrong Comprehensive, will address the school assembly on Thursday, May 10, at 9.10am sharp. On the subject of apathy. Please make every effort to attend.

  Yours faithfully,

  Roger Patience, OBE, Head Teacher

  (Please note: The smoking of cigarettes, pipes and cigars, the drinking of alcohol and the ingesting of hot food are not allowed in the assembly hall.)

  NB. Mr Grimley, the caretaker, would like me to make it clear that the car park is for the use of school staff only. Visitors ignoring this instruction are liable to have their vehicles towed away by Grimly Bros Auto Services.

  Thursday, May 10

  I was forced to park three streets away, in Woodpecker Crescent. I ran to the school and arrived at the assembly hall at 9.11am. Grimley jangled a large bunch of keys and barred my way, saying, ‘Yer too late, Mole’ Grimley and I have clashed several times in the past, most recently last month, when Glenn was accused of writing ‘All caretakers are fascists’ on the boiler-room door. Fortunately for me, a large black car drove into the car park. The driver walked away. Grimley licked his lips like a vulture about to pick its victims bones.