Adrian Mole: Diary of a Provincial Man Read online

  Dear Adrian,

  So, I'm not worth £17.50? When I think of the money and attention that I've lavished on you over 32 years, it makes me sick. I will probably be discharged in a couple of days. I want you gone from Wisteria Walk by then. You must take your boys and go and live with your father and Tania. There are four empty bedrooms at The Lawns.

  Mother.

  Sunday, January 30

  Just returned from The Lawns after explaining my housing dilemma to my father and his new wife, Tania. They were not exactly keen to take me and my boys in. "We use those bedrooms," said my father. "I keep my golf clubs in one, and Tania over-winters the geraniums in another.

  "That still leaves two empty rooms," I pointed out.

  "Sadly, no," said Tania. "I'm in the process of turning one of those rooms into a meditation space."

  "And the last remaining room?" I enquired with a cynical sneer. My father turned away, but Tania stared me out.

  "The fourth room is to be used to store my collection of Millennium Dome memorabilia," she said. As I stumbled away from The Lawns, I dashed tears from my eyes. All hope is gone. The council estate beckons.

  Home sweet home…

  Saturday, February 5, 2000, 12 Arthur Askey Way, Gaitskell Estate

  I cannot understand why nobody wanted to take on the tenancy of this house.

  It is dry, centrally-heated, has three bedrooms, a new bathroom, a well-equipped kitchen and a large through lounge. The windows are double-glazed and there is a front garden with a hard standing area for a car and a back garden with a medium-sized tree. The council has completely redecorated.

  When I asked Pamela Pigg from the council's homeless unit why the house had been vacant for over a year, she said, "I have to tell you, Mr Mole, that this house is notorious".

  She wouldn't elaborate. Perhaps a famous Leicester person lived here once. Gary Lineker, perhaps, or Willie Thorne? Both came from humble beginnings before climbing their respective ladders to the land of fame.

  Glenn and William have mixed feelings about the move. They are happy to have a bedroom each, but Glenn said, "I aint 'ard enough for the Gaitskell, Dad, and neither are you." William asked, "Why have all the shops got barbed wire over the windows?"

  I told him a ridiculous lie about the Territorial Army using the shopping parade for a weekend exercise, but it was obvious that even he, the most gullible of boys, didn't believe me. It has to be faced: we are living among what sociologists call "the underclass", and what my father, reluctantly driving the box van containing my few sticks of furniture, called "Satan's spawn".

  However, our immediate neighbours, the Ludlows, with whom we share a party wall, seem to be very quiet types. I haven't heard so much as a peep from them. I know their name because somebody has painted "the Ludlows live here" in black gloss paint on the front of their house.

  Sunday, February 6

  I left the boys watching TV and walked to the newsagents. There was a notice on the grilled door: "Glue or cigarettes will not be served to miners, and balaclavas must be removed." I removed my balaclava and went inside.

  An Asian man stood behind the counter. A woman I took to be his wife was stocking the magazine racks with what appeared to be pornography.

  "Good morning," I said cheerfully. "The Observer, please."

  "You're too late, m'duck, the vicar's been in an' got the only copy," said the man, in a broad Leicester accent.

  "You only stock one copy of a great national newspaper?" I checked.

  "We got plenty more," he said indicating the News Of The World, the People and Sunday Sport."

  I asked him to order two copies of the Observer in future. As I was leaving, I said, as pleasantly as possible, "Isn't it against your religion to serve pornography?"

  He bridled and said, "No, I'm a Catholic, we're from Goa, an' anyway, what's wrong with the naked female body, eh? What you got against it?"

  I fear I have got off on the wrong foot with the Goans. After being searched at the entrance of the mini-supermarket, Food Is U, by a fat man in a security-guard's uniform, I went inside and attempted to buy some croissants and a box of fresh orange juice. I returned home with a thick-sliced loaf and a bottle of Sunny Delight. There were two aisles of cakes and biscuits, and one aisle devoted entirely to fizzy drinks.

  When I have settled in, I may write to the manager and point out that he should widen his customer base.

  Friday, February 11

  My mother visited my new home today. She was obviously unnerved by the journey through the estate. "You'll never survive it, Adrian," she said. She had brought the new dog to see us, but it refused to get out of the car. I posted a Valentine to Pandora and signed it "Oh Pandora, still adore ya."

  Sunday, February 13

  The Ludlows are back from "opening the caravan up in Chapel-Saint-Leonards". There are two adults, six children and three big dogs. The noise is indescribable.

  Valentine's Day

  Not a single card, not one.

  Love is in the air

  Tuesday, February 15, 2000, 12 Arthur Askey Way

  Vincent Ludlow, my next-door neighbour, knocked on my door at 11.30 tonight and asked if I could "let him 'ave a few fags until the mornin'."

  I told him that I was a life-long non-smoker. He looked back at me with an expression of disbelief.

  "You don't smoke?" he checked.

  "No," I said, and gave him a brief talk about the dangers of smoking, citing the Royal College of Physicians' latest report. I was interrupted by his wife, Peggy, shouting, "'urry up, Vince, I'm bleedin' gaspin' 'ere", from their doorstep.

  Two of their three big dogs escaped from the house and preceded to fight in my front garden. "Satan! Devil!" roared Ludlow. "Get back in the 'ouse!"

  The ill-trained animals ignored their master and carried on with their fight. Eventually, they were joined by the third dog, Kane, who entered the fray with evident enjoyment. Mrs Ludlow ran from the house with a sweeping brush and set about the dogs with the wooden handle. They were quickly subdued, and slunk back into the house with their tails between their powerful legs. "Bleeders," said Ludlow, fondly, as he watched them go. I couldn't take my eyes off Peggy Ludlow: she was panting from her exertions, causing her magnificent bosom to rise and fall beneath her food-stained dressing gown. She looked like a beautiful, long-haired version of Ann Widdicombe. I felt my manhood stir for the first time in many months.

  Wednesday, February 16

  This morning, I saw Peggy Ludlow in her back garden, hanging washing on the line. I splashed a little Ralph Lauren's Polo on to my cheeks and hurried down to my own garden, where I pretended to examine the tree. I glanced over the fence. Peggy was wearing full make-up, her raven hair was blowing in the wind. She held a clothes peg tantalisingly between her carmine lips. She nodded to me.

  "Just looking at my tree," I croaked.

  "The last bloke what lived in your 'ouse murdered his brother-in-law then 'ung himself from that tree," she said with obvious relish. I went back inside and phoned the homeless unit. I left a message on Pamela Pigg's voicemail, demanding an immediate transfer.

  Friday, February 18

  Nigel came round tonight and brought me a bunch of Stargazer lilies. As he handed them to me, he said, "Congratulations on finally coming out, Moley."

  After I had vehemently protested my heterosexuality, Nigel said, "Well, I was told by a council worker that you had claimed on an official form that you were a gay single father. You're obviously in denial."

  He and his partner, Cliff, have planned a "coming out" dinner party for me. "It'll just be a few close friends," he said. "Cliff's doing the Naked Chef's aubergine-and-pasta bake." I told him that I loathed aubergines, and he snatched the lilies back and left. A pity. He is my best, indeed only, friend and I need to confess to somebody about my growing passion for Mrs Peggy Ludlow.

  Saturday, February 19

  Glenn's maths homework project is to draw a graph illustrating the result of the
Livingstone, Dobson, Jackson mayoral race. Clorette Ludlow, the eldest daughter, is pregnant! I heard the row through the party-wall. Peggy screamed, "Why din't you take precautions, you stupid mare?" Clorette screamed back "Tony an' Cherie slipped up, an' they're both brain-boxes, so shurrup, our mam". I fear that the PM and his wife are not setting a good example to the nation's young, contraception wise.

  Sunday, February 20

  Glenn is in despair over his maths homework: "It's no good, dad," he said after putting the Electoral College results into his calculator. "It don't matter how I do the percentages, I still can't work out how Mr Dobson won." I wrote a note to the school saying that the boy had tried his best.

  The perils of prawn tempura

  Sunday, February 20, Arthur Askey Way (Continued)

  Nigel rang and apologised for his faux pas about my sexual orientation. He begged me to go to dinner tonight, saying Cliff, his partner, was longing to meet me.

  Just returned from dinner. There was one other guest, a gay headmaster, who until recently was having a clandestine affair with his school caretaker, who broke it off when he heard his headmaster lover on local radio hypocritically arguing for the retention of Clause 28.

  Glenn was visiting his mother's, so I took William with me — much to the annoyance of Cliff. On opening the door to their loft apartment in the old dog- biscuit factory alongside the canal, Cliff said, "This is a kiddiewinkie-free zone, stranger." I said, "I'm Adrian Mole, and this is William." Cliff said, "This is not a child-friendly household, we have objets d'art and white slip covers. ." Nigel hurried across the industrial flooring to greet us. "Don't mind Cliff, Aidy, he's famously rude." Cliff smirked, and went to a stainless-steel kitchen area, where he began to throw whiskery prawns into a batter and then into a smoking wok.

  The headmaster arrived and proceeded to yak on in tedious detail about his bust-up with the caretaker. I tried to change the conversation by asking Nigel about his new job as a feng-shui adviser, but the odious Cliff interrupted me: "We have a house rule, Mole, no work talk at la table. "

  It was the first time I had eaten Japanese food cooked by an Englishman. William eyed the sushi with alarm and whispered, "Please, Dad, can I have a bowl of Coco Pops." The headmaster suspended his whispered monologue to Cliff about the goings-on in the boiler room to lecture William on the perils of E numbers in breakfast cereals. I left soon after I had initiated an argument about the prawn tempura. I told Cliff that he should have cooked it at the last moment before serving rather than trying to keep it warm on a hostess trolley for 20 minutes. He went berserk. When we got home, Glenn told me that Peggy Ludlow had called round to borrow some HP sauce. I forgot myself and asked Glenn what Peggy was wearing. He said, "A leopardskin." I said, "A leopardskin what? He said, "Just a leopardskin, dad." I slept fitfully. Why am I sexually attracted to such a common woman?

  Monday, February 21

  The BBC Drama Department has finally returned the script of my serial killer comedy, The White Van. The letter said, "This department is not minded to produce a 12-part series about a serial killer who uses a white van for his nefarious activities. Especially as this is Mr William Hague's chosen mode of transport for his "Keep The Pound" campaign.

  Tuesday, February 22

  Nigel is living here temporarily. He and Cliff are finished. It seems the prawn tempura row went on after I left and continued non-stop for almost two days. Nigel turned up on my doorstep sobbing. To comfort him I told him that I hated Cliff. Nigel whined, "But I lurve him," like one of those pathetic trailer-trash morons on the Jerry Springer Show.

  Wednesday, February 23

  Pamela Pigg from the Homeless Unit called unexpectedly this afternoon. She said that an anonymous caller had left a message on her voicemail exposing me as a heterosexual who'd lied about my sexuality in order to procure a council house. Fortunately, I was half-way through bleaching Nigel's roots at the time, so she took in the scene, apologised and left.

  Sunday, February 27

  Leicester won the Worthington Cup today. Glenn said, "Dad, I ain't never been so 'appy." For once, I didn't correct the boy's grammar.

  The loneliness of the cross country runner

  Monday, February 28, 2000, Arthur Askey Way

  Glenn returned home from school today with a letter from his physical education teacher, Mr Lunt. It said:

  "Dear Mr Mole,

  Glenn gave me the following note at the beginning of games today. Although it is not written in Glenn's handwriting, I feel sure that it is not written in yours either."

  I read the enclosed ill-written note. It said:

  "Dear Mr Lunt,

  something tragic 'as happened to Glenn my son he has got a terminal decease and he wont live long it is only a matter of time he dous not no so dont tell him it wood be better if he did not do cross country running as it mite set him off yours sinserly Mr Mole."

  Glenn broke down and admitted that he had persuaded his mother, Sharon Bott, to write the note. He said,"I 'ate cross-country runnin', Dad. We 'ave to wear shorts an' run through villages an' the villagers laugh an' call me chicken legs."

  I confronted Sharon in her chaotic kitchen, where she was defrosting chicken korma for the kids' tea. Not for the first time, I was appalled that I had once enjoyed sexual relations with this woman. She now makes Moby Dick look dainty.

  As she prised the lids off the foil containers, she whined, "I've gotta soft heart, Aidy, I don't like to think of our Glenn 'aving the piss took out of him."

  I asked her not to interfere in Glenn's education in future. She said, "I am his mother. 'E's got 'alf my genes."

  I said, "Yes, the grammar, punctuation and spelling genes, unfortunately." As I was leaving, she said, "I still love you to bits, Aidy." I pretended not to hear her

  I wrote Mr Lunt the following reply:

  "Dear Mr Lunt,

  My own adolescence was made a torment by taunts about my acned complexion. Glenn has a similar complex about his abnormally thin legs. Will you please allow Glenn to wear tracksuit trousers on his next cross-country run, or change the route and stick to unpopulated fields and lanes in future, thus avoiding the taunts of ignorant fox-killing, songbird-culling, hedge-removing, river-polluting country dwellers.

  I remain Sir, AA Mole."

  Tuesday, February 29

  Leap Day. A letter from the Rt Hon Neil Kinnock! Whom I met once when I was the offal chef in Hoi Polloi, the Soho restaurant before it was reopened as the Oxygen Bar, H2O.

  The letter said:

  "Dear Mr Mole,

  I have great pleasure in enclosing your invitation to the Labour Party Centenary Dinner on Monday, April 10, 2000. I will be hosting the evening, and I am delighted that once again the Prime Minister will be our guest of honour.

  "As you may expect there will be very strict security. I regret therefore that I am unable to give you the exact location at this stage except to say that it will be at a central London hotel…"

  I obviously made a lasting impression on Mr Kinnock. He must have truly enjoyed his sheep's testicle in blackcurrant coulis.

  8.30pm Sharon Bott has just left this house in tears. She arrived uninvited at 7.30 in a taxi. She produced a bottle of Safeway's Cava, then got down on one huge knee and asked me to marry her. I turned her down. Glenn was disappointed. He said, "I would 'ave bin the only one in our class to 'ave a mam and dad livin' together."

  Wednesday, March 1

  A terse reply from Lunt: "Dear Mr Mole, The wearing of tracksuit trousers is prohibited during cross-country runs. Best wishes, Mr Lunt. PS As a country dweller, I find your remarks about country folk extremely offensive."

  Friday, March 3

  My mother has just pointed to the small print at the bottom of my Centenary Dinner invitation. The tickets cost £600. I have made an optician's appointment.

  Patched up

  Sunday, March, 5, 2000, Arthur Askey Way

  I spent the day debating with myself — should I continue t
o fight the tracksuit-trousers ban on Glenn's behalf or should I give in, thus subjecting the lad to mental torture during cross-country runs and possible trauma in later life? I rang around and sought the opinion of others. My father reminded me that he had "gone out on a limb" to support me when I stood up against the tyrannical headmaster, pop-eyed Scruton, by wearing red socks to school, thereby defying the black-socks-only rule. My mother said, "Give in, Aidy — you can't beat Jack Straw's authoritarian regime."

  I rang my MP, Pandora Braithwaite, who had joined me in my red-socks rebellion 20 years ago. She said, "Can't talk now, darling, I've got Ken and Frank round for dinner, and I'm about to serve the pig's brains in goat's cheese." So, it is as I suspected all along! Ken Livingstone and Frank Dobson are hand-in-glove with each other. Their true enemy is Tony Blair. They have conspired to make Mr Blair look as though he can't control his party.

  After Glenn had gone to bed, I wrote to his headmaster, Roger Patience:

  Dear Mr Patience,

  My son, Glenn Bott, has abnormally thin legs, of which he is very self-conscious. In the circumstances, would you please make an exception to your PE-shorts-only rule and allow him to wear tracksuit trousers during cross-country runs.

  Yours, A. A. Mole

  Tuesday, March 7, Shrove Tuesday

  Peggy Ludlow came round at tea-time to borrow flour, a lemon, eggs, milk, a frying pan and oil. I said, sarcastically, "Wouldn't it be simpler if I made your pancakes in my kitchen?" She agreed, and the whole Ludlow family trooped round and sat in my living room watching Jerry Springer while I tossed in the kitchen until my wrist was aching.