by Sue Townsend
My plan is to take Glenn to Paris for his birthday. It is to be a surprise, so my preparations must be made behind his back. Tonight, I washed and ironed his least gangsterish-looking clothes and hid them in my wardrobe. There is nothing I can do about his hair or the Buffy the Vampire Slayer tattoo he's now got on his wrist, but with luck it will be cold and he'll have to roll down his sleeves. I'm looking forward to showing him the Louvre — he's a very lucky boy; I was 26 before I saw that the Mona Lisa wasn't worth the wait in the queue.
Tuesday, January 30
I was checking and re-checking my travel necessities list tonight. Two Eurostar tickets, travellers' cheques, Nurofen, map of Paris, French/English dictionary, passports, umbrella. There was something missing. Then the realisation hit me like an orange thrown by a toddler in a supermarket trolley: GLENN DOES NOT HAVE A PASSPORT!
Wednesday, January 31
Pandora has refused to help fast-track a passport for Glenn. I phoned Keith Vaz MP, but there was nobody available to take my call.
Self-obsession
Friday, February 2, Ashby-de-la-Zouch, Leicestershire
I was sitting in the kitchen with a chicken noodle Cuppa-Soup this evening, waiting for The Archers to begin, when to my astonishment I heard my name mentioned on Radio 4. I turned up the volume and listened in growing horror to a «trail» of a television programme featuring a man called Adrian Mole, a former offal chef whose family home is in Ashby-de-la-Zouch.
This TV Mole has a mother called Pauline and a father called George. This cannot be mere coincidence — somebody has published my life and is exploiting it for commercial reasons. I immediately rang my agent's solicitor, Peter Elf, and left a message. The BBC must be prevented from broadcasting this series. Surely I have intellectual copyright on my own life?
I was unable to concentrate on The Archers, and thus missed a strand of an important storyline: will Kate go back to South Africa with her black lover and take her first-born child?
Saturday, February 3
Several people, including Pandora, have rung up to enquire about the Mole TV series. Pandora was outraged, though I could tell that she is rather flattered that she is being played by Helen Baxendale.
Monday, February 5
I rang Greg Dyke's office at 7am this morning, but the slug-a-bed was not at his bed. Do we licence-payers award a full-time salary to a man who apparently works part-time? It would appear so.
Mr Elf warned me against taking out an injunction against the BBC. He said, "It would be a David and Goliath situation." I pointed out to him that little David was in fact the victor against the giant Goliath. Elf replied, "In my opinion, David struck lucky with that stone. Goliath obviously had a very thin skull."
Tania Braithwaite brought last week's Radio Times around this morning. Inside, was a "film-set diary" purported to have been written by a bloke calling himself Adrian Mole. This Mole bloke was also upset that his life was being exploited.
A friend of Tania's in publishing had told her that an old hack called Sue Townsend had been trying for years to publish the Secret Diaries of Adrian Mole, claiming that they were fiction. She showed me a piece of the manuscript. I read in increasing astonishment as details of my private life were revealed. How does this woman know so much about me? Is she tapping my phone? Has she bugged my house? Tania said that Townsend grew bitter after going on an Arvon poetry course led by Adrian Henri and Roger McGough, where Henri told her that she was not a poet and never would be after she handed in a poem called A Contemplation Regarding Earwig Defecation:
How to measure earwig poo?
How to know how much they do?
Are there scales to measure it
Those tiny piles of earwig shit?
Townsend then made a hysterical denunciation of modern poetry and ran out of the class and down to the river. She threatened to throw herself in unless Adrian Henri sent her earwig poem to Bloodaxe with a recommendation that they commission a thick volume of her verse. Adrian Henri came to the opposite bank and shouted across the river, "Throw yourself in and give us all a break."
Townsend has hated all men called Adrian since that day. AA Gill is another of her obsessions. Is she the reason my own literary endeavours have come to nought?
Tuesday, February 6
Leicester-born painter Adrian Hemming has fled the country after hearing that Townsend is an admirer of his work. "I heard that she was planning to buy one of my 'wave' pictures and hang it in her bathroom," he said from his hiding place. "I must protect my name."
Swede liberty
Sunday, February 11, Ashby-de-la-Zouch
Does the psychological medical establishment formally recognise Ikea rage? I think I suffered three separate episodes of it today. The first came in the car park, when a small child, who appeared to be in charge of parking, turned me away from a disabled space. I showed him a photocopy of a letter from my doctor, which clearly stated that I was suffering from a medical condition, but he indicated that I must back out of the space and allow an invalid carriage driven by an old git in a neck brace to drive in. Dr Ng's letter:
Dear Mr Mole
Further to your many visits to the surgery this week. Your blood test results have returned from the lab and show beyond doubt that you are not suffering from HIV, BSG or MRSC. Your heart, kidney, liver, lungs and brain are functioning normally for a man of your age. You are, however, suffering from severe hypochondria. I have discussed your case with my colleagues, Drs Singh and O'Neil, and they are satisfied that my diagnosis is correct. May I suggest that you examine other areas of your life for the cause of your unhappiness.
Dr Ng
PS: In future, please do not visit the surgery or request a home visit unless you are certain that you are suffering from a life-threatening illness.
The second Ikea rage attack occurred in the Storage System section, when Glenn disputed my measurements for the run of Billy bookcases I'd planned to install in the living room. "I'm tellin' yer, Dad, you ain't gonna get three of 'em against that back wall," he said. We faced up to each other as weary shoppers tramped by. I was aware of Glenn's testosterone pumping through his teenage body. "I will not have you questioning my calculations," I roared, and Glenn stormed off with his tail between his legs. I eventually caught up with him in Bathrooms, where he was standing in a shower stall, sullenly examining the fixtures. In the warehouse, he silently helped me to lug three flatpack Billy bookcases on to a trolley. If he'd been in the army, I could have charged him with dumb insolence.
My third attack came in the 10-deep queue, when the woman customer at the till insisted on opening the five boxes containing a fitted wardrobe and proceeded to count the screws. My temples pulsed with irritation so much that I feared that I would suffer an aneurysm and be carried out in a flatpack coffin.
Monday, February 12
I rang Pandora at the Commons and asked her to translate the Swedish instructions for assembling the Billy bookcases. As I waited for her to fax them to me, I marvelled at her courteous and helpful tone. Then I remembered: she will be fighting a marginal seat in May, and every vote will count, including mine.
Tuesday, February 13
I have tried and failed to assemble the Billy bookcases. There is obviously something in my genetic make-up that prevents me from holding a screwdriver in one hand while sinking screws into a hole in a plank of wood with the other. I now divide the world into those who can and those who can't assemble Ikea furniture. Can list: Paul Daniels, Frank Bruno, William Hague, Madonna, Princess Anne, Glenn Bott. Can't list: Peter Mandelson, Caroline Aherne, Prince Charles, Sir Edward Heath.
Wednesday, February 14, Valentine's Day
Not a single card. Not one. Nothing. Glenn received 11. They are standing proudly on top of the two Billy bookcases he assembled last night. The third didn't fit.
Thursday, February 15
A Valentine's card arrived this morning from Pamela Pigg. The cheapskate had affixed a second-class stamp. Inside, she had written, "
Let's try again."
Pottering about
Sunday, February 18, Ashby-de-la-Zouch
I organised my library tonight using my own idiosyncratic alphabetical system. So, the first book on my Billy bookcases was AA Gill's Collected Works. The last was zzz's, The Insomniac's Handbook.
In between, of course, were the tomes penned by the masters and mistresses of literature. How I longed to join them!
I went to bed after loading the washing machine with a pile of mixed coloureds but woke only an hour later worrying about the escalating tension in Iraq. Glenn keeps asking me awkward questions about Britain's role in the protection of the no-fly zone. Such as: "'Ow can it be cold protection, Dad, when old people an' little 'uns got killed?" He is an unsophisticated boy and can't quite grasp the subtleties of the situation. I tossed on my pillow, haunted by past humiliations: the time my mother came to a parents' evening at Neil Armstrong comprehensive wearing yellow tights; the day my father and I sat on a bus together and he began to sing “If I Ruled The World”; my wedding night, when I couldn't unfasten the cord of my pyjama trousers and my bride, Jo Jo, was forced to cut it with the scissors on her Swiss army knife, my screams brought the night porter to our room having been summoned by an irritable executive next door.
At 4.10am I gave up trying to sleep and went downstairs. I sat at my desk in the living room alcove and found myself beginning the first sentence of a new novel. I don't have a title yet but I am rather pleased with the first page.
Chapter 1
Larry Topper blinked through his owl-like glasses as the public school, The Academy, hove into view. He turned to his guardian, Uncle Edward (his parents were both dead, killed by a bomb whilst on holiday in Iraq). 'I say, Uncle Ted, piped Larry, 'I rather think I'm going to be jolly happy here. Larry's glance took in the topiary which littered the large, vibrant green, well manicured, soft underfoot, lawns. Uncle Ted's kindly eyes twinkled like fairy lights before the fuse blows.
'I should hope so, young sir, Ted rumbled in his voice which sounded like the distant roar of a bomber taking off.
Uncle Edward crunched his antique car along the gravel drive until it came to rest at the main entrance where a bored looking boy stood smoking a St Moritz menthol cigarette. This was Brett Longshank, head boy and aristocrat who was a star of the rugger field and a genius in the classroom.
Larry gawped in awe at Brett's exquisite air of nonchalance. 'I say, Uncle, he said, 'what a spiffing role model that fellow is.
Uncle Ted's brow furrowed and looked like a ploughed field after several horses had dragged a plough over it.
'That's Lady Nancy Longshank's son, he said disapprovingly. 'And I happen to know that he is addicted to crack cocaine, keep away from him, Larry, d'you hear me? Keep away from him.
Monday, February 19
I may give Larry magical powers. I could have an entirely original bestseller on my hands!
Tuesday, February 20
Pamela Pigg is hounding me with romantic, indeed sexually explicit, text messages. I texed her back and asked her to stop, but her ardour seemed only to intensify. Her last message came at 2.15am. She wrote: U R 4 Me I No u Luv Me 2.
I have decided to call my new novel Larry Topper, Boy Wizard. I have emailed the first page to Brick Eagleburger, my agent.
Wednesday, February 21
Dreamt that Gordon Brown was prime minister. Received a text message from Brick. It read: JK Rowling, you aint. But stupid U R.
Foot in mouth
Sunday, March 11, Ashby-de-la-Zouch
Vince Ludlow, my next-door neighbour, has got a new job. He calls himself an Animal Incineration Operative. He is uniquely qualified for this gruesome employment, having served several sentences in youth custody for arson, and actively disliking animals, claiming, "They spoil the countryside." He is the only person I know who is hoping that the foot-and-mouth crisis worsens. He is eagerly awaiting a state of emergency to be declared. He is planning to buy his council house on the overtime heês earning. I was disturbed to hear that he was in the Lamb's Head car park on Saturday night selling cheap cuts of beef from the back of his van.
Monday, March 12
Peter Mandelson sounds increasingly like Joan of Arc. One can practically see the burning faggots under his feet. I saw him on the news a few days ago, handing out apples to schoolchildren in Hartlepool. He looked vaguely sinister. I was reminded of Snow White, whose simple, trusting nature was taken advantage of by the hag at the window proffering Coxês Pippins.
Pamela Pigg's surname has been causing her considerable distress. A woman in Sketchley's openly sniggered when Pamela gave her name. She made a crass joke about foot and mouth and cloven hooves. Pamela fled the shop in tears and drove to my house, where she distracted me just as I was about to finish the first paragraph of my latest novel, Krog Of Gork. I made Pamela a cup of the dandelion tea she is so fond of and tried to listen sympathetically as she recounted the many humiliations she had suffered due to her unfortunate name. However, my thoughts kept straying to Krog Of Gork.
As Pamela sobbed at the memory of her first day as a trainee teacher, I mentally composed the second paragraph of Krog. .
Krog climbed to the brow of the hill. He looked down to the mouth of the cave. His woman was poking the fire with a twig. Krog sighed deeply. He wished his woman was beautiful, but make-up and hair dyes had not yet been invented. And neither had Immac. Krog picked a handful of red berries and loped down the hill towards the fire and the woman he loved. Language had yet to be invented but he grunted a greeting to his woman and she grunted back. Krog offered her the berries, she snatched them from his hand and crammed them into her black-toothed mouth. 'here should be something called manners, Krog thought, as he watched the juice from the berries spray from her lips. A dinosaur brayed in the distance, the sound echoed across the Neanderthal landscape. Krog picked up his spear and put his arm protectively around his woman. She turned her face towards him, her lips were stained red. 'My God, you’re beautiful, grunted Krog. His loins stirred. He led his woman into his cave.
Pamela Pigg stayed the night, but intimacy did not take place. At 11pm, I suggested that she change her name by deed poll. She said it would kill her father. The Piggs went back to the Plantagenets. She said that her only salvation was to change her name by marriage. She looked pointedly at me. I turned away and feigned sleep.
Tuesday, March 13
There was a farmer called Brown on Midlands Today, tonight, claiming that he was forced to feed his livestock antibiotics and British Airways leftovers, and to keep them in cages in darkness because the public demanded cheap food. Strange, but I do not recall the citizenry rioting outside Parliament for the cause of 5p off a pound of beef. However, I predict that it won't be long before hoteliers, rugby players, jockeys, canoeists, anorak makers, mountaineering boot retailers and mystery tour coach drivers mobilise and march on Downing Street demanding compensation.
The bleeding countryside
Friday, March 16
I went to visit my father today in the isolation ward. He was due to be discharged yesterday, but has contracted yet another hospital superbug. Some of his blood, and several of his mucous membranes, are in the hospital laboratory being tested. Tracy, his barrier nurse, was reading aloud to him an article on foot and mouth from the Daily Telegraph. When she quoted, "Farmers are the custodians of the countryside", my father roared, "The bastards have ruined the bleeding countryside. They have pulled up the hedges, polluted the rivers, fed their animals on shit, and bled the taxpayer dry." My father is wildly prejudiced against farmers. In the early days of their marriage, he suspected that my mother had an affair with a maggot farmer. It is strange how such a tenuous connection can colour our opinions. I, myself, have not stepped foot in the county of Kent since my enemy, Barry Kent, had his novel short-listed for the Booker prize.
I didn't stay long at his bedside, as I was anxious to get back to my prehistoric novel, Krog From Gork. I am enjoying the chall
enge of writing a book set in a time before language was invented. I tried to interest my father in the challenge, but could tell by the way he yawned and closed his eyes that he had little enthusiasm for my latest literary endeavour. After a desultory conversation about the umpiring in Sri Lanka, I left the stifling atmosphere of his isolation cubicle.
Tracy resumed her reading. As I got to the end of the ward, I heard my father shout, "Nobody compensated me when the electric storage heater industry collapsed. Nobody came to film the rusty heaps of storage heaters lying in the fields."
Saturday, March 17
My mother has been released from Holloway. The Crown Prosecution Service has lost the papers relating to her case. She was distraught to discover that her newish husband, Ivan Braithwaite, was back living at The Lawns with his ex-wife, Tania. They claim that they are living like brother and sister.
Sunday, March 18, lunchtime
There was a farmer's wife on the midday news sobbing because her healthy baby lambs were going to be slaughtered. Me, William and Glenn watched with tears in our eyes. Then Glenn said, after blowing his nose, "Dad, what would 'ave 'appened to them little lambs if foot and mouth 'adn't broke out?"
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.