Adrian Mole: The Wilderness Years Read online

  Friday August 23rd

  I lay awake most of the night, scratching at my mosquito bites and regretting my hasty decision and wondering how news about my bananas had spread. The next day the streets were full of rioting Muscovites and we were confined to the hotel.

  After lunch (black bread, beetroot soup, a wizened piece of meat, one cold potato), I returned to my room to find that my bananas had gone. I was outraged.

  I complained to Natasha, but she only said, ‘You had ten bananas?’ She looked misty-eyed and then snapped, ‘You should, of course, have put them in the hotel safe. They will be changing hands on the black market by now.’

  I found Leonard Clifton in the gloomy basement bar. There had been a coup against Gorbachev and then a counter-coup by Boris Yeltsin.

  ‘This is bad news for Soviet Communism,’ he said, ‘but good news for Jesus.’

  England! England! England!

  I long for my attic room.

  Monday September 2nd

  Oxford

  I am in bed, exhausted and hideously deformed. Why do mosquitoes exist? Why? Cassandra said they are ‘a vital component of the food chain’. Well, I Adrian Mole, would gladly pull the chain on them. And, if the food chain collapses and the world starves, so be it.

  I have written to Foreign Parts, threatening to report them to ABTA unless I receive all my money back, plus compensation for the double trauma suffered from the mosquitoes and the revolution.

  Tuesday September 3rd

  Christian passed by Foreign Parts today. He said it looked deserted. There was a pile of unopened letters on the doormat inside the shop.

  Thursday September 5th

  A reply from John Tydeman, Head of Drama, BBC Radio.

  Dear Adrian,

  To be perfectly honest, Adrian, my heart sank when I returned from holiday and saw that your manuscript, Lo! The Flat Hills of My Homeland had landed on my desk yet again. You say in your letter, ‘I expect you are busy’. Yes, I damned well am busy, incredibly so.

  What exactly is a ‘coffee break’? I’ve never had a ‘coffee break’ during the whole of my long career with the BBC. I drink coffee at my desk. I do not go to a ‘coffee break’ lounge where I loll about on a sofa and read handwritten manuscripts, 473 pages long. My advice to you (without reading your wretched MS) is to:

  1) Learn to type

  2) Cut it by at least half

  3) Supply a SAE and postage. The BBC is suffering from a cash crisis. It certainly cannot afford to subsidize your literary outpourings.

  4) Find yourself a publisher. I am not a publisher. I am the Head of Radio Drama. Though sometimes I wonder if I am Marjorie Proops.

  I am sorry to have to write to you in such terms, but in my experience it is best to be frank with young writers.

  Yours, with best wishes,

  John Tydeman

  Poor old Tydeman! He has obviously gone mad. ‘Sometimes I wonder if I am Marjorie Proops’ (!) – perhaps the Director General should be told that his Head of Radio Drama is suffering from the delusion that he is an agony aunt.

  And he admitted that he hadn’t even read the reedited Lo! What do we licence-payers pay for?

  Dear Mr Tydeman,

  I would appreciate it if you could send my MS back, ASAP. I do not want it circulating around the corridors of the BBC and being purloined by a disaffected freelance producer, anxious to make his or her mark on the world of broadcasting.

  Adrian Mole

  PS. Allow me to inform you, sir, that you are not Marjorie Proops.

  Saturday September 7th

  Spent most of the day in a futile search for a reasonably priced room. As I made my weary way back home, I passed Foreign Parts. There was a note on the door:

  This business is closed. All enquiries to Churchman, Churchman, Churchman and Luther, Solicitors.

  I didn’t take down the telephone number. It was already in my filofax, under ‘S’. A middle-aged couple were taking the number down, though. They were due to depart tomorrow on a cycling holiday in ‘Peter Mayle Country’, Provence. They were facing the awful realization that they were not going to see the famous table on the infamous terrace, and possibly take tea with Pierre Mayle plus femme.

  As the couple walked away, I heard her say to him: ‘Cheer up, Derek, there’s always the caravan at Ingoldmells.’ A fine woman, indomitable in the face of disaster. Mr Mayle has been cheated of meeting a true Brit.

  Sunday September 8th

  I have decided to go with Jake Westmorland.

  Chapter Seventeen: Jake – A Hero of Our Time

  Jake stood on top of the tank in Red Square. What a good job I took Russian at school, instead of French, he thought. Then, quieting the multitudes by a small gesture of his hand, he spoke.

  ‘I am Jake Westmorland,’ he shouted. The revolutionary hordes bellowed their grateful recognition. A sea of banners waved joyously. The sultry Russian sunlight glinted on the dome of St Basil’s Cathedral as Jake tried to quieten the crowds and begin his speech. The speech that he hoped would prevent the disintegration of the Soviet Union…

  Monday September 9th

  I have written eleven speeches for Jake and thrown them all in the bin. None of them was capable of changing the course of world history.

  … But before Jake could make the speech that would almost certainly have saved the Soviet Union, a shot rang out and Jake fell off the tank and into the arms of Natasha, his Russian mistress. She threw Jake over her shoulder and the silent crowd parted to let them through.

  Thursday September 12th

  Cassandra has ordered me to be out of the house by noon on Saturday! The lousy, stinking undergraduates have hogged all the private rented accommodation. I had no choice but to throw myself on the mercy of Oxford Council. But the Council official I spoke to today maintained that I am ‘intentionally homeless’ and refused to help me. I have started collecting cardboard boxes. Either to pack my belongings in, or to sleep in – who knows?

  Friday September 13th

  Christian has taken the children to see his mother in Wigan. He is a spineless coward. The hideous Cassandra is walking around the house in her absurd clothes, singing her ludicrous rapping songs. I asked her tonight if I could store my books in the attic until I’ve found a place of my own. She replied, ‘Books?’ as though she’d never heard the word before.

  I said, ‘Yes, books. You know, those things with cardboard covers stuffed with paper. People read them, for pleasure.’

  Cassandra snorted contemptuously. ‘Books belong in the past, together with stiletto heels and Gerry and the Pacemakers. This is the nineties, Adrian. It’s the age of technology.’

  She went to her word processor and pressed a button. A series of little green men wearing Viking helmets filled the screen and began to fight with little red men wearing baseball caps, who came out of a cave. Cassandra leaned eagerly towards the screen. I sensed that our conversation was over and left the room.

  Query: Is the world going mad, or is it me?

  Saturday September 14th

  8.30 a.m.

  Options

  1) Pandora (no chance)

  2) Bianca (possible)

  3) Mother (last resort)

  4) Bed and breakfast (expensive)

  5) Hostel (fleas, violence)

  6) Streets

  11.30 a.m.

  1) Pandora turned me down flat. She is a true Belle Dame sans Merci.

  2) Bianca is away attending a Guns ‘n’ Roses convention in Wolverhampton. Left note at newsagent’s.

  3) My mother is out gawping at a new crop circle just outside Kettering.

  4) The cheapest B&B is £15.99 a night!

  5) There is nothing under ‘Hostel’ in the phone book.

  6) I hit the road at high noon.

  11.35 p.m. Leicester. Bert Baxter’s house

  So, it has come to this. I am reduced to sleeping on a Put-U-Up in a pensioner’s living-room, which stinks of cats. Baxter is charging me
£5 for tonight, plus £2.50 for bacon and eggs. My mother’s house is locked and dark, and the key is not in its usual place under the drain cover. In normal circumstances I would have broken the small pantry window and climbed in, but my mother has had a security system installed. Delusions of grandeur, or what?

  My father, supposedly penniless, is on holiday in Florida with a rich divorcee called Belinda Bellingham. I know I could go to my grandma’s but I can’t bear her to find out that I am unemployed and homeless. The shock could kill her. She has my GCSE certificates framed on the hall wall. My ‘A’ level English certificate is in a silver frame on the mantelpiece in her front room. Why give such anguish to an elderly diabetic?

  Monday September 16th

  1.35 a.m. I am now trying to sleep on the sofa-bed in my mother’s living-room. As I write, the television in my mother’s bedroom is blaring. The washing machine is on its spin cycle. The dishwasher is shrieking and somebody is taking a shower. Subsequently, the water pipes are banging all over the house. My stepfather, Martin Muffet, has just gone upstairs with his DIY toolbox. Does nobody sleep in this house?

  Tuesday September 17th

  My grandma knows all. My mother has told her everything. She is disgusted. I hope she never finds out that Bert Baxter gave me a bed for the night.

  Wednesday September 18th

  G knows about B&B at BB’s. She saw BB in C&A.

  Friday September 20th

  A postcard of Clifton Suspension Bridge came this morning.

  Dear Adrian,

  I’ve only just got your message! Sorry I didn’t see you before you left. That Cassandra is a sad woman all right!

  I’ve never been to Leicester. Is it nice? Hope so for your sake!

  There’s a floor here for you if you fancy coming back to Oxford! I know where I can borrow a double mattress.

  Let me know soon, please!

  Love,

  B.

  The exclamation marks gave me some pain. Could I share a floor with a woman who was so profligate with them? And what would the sleeping arrangements be? This ‘double mattress’ she mentioned. Was it for me only? If so, why a double? I presume she has an adequate bed of her own. I decided to write an ambiguous reply, keeping my options open, but committing myself to nothing. My mother, who had brought the postcard to me in bed, wanted to know everything about ‘B’. Height, weight, build, colouring, education, class, accent, clothes, shoes. ‘Is she nice?’ Have I ‘slept with her’? ‘Why not?’ The Spanish Inquisition would be nothing compared to my mother. Nothing.

  Dear Bianca,

  It was most kind of you to write to me and offer the use of a double mattress and your floor.

  I confess to you that when I asked you for your help in solving my temporary difficulty regarding my lack of accommodation, I was in somewhat of a panic.

  I am surprised that you responded as you did. Ours has not been a long acquaintanceship. For all you know, I could have severe character faults or a psychotic personality.

  I would urge caution in the future. I would not like to see you taken advantage of. I am not sure about my future plans. Leicester has a certain je ne sais quoi: it is quite pleasant in the autumn, when the fallen leaves give the pavements a little colour.

  Yours,

  Best wishes,

  Adrian

  Sunday September 22nd

  I was looking forward to a traditional Sunday dinner with Yorkshire pudding and gravy, etc. But my mother informed me at 1.00 p.m. that she doesn’t do Sunday dinner any more. Instead, we were driven four miles in Muffet’s car to a ‘Carvery’ where we paid £4.99 a head to be served with slices of cardboard and dried up vegetables by a moronic youth in a chef’s hat. My sister Rosie spilt Muffet’s half pint of Ruddles all over our table. I tried to come to the rescue with half a dozen beer mats – but the beer mats refused to soak up any beer. They repelled all liquid. In the end, the moronic one threw us a stinking dishcloth.

  Query: What is the purpose of modern beer mats? Are they now merely symbolic, like the crucifix?

  6.00 p.m. My mother has informed me that I have got to pay her board of ‘a minimum of thirty-five pounds a week, or you’re out on your ear’. Does blood count for nothing in 1991?

  Tuesday September 24th

  My grandma has said I can move in with her, rent free, providing I cut the grass, wind the clocks and fetch the shopping. I agreed immediately.

  Wednesday September 25th

  I read the first three chapters of Lo! aloud to Grandma tonight. She thinks it is the best thing she has ever heard. She thinks that the publishers who rejected it are barmy. And she has got nothing but contempt for Mr John Tydeman. She recently wrote to him to complain about the sex in The Archers. She claims that he didn’t reply personally. Apparently he got a machine to do it for him.

  Sunday September 29th

  Archers omnibus. Egg, bacon, fried bread, the People. Roast beef, roast potatoes, mashed potatoes, cabbage, carrots, peas, Yorkshire pudding, gravy. Apple crumble, custard, cup of tea, extra strong mints, News of the World. Tinned salmon sandwiches, mandarin oranges and jelly, sultana cake, cup of tea.

  Monday September 30th

  Chapter Eighteen: Back to the Wolds

  Jake settled back in the rocking chair and watched his grandmother making the corn dolly. Her apple cheeks glowed in the flames from the black leaded range. The copper kettle sang. The canary in the cage by the window trilled along with it. Jake sighed a deep, contented sigh. It was good to be back from Russia and all that unpleasantness with Natasha. Here, he could truly relax, in his grandma’s cottage on the Wolds.

  Autumn

  Tuesday October 1st

  My father brought Mrs Belinda Bellingham round to meet me at Grandma’s house tonight. I was totally gobsmacked; she is a posh person! My father has started to pronounce his aitches religiously and to say ‘barth’ instead of ‘bath’. And he has also discovered manners: every time my grandma came into the room, he leapt out of his chair.

  Eventually she snapped, ‘Sit down, George. You’re up and down like a window cleaner’s ladder.’

  Mrs Bellingham is blonde and pretty, with those cheekbones that denote centuries of wise breeding. I thought she was very pale, considering she had just spent two weeks in the sun. Later in the evening, I found out that she lives in fear of skin cancer. Apparently she spent her holiday running from one patch of shade to another. Mrs Bellingham is the managing director of ‘Bell Safe’ – a burglar alarm company. My father starts work next Monday as Mrs Bellingham’s sales director. They tried to persuade my grandma to allow them to install a burglar alarm at cost price, but she refused, saying, ‘No, thank you. If I have to go out, I turn the volume up on Radio Four and leave my front door open.’

  Mrs Bellingham and my father exchanged scandalized glances. Grandma continued, ‘And I’ve never been burgled in sixty years, and anyroad up, if I had an alarm on the front of the house, folks’d know I’ve got something valuable, wouldn’t they?’

  There was an awkward pause, then my father said, ‘Well, Belinda, I’ll see you home, shall I?’

  He fetched her coat and held it out while she put it on. He has obviously been having lessons in social etiquette. When they’d gone, my grandma shocked me by saying, ‘Your dad’s turned into a right brownnosing bugger, hasn’t he?’

  Perhaps she is suffering from the early symptoms of senile dementia. I have never heard her swear before.

  Sir Alan Green, the Director of Public Prosecutions, has been caught talking to a prostitute and has resigned. Under the 1985 Sexual Offences Act, a man seen approaching a woman more than once can be stopped by the police. This is news to me. I shall certainly be more careful whom I approach in the street from now on.

  Friday October 4th

  Grandma and I have scoured the house from top to bottom today. Grandma has a fixation about germs. She is convinced that they are lying in wait for her, ready to pounce and bring her down. I blame the television ad
vertisement for a lavatory cleaner which depicts ‘germs’ the size of gremlins, who lurk about in the ‘S’ bend, chuckling malevolently. Although I’ve seen this advertisement hundreds of times, I simply can’t remember what the product is called.

  Query: Is television advertising effective?

  Later, Grandma sat down and watched the Labour Party singing ‘We Are the Champions’ as the finale to their conference in Brighton. Not many of the shadow cabinet knew the words. I hope Freddie Mercury wasn’t watching – it would have stuck in his teeth, not to mention his craw.