Adrian Mole: The Wilderness Years Read online

  Alfred Wainwright, who wrote guides to the fells of the Lake District, died today. I once used Mr Wain-wright’s maps when I attempted to do the ‘coast to coast’ walk with the ‘Off the Streets’ Youth Club. Unfortunately, I developed hypothermia within half an hour of leaving the Youth Hostel at Grimsby and my record-breaking attempt had to be abandoned.

  Tuesday January 22nd

  Review of Dork’s Diary in the Guardian:

  ‘A coruscating account of fin de Siècle provincial life. Brilliant. Dark. Hilarious. Buy it!’ Robert Elms

  Box Room 10 p.m.

  Couldn’t get in to see Kent; all the tickets were sold. Tried to speak to him as he entered the shop, but couldn’t get near to him. He was surrounded by press and publicity people. He was wearing sunglasses. In January.

  Wednesday January 23rd

  Beard coming along nicely. Two spots on left shoulder blade. A slight pain in anus, but otherwise I am in superb physical condition.

  Read long interview in the Independent with Barry Kent. He told lies from start to finish. He even lied about the reason for his being sent to prison, claiming he was sentenced to eighteen months for various acts of violence, when I know very well that he got four months for criminal damage to a privet hedge. I have faxed the Independent, putting the record straight. It gave me no pleasure to do this, but without the Truth we are no better than dogs. Truth is the most important thing in my life. Without Truth we are lost.

  Thursday January 24th

  Lied on the phone to Brown this morning and told him that I could not visit the Newport Pagnell newt habitat on account of a severe migraine. Brown ranted on about how he had ‘never taken a day off work in twenty-two years’. He went on to brag that he had ‘even passed several massive kidney stones into the lavatory at work’. Perhaps that explains why the lavatory basin is cracked.

  I was late for my appointment with Mr Luther, the solicitor, though I left the flat in plenty of time – another time warp or memory-loss – a mystery, anyway. As I told Luther (in great detail) about Kent’s slander of me, I noticed him yawning several times. I expect he was up late; he looks the dissolute type. He was wearing braces covered in pictures of Marilyn Monroe.

  Eventually he raised his hand and said, ‘Enough, I’ve heard enough,’ in an irritable sort of way. Then he leaned across his desk and said, ‘Are you vastly rich?’

  ‘No,’ I replied, ‘not vastly.’

  He then asked, ‘Are you desperately poor?’

  ‘Not desperately. That’s why I…’

  Luther interrupted before I could finish my sentence, ‘Because unless you are vastly rich, or desperately poor, you can’t possibly afford to go to court. You don’t qualify for Legal Aid and you can’t afford to pay a barrister a thousand pounds a day, can you?’

  ‘A thousand pounds a day?’ I said, absolutely aghast.

  Luther smiled, revealing a gold back molar.

  I remembered my grandma’s advice, ‘Never trust a man with a gold tooth.’ I thanked Mr Luther politely but coldly and left his office. So much for English justice. It is the worst in the world. As I passed the waiting room, I noticed a copy of Dork’s Diary on the coffee table, next to copies of Amnesty and The Republican.

  Got home to find a note from Leonora De Witt informing me that she is unable to keep our appointment tomorrow. Why? Is she having her hair done? Is double-glazing being installed in her consulting room? Have her parents been found dead in bed? Am I so unimportant that my time is a mere plaything to Ms De Witt? She suggested a new appointment: Thursday 31st January at 5 p.m. I left a message on her Ansafone, agreeing to the new arrangement, but announcing my displeasure.

  Saturday January 26th

  I was awake all last night, watching ‘Operation Desert Storm’. I feel it’s the least I can do – after all, it is costing HM Government thirty million pounds a day to keep Kuwait a democracy.

  Sunday January 27th

  According to the Observer today, Kuwait is not and has never been a democracy. It is ruled by the Kuwaiti Royal Family.

  Bluebeard laughed when I told him. ‘It’s all to do with oil, Adrian,’ he said. ‘Do you think the Yanks would be in there if Kuwait’s main product was turnips?’

  Pandora bent down and kissed the back of his withered neck. How she could allow her young, vibrant flesh to come into contact with his ancient, wrinkled skin, I’ll never know. I had to go into the bathroom and take deep breaths and control the urge to vomit. Why slobber over him when she could have me?.

  My mother rang at 4 p.m. I could hear my young stepfather, Martin Muffet, hammering in the background. ‘Martin’s putting some shelves up for my knick-knacks,’ she shouted over the row. Then she asked me if I had read the extracts from Dork’s Diary in the Observer. I was able to answer truthfully. ‘No,’ I said. ‘You should,’ said my mother. ‘It’s totally brilliant. When you next see Baz, will you ask him for a free copy, signed to Pauline and Martin?’

  I said, ‘It is highly unlikely that I will see Kent. I do not move in the same illustrious circles as him.’

  ‘Which illustrious circles do you move in, then?’ asked my mother.

  ‘None,’ I answered truthfully. Then I put the phone down and went to bed and pulled the duvet over my head.

  Monday January 28th

  Britain’s Jo Durie and Jeremy Bates won the mixed doubles in Melbourne. This surely points to a renaissance in British tennis.

  Pandora’s Little Pussy

  I love her little Pussy

  Her coat is so warm

  But if I should stroke her

  She’ll call the police and identify me in

  A line-up

  And do me some harm

  Wednesday January 30th

  Shocked to hear on Radio Four that King Olav the Fifth of Norway was buried today. His contribution to the continuing success of the Norwegian leather industry is something that is little appreciated by the vast majority of the Great British Public. Prince Charles was England’s graveside representative.

  Borrowed Scenes from Provincial Life by William Cooper from the library. I only had time to choose one book, because a ‘suspicious package’ was found in the Romantic Fiction section and the library was evacuated.

  Sink blocked again. Plunged for the duration of The Archers, but to no avail.

  Thursday January 31st

  I didn’t arrive at the consulting room on Thames Street until 5.15 p.m. Leonora De Witt was not pleased.

  ‘I’ll have to charge you for the full hour, Mr Mole,’ she said, seating herself in an armchair which was covered in old bits of carpet. ‘Where would you like to sit?’ she asked. There were many chairs in the room. I chose a dining chair which was standing against a wall.

  When I was seated, I said, ‘I was under the impression that our sessions were to be under the auspices of the National Health Service.’

  ‘Then you were gravely mistaken,’ said Ms De Witt. ‘I charge thirty pounds an hour – under the auspices of the private enterprise system.’

  ‘Thirty pounds an hour! How many sessions will I need?’ I asked.

  She explained that she couldn’t possibly predict, that she knew nothing about me. That it depended on the cause of my unhappiness.

  ‘How do you feel at the moment?’ she asked.

  ‘Apart from a slight headache, I feel fine,’ I replied.

  ‘What are you doing with your hands?’ she said quietly.

  ‘Wringing them,’ I replied.

  ‘What is that on your brow?’ she asked.

  ‘Sweat,’ I answered, taking out my handkerchief.

  ‘Are your buttocks clenched, Mr Mole?’ she pressed.

  ‘I suppose they are,’ I said.

  ‘Now answer my first question again, please. How do you feel at this moment?’

  Her large brown eyes locked into mine. I couldn’t avert my gaze.

  ‘I feel totally miserable,’ I said. ‘And I lied about the headache.’

&nb
sp; She talked at length about the Gestalt technique. She explained that it was possible to teach me ‘coping mechanisms’. Apart from Pandora, she is probably the loveliest woman I have ever spoken to. I found it hard to take my eyes off her black-stockinged feet, which were slipped into black suede shoes with high heels. Was she wearing tights or stockings?

  ‘So, Mr Mole, do you think we can work together?’ she said.

  She looked at her watch and stood up. Her hair looked like a midnight river pouring down her back. I eagerly affirmed that I would like to see her once a week. Then I gave her thirty pounds and left.

  Friday February 1st

  Just returned from Newport Pagnell. My nerves are shot to pieces. Brown drove like a man possessed. At no time did he exceed the speed limit, but he drove onto the kerb, scraped against hedgerows and on the motorway section of our journey he left only a six-inch gap between our fragile Ford Escort and the monolithic juggernaut in front of us.

  ‘It saves precious fuel if you can stay in the lorry’s slipstream,’ he said by way of explanation. The man is an environmental fanatic. He spent last Christmas Day classifying seaweed at Dungeness. I rest my case. Thank God for the weekend. Or le weekend, as our fellow Europeans say.

  Saturday February 2nd

  Viscount Althorp, Princess Diana’s brother, has confessed to his thin wife and the rest of the world that he had an affair in Paris. Prince Charles and Princess Diana must have been horrified to find out that there was an adulterer in the family. He should be stripped of his title immediately. The Royal Family and their close connections should be above such brutish instincts. The country looks to them to set the moral standard.

  Had bath, shampooed beard, cut fingernails and toenails. Put hot oil on hair to nourish it and give it shine and the outward illusion of health.

  11.45 p.m. Bert Baxter has just telephoned. He sounded pathetic. Pandora was out and in a moment of weakness I agreed to go and visit him in Leicester tomorrow. Wrote a note to Pandora, left it on her pillow.

  Pandora,

  Baxter rang in considerable distress, something about killing himself – I intend to visit him tomorrow. He intimated to me that he wished to see you too. I plan to rise at 8.30 to catch the train, or, should you wish to accompany me, my alternative modus operandi will be to rise at nine and be driven by you in your motor car, thus arriving in Leicester at approximately 11 a.m. Would you please inform me of your decision by the method of slipping a note under my door? Please do not disturb me tonight with the sounds of your wild love-making. The walls of my box room are very thin and I am sick of sleeping with my Sony Walkman on.

  Adrian

  Sunday February 3rd

  At 2.10 a.m., Pandora burst into my box room and hurled abuse at me. She flung my note to her into my face and screamed, ‘You pompous nerd, you pathetic dork! “Modus operandi”! ‘Be driven by you in your motor car”! I want you out of this box room and out of my life, tomorrow!’

  Bluebeard came in and led her away and I lay in bed and listened to them murmuring together in the kitchen. What brought on such an unprovoked outburst?

  At 3.30 a.m. they went into Pandora’s bedroom. At 3.45 a.m. I put Dire Straits into my Sony and turned the volume up to full.

  Didn’t wake until midday. Phoned Bert and said I was unable to visit him owing to being awake all night with intestinal pains. I could tell Bert didn’t believe me. He said, ‘You’re a bleedin’ liar. I’ve just spoken to my gal Pandora. She rang me on her car phone. She looked in your room before she set out for Leicester and she said you were sleepin’ like a newborn.’

  ‘Why didn’t she wake me then?’ I asked.

  ‘’Cos she ‘ates the bleedin’ sight of you,’ said the diplomatic one.

  Monday February 4th

  Inexplicably late for work by twenty-three minutes. Brown was practically frothing at the mouth. Also accused me of stealing postage stamps. He said, ‘Every penny is needed by the DOE if our wildlife is to be preserved.’ As if! Are the badgers and foxes and tadpoles and lousy, stinking newts going to pop their clogs because I, Adrian Mole, made use of two second-class postage stamps paid for out of my taxes in the first place? No, Brown. I don’t think so.

  Tuesday February 5th

  Pandora still in Leicester. Trimmed beard around mouth. Swallowed clippings. One lodged at back of throat; annoying.

  Wednesday February 6th

  Brown came into my cubicle today and demanded to see my ‘A’ level certificates! He had heard on the office grapevine that I had failed ‘A’ level Biology three times. The only person in Oxford – apart from Pandora – who knows about my triple failure is Megan Harris, Brown’s secretary. I confessed to her whilst in a drunken and emotional state at the DOE Christmas Party last year. She alone knows that my job as a Scientific Officer Grade One was granted to me under false pretences. Has Megan blabbed? I must know.

  I told Leonora De Witt my family history tonight. It’s a tragic story of rejection and alienation, but Leonora simply sat and picked balls of fluff from her sweater, which drew my attention to the shape of her comely breasts. It was obvious that she was not wearing a bra. I wanted to leave my chair and sink my head into her bosom. I went into some detail about my parents’ deviant behaviour, but the only time she showed obvious interest was when I mentioned my dead grandfather, Albert Mole, whom I have to thank for my middle name.

  ‘Did you see his dead body?’ she asked.

  ‘No,’ I replied. ‘The Co-op undertaker had screwed the coffin lid down and nobody could find the screwdriver at Grandma’s house, so…’

  ‘Continue,’ ordered Leonora. So I did. Through fat, hot tears. I told about my feeling of exclusion from ‘normal’ life; of how I long to join my fellow human beings, to share their sorrows, their joys, their singsongs in pubs.

  Leonora said, ‘People sing awful songs in pubs. Why do you feel a need to join in singing those mawkish lyrics and banal tunes?’

  ‘I stood outside such pubs as a child,’ I said. ‘Everybody sounded so happy.’

  Then the alarm went off on her watch and it was time to cough up thirty quid and leave.

  On my way home I went into a pub and had a drink. I also initiated a conversation about the weather with an old man. There was no singing, so I went home.

  Thursday February 7th

  I asked Megan outright this morning. I approached her in the corridor as she was being scalded by the Autovent tea/coffee/oxtail soup machine. She admitted that she had let it ‘slip out’ that I was totally unqualified for my position. Then she swore me to secrecy and informed me that she and Brown have been having an affair since 1977! Brown and the lovely Megan! Why do women throw themselves at worn-out old gits like Brown and Cavendish, and ignore young, virile, bearded men like me? It defies logic.

  Megan was eager to talk about her affair with Brown. Apparently he had sworn to leave Mrs Brown in 1980, but has not yet done so. I feel sorry for Mrs Brown every time she comes into the office. It is not her fault that she looks like she does. Some women have got good dress sense and some women haven’t. Mrs Brown obviously does not know that pop socks should only be worn under trousers or long skirts. Also, somebody should tell her that warts can be cured nowadays.

  Friday February 8th

  Pandora is back in Oxford, but not speaking to me much, apart from the bare facts that Bert is no longer suicidal. She bought him a kitten and also installed a cat flap in his back door. Brown asked me again for my Biology ‘A’ level certificate. I looked at him enigmatically and said, ‘I think you’ll find that Megan has the information you require.’ God, blackmail is an ugly word. I hope Brown doesn’t force me to use it.

  I have thrown my condom away. It had exceeded its ‘best before’ date.

  Monday February 11th

  Megan came into my cubicle today, sobbing. Apparently Brown forgot her birthday, which was yesterday. Alack, alas! It looks as if I am cast into the role of Megan’s only confidant. I put my arms around her
and kissed her. She felt lovely and soft and squashy. She pulled away quite soon, however, and said, ‘Your beard is scratchy and horrible.’

  But was my beard the real reason?

  Does my breath stink? Does my body stink?

  Who can I trust to tell me the truth?

  I can certainly see what Brown sees in Megan, but I will never in a billion years see what she sees in him. He is forty-two, thin, and wears atrocious clothes from ‘Man at C&A’. Megan says he is good in bed. Who is she trying to kid? Good at what in bed? Doing jigsaws? Sleeping? Perhaps she means that he is unselfish with the duvet? If Brown is good in bed, then I am a tractor wheel.

  Tuesday February 12th

  Tried to visit newt habitat in Northamptonshire, but ‘wrong kind of snow’ caused Class 317 engine to fail. Was forced to sit in freezing carriage whilst buffet bar attendant gave out continuous announcements in annoying adenoidal voice. Was pleased when buffet car ran out of all supplies and closed. Got back to Oxford at 10.30 p.m., to find message from Megan. Rang her to find out that she and Brown had had a row; their affair is over. I was distraught. This means I no longer have a hold over Brown. It could signal the end of my career with the DOE.