Adrian Mole: Diary of a Provincial Man

by Sue Townsend

  Roger Patience was coming to the end of his introduction: "Pandora Braithwaite owes her glittering academic and political success to Neil Armstrong Comprehensive, she is undoubtedly the breast [sic] thing to come out of this school." There was uproar, the laughter lasted a full three minutes.

  Pandora, who was wearing an unsuitably low-cut red dress, folded her arms. I waved to her from the back of the hall, but she ignored me. For the next 45 minutes, she harangued the children and the few parents who had bothered to turn up. She said we didn't "deserve the vote", and that if we were not careful the country would be led by fascists, like Grimley, whom she remembered had once reported her to the head teacher of the time, Mr Scruton, for wearing red knickers in contravention of the school's uniform regulations.

  Friday, May 11

  Pandora's official car is still in the Grimly Bros vehicle pound.

  Bowled out

  Saturday, May 19

  Mohammad rang last night and asked if I would like to accompany him to Lord's to watch the England versus Pakistan test match. I said no, so Glenn will go in my stead. I have boycotted cricket since David Gower stole my parking place outside Grimsby's chip shop on Welford Road in Leicester, in October 1991. I was taking my driving test at the time, and Gower's selfishness resulted in me having to take a further 12 lessons with the BSM. I developed a mental block every time I tried to park the driving school car. A vivid flashback of Gower's triumphant punch in the air caused my arms to lock at the elbow, which necessitated the instructor taking the wheel. I only passed at my fifth attempt after the intervention of a hypnotist. Gower owes me big money.

  Tonight I took Pamela Pigg to the Raj Mahal restaurant on Aylestone Road, to discuss ending our relationship. I'm sick of the sight of her. And the sound of her. And the text messages she sends me from early in the morning until late into the night.

  Over the poppadams, we bickered about the election. Pamela will vote Liberal Democrat. She said she was influenced by watching Charles Kennedy's parents playing their musical instruments on TV the other night during a party political broadcast. "That's the sort of family life I want." She choked. Her eyes brimmed with sentimental tears. I pointed out to her that I am tone deaf and suggested that she should try a night out with Alan Clarke, the amateur folk singer she sits next to at work.

  Over our biryanis, we quarrelled about the Prescott egg incident. She thought Prescott should resign and go into exile. (The Isle of Wight was mentioned). I argued passionately that the mullet-haired egg-thrower, Craig Evans, deserved a thorough pasting. The waiter came over and politely asked us to keep our voices down.

  Sunday, May 20

  Glenn has just returned home. He was disconsolate, saying, "We lost, Dad." I said, "England won, you fool." Glenn said, "I wanted Pakistan to win." The boy is culturally confused. This is what comes of living in Britain's first multicultural city. Glenn is growing ringlets, like his new hero, Ryan Sidebottom.

  Is there a doctor in the house?

  Friday, May 25

  I visited my father in his isolation cubicle today. I couldn't be bothered to go through the showering, putting on sterile gown, mask and boots rigmarole, so I was gesticulating to him through the observation panel in the door. I was just about to give him the thumbs up before leaving for home, when his consultant, Mr RT Train, approached, trailed by a gang of medical students. I moved aside and was present throughout Train's lesson in diagnostic technique. He pointed through the glass to my father, who was sitting up in bed reading a laminated, germ-free copy of The Daily Express.

  "Take good notice of that patient," drawled Train. "He is recovering from repeated hospital infections, but he is also suffering from an interesting psychological condition. Can anyone guess its nature?" A small Chinese youth said, "Does he think that The Daily Express is a newspaper, sir?" When the laughter had died down, Train said indulgently, "Well done, Wang. Anyone else?" The students took it in turns to peer at my father. Eventually a black woman — who reminded me a little of my ex-wife Jo-Jo — said, "There are three portraits of William Hague in the room. Is he an obsessive?" Train said, "Well observed." He then spoke to the fat Englishman in the group. "Read the patient's notes and give me your diagnosis, Dr Worthington." Worthington's fat face creased in concentration. He read through my father's notes. Eventually he looked up and said, "The poor sod's delusional. He thinks Hague is going to be the next prime minister."

  A defeated looking woman cleaner approached with a bucket of filthy water and a rancid mop. She was wearing a cheap nylon overall, emblazoned with the logo Priva Clean. She tried to go into my father's room before being stopped by Train, who ordered her to change the water in the bucket, and don sterile clothes. She whined, "I ain't got time. I gotta clean three more wards and an operatin' theatre before I knock off."

  Saturday, May 26

  Pandora has abandoned the electorate of Ashby-de-la-Zouch and gone to Hay-on-Wye to seek a private audience with ex-president Clinton. She packed what she called a Lewinsky frock.

  She clearly has no morals whatsoever.

  Come the revolution…

  Saturday, June 2, Ashby-de-la-Zouch

  Glenn woke me early with the alarming news that Prince Charles had gone mad with a Kalashnikov and killed his entire family, "Cos of Camilla". I switched on Five Live and was reassured that the massacre had taken place in Kathmandu, and that (presumably) our own royals were safe and reasonably well.

  Sunday, June 3

  Pandora knocked on my door as I was washing up this morning. She placed a hand on my cheek and purred, "Can I count on your vote, as usual, sweetie?" I coldly informed her that I had become disillusioned due to her habit of breaking promises and that I intended to vote for the Socialist Alliance candidate, Abbo Palmer. She left her canvassers on the rain-lashed street and pushed her way into my kitchen, snarling, "What broken promises?"

  I counted out the disappointments on my fingers. I was still wearing my yellow Marigolds at the time, so the effect may not have been as dramatic as I had intended. When I got to the last rubber digit I said, "Finally, Pandora, you promised to marry me as soon as we were 16 years of age and could afford the train fare to Gretna Green." I took out my wallet and produced the written evidence: a note she had scribbled in a double geography lesson more than 20 years ago. The sight of her childish, loopy, handwriting almost brought tears to my eyes.

  Pandora scanned the note then turned it over. On the back was a graph showing the decline of Britain's manufacturing base under Thatcher. She murmured, "Interesting," then asked if she could have the note, as it meant so much to her. I replied, "Certainly not, I have kept this love note in my wallet, close to my heart for two decades. It reminds me of the time when we were 15 and rapturously in love." We were interrupted when a woman canvasser, in need of Immac for the upper lip and chin, knocked on the door and said, "The Newsnight camper van has just crashed into your car, Pandora. Jeremy Vine wants your insurance details."

  Midnight

  Pandora has just been interviewed on Newsnight, by an unusually deferential Jeremy Vine. The set consisted of the blown-up note. (On the graph side).

  Apathy rules

  Friday, June 8, Ashby-de-la-Zouch

  I woke at 9.30 to find myself on the sofa. The television was showing Ffion's sad but brave face. Glenn was sitting on the floor slopping cornflakes on to the new Ikea rug. With his mouth full, he said, "Tory boy's doin' a runner, Dad." There was the smell of burnt toast, William came in with a plateful of buttered cinders, half of which fell on to the rug. I was too exhausted to shout and sank back on to the new Ikea tapestry cushions. I do not function well on two hours' sleep.

  When I next woke, Tony and Cherie were in a small British car being driven to the palace. Glenn and William were still in their pyjamas eating fruit cocktail and the Häagen-Dazs ice cream that I keep for Sunday teatime use only. I croaked to Glenn, "Did Pandora get in?" A tiny cube of pineapple and a dribble of juice fell from the teaspoon he was wiel
ding like a garden spade.

  The rug now resembled a small municipal tip, the ethnic pattern could hardly be seen. Glenn swallowed, and, sounding alarmingly like Peter Snow, gabbled, "Yes, Dad, she got in with 23,431 votes, a majority of 8,157, tha's 52.06 % of the vote, but she's down a bit cos there were a swing to the Tories of 3.64 %. An there was a 65.79 % turnout, tha's a lot 'igher than the national average."

  I was impressed with the boy's grasp of statistics. I may steer him towards a degree in mathematics. William brought me a cup of tepid tea and placed it on the rug. Thirty seconds later, the cup lay on its side, having been toppled by Glenn demonstrating a kick-boxing move.

  Midday

  I ordered the boys to get dressed for school. When I next woke it was four o'clock and the school day had ended. Glenn said, "My 'ead of year rang, Dad, he wanted to know why I ain't been to school. So I told 'im I 'ad to stay at 'ome to look after you, cos you wunt get off the settee."

  I snapped back. "Couldn't you have invented a stomach upset or something?" Glenn said, "I jus' told the truth, Dad. Were I wrong?"

  Since I'd been ranting about the dishonesty of politicians throughout the election campaign I didn't know how to answer the boy, so I feigned sleep.

  Washed out

  Thursday, June 14

  Glenn asked what I do for a living today. I told him I was a writer. "I never see you do no writin'," he said accusingly. I told him that I am an unpublished writer, and explained that there was a conspiracy in the publishing industry to keep me out. He took the manuscript of my latest novel, Krog From Gork, to read in bed. I am enormously pleased that he is taking such an interest in my literary life.

  Pamela Pigg has taken my advice and is going out with Alan Clarke, the amateur folk singer. She rang to tell me that their first date went «splendidly». He took her to The Friends tandoori restaurant. She said that Pandora was dining at an adjacent table with some metropolitans who were opining that Ann Widdecombe is the result of an experiment at Porton Down. Apparently, she escaped before the trials could be concluded. This explains a lot.

  Friday, June 15

  I asked Glenn what he thought of Krog From Gork. He looked shifty and mumbled, "I ain't got past the third page yet." I asked him what he thought of the three he had read. Glenn stroked his new mohican haircut and said, "Nothin' 'appens, dad."

  I snapped, "Of course nothing happens. I'm writing about a prehistoric man who suffers from ennui. What do you expect him to do all day? Send text messages to his fellow primitives?"

  At 11.30am, Glenn returned from school with a note:

  "Dear Parent/ Guardian/Principle Carer, Glenn arrived at school this morning with a most alarming haircut. Within minutes of entering the playground he was surrounded by a large circle of 'admirers'. Several of the first-year boys were literally sick with excitement. The school rules state unequivocally that 'students' hair must not be subject to the vagaries of fashion'. Glenn is hereby excluded until his hair can be described in these terms."

  From now, I'll teach the boy at home.

  Saturday, June 16

  Watched the Trooping of the Colour with the boys. I was filled with pride. Is there another country on earth whose soldiers would march through torrents of water without complaint?

  I was annoyed to overhear Glenn say to William, "The monarchy's finished, Willy. They ain't got the sense to come in out the rain."

  Vinegar, oil and a tub of lard

  Sunday, June 24, 2001

  I had a minor breakdown in the vinegar aisle of the supermarket this morning. I was completely unable to choose between the 64 vinegars on offer. I walked up and down in an agony of indecision. Glenn said, "Dad, we've bin 'ere 20 minutes. What's up?"

  I didn't trust myself to speak, for fear that the tears gathering in my eyes would be released. Eventually, Glenn grabbed a bottle at random and threw it into the trolley. I saw that it was lemongrass flavour and tried to replace it on the shelf, but Glenn prevented me and we moved on to the oil aisle, where once again I was confronted with a horrific choice.

  They stretched into the distance: grapeseed, extra-virgin olive, sesame seed, sunflower, Crisp 'n' Dry, basil, stir-fry… As I was hovering between them, an announcement came over the in-store Tannoy — a woman who sounded as though she had a small grapefruit stuck in her mouth intoned: "Would Mr Mole return to the crèche immediately. Mr Mole, return to the crèche."

  I left Glenn with the trolley and rushed off, lurid images of crèche-type accidents filling my mind: had William been suffocated by the myriad coloured balls that filled the toddlers' jumping pit? Had he stabbed a paintbrush in his eye? Was he lying unconscious at the foot of the toddlers' jungle gym? If so, I would pursue the supermarket through the courts and force them into paying record amounts of compensation. Nothing less than £30m could possibly compensate me for an injury done to my precious child.

  The supervisor, whose badge told me she was Mary-Lou Hattersley, was waiting for me with a tearful William. Ms Hattersley (six out of 10: large breasts, clear skin, blonde hair, but needs a good cut, legs hidden by trousers) said, "He wants his mummy." I was astonished to hear this. William never mentions his mother. I explained that my ex-wife lived in Nigeria. She flicked her hair back and murmured, "Have you re-married, Mr Mole?"

  I assured her that I was single, then, by way of conversation, asked her if she was related to Lord Hattersley, the hothead revolutionary. "Incontrovertibly," she said. I am in love. Glenn's shopping came to £185.99.

  Love at the crèche

  Saturday, June 30

  I am still in love with the supervisor of Safeway's in-store crèche, Mary-Lou Hattersley. She has the widest vocabulary of any woman I have ever known — and that includes Pandora, who lectured in semantics at Oxford for a while.

  Mary-Lou, or ML as she likes to be called, claims that both she and Roy Hattersley, her very distant relation, have inherited the same genes from Isiah Hattersley, "an autodidact night soil man". He was a follower of "disestablishmentarianism", she told me as she pinned William's name-badge on his new Shrek T-shirt.

  Instead of doing a weekly shop, I now find myself visiting the store daily. William is complaining that he is fed up with the crèche, but I have bribed him with the promise of a trip to McDonald's. Yes, I have sunk that low! But I am a prisoner of love. I have to see her dirty blonde hair. Those fiery, intelligent eyes. She wore a skirt yesterday, so I was able to assess her legs. They are not bad, though when we are better acquainted I will advise her to avoid shorts and miniskirts.

  Monday, July 2

  Glenn asked if he can have the day off school to watch Henman get beaten. For some reason he hates him; he can't explain why.

  On no account must I tell ML how I feel about her. I have made that mistake before. In my experience, women don't like protestations of love from strangers. They fail to return calls, ignore messages, and sometimes get their brothers to throw you off the doorstep.

  My mother rang from Majorca to tell me that my father spent the night in the police station in Palma. He had a fight in the taxi queue at the airport. Apparently, he was maddened by thirst and the heat, and when a French family pushed in front of him he cracked and screamed, "Oi, Frogface! Hop off!" The Frenchman said something about foot and mouth, and my father went berserk and kicked the man's luggage into the gutter.

  It was news to me that my mother and my father have gone on holiday with each other. Have their spouses given their permissions?

  It's a royal knockout

  Tuesday, July 3

  Glenn has been very subdued lately, he has stopped talking and is off his food. I tried to talk to him, but he brushed me off as though I were a loathsome insect.

  I consulted the handbook Parents Are From Hove, Teenagers Are From Brighton. On page 31 it said, "Keep the channels of communication open, but do not let your teen control the domestic agenda. If your questions are ignored, smile and say, 'I hear your silence. Should you wish to share your thoughts with me, I
will always be here for you, 24-seven. "

  William has put his small foot down and has refused to be deposited into Safeway's crèche twice a day at 8am and 4pm. This means that I no longer have a valid excuse to see Mary-Lou Hattersley, the divine supervisor of that kiddies' establishment. I will have to borrow a toddler. I have to see her.

  Prince Philip and Prince Charles were on the news, stamping about in knee-high boots and wearing cocked hats, medals and epaulettes; they looked like extras from Zulu. Don't they know the game is up? It is ridiculous in the age of interactive television. In fact, I may write to the privy council and suggest that in future the royals withdraw from public life and satisfy the lust of their monarchist followers by appearing in a Big Brother-like TV show. They could then dress up and swagger around in as many costumes as they liked. It would certainly cut down on their transport costs, which I understand are considerable.

  Wednesday, July 4 (American Independence Day)

  Glenn is being bullied at school. He is the only boy in his class who does not have his own mobile phone. He is a pariah.

  Bumped into Pamela Pigg in Safeway. She is still going out with Alan Clarke. He was wearing an Arran sweater. It is chilly by the frozen food cabinets, but I was comfortable enough in my shirtsleeves, so perhaps he was going on to a «gig» after shopping. I suppose there must be a few folk clubs left in the land.