by Sue Townsend
My newly wed parents seem less in love than they did last week. My mother was prescribed new spectacles yesterday, and was able to see my father clearly for the first time in many years. She confessed to me that she was «gobsmacked» at "how old your dad looks. What's happened to his face?" She said that he looks like some "sort of reptile". I explained to her that during the time he was married to Tania Braithwaite, she had insisted he attend a tanning parlour once a week. My mother snorted contemptuously, and said, "That's not all she insisted on. He's learned a few tricks in bed that I'm not happy with."
Thursday, September 6
I have decided to make contact with Brett. So I asked my father to come for afternoon tea. Over cucumber sandwiches and a pot of Earl Grey, I asked him bluntly if he has any contact with his other son. My father avoided the question by complaining about the sandwiches, calling them «poncy», and the tea, saying it was "as weak as a sailor's arsehole". Eventually, he confided to me that he had been sending Doreen Slater £20 a week since Brett's birth. He was glad that Brett had won a scholarship to Balliol College, Oxford to read English, because it meant him being 20 quid a week better off.
Balliol College, Oxford! How did he do it? His mother was a slag who was so thick she thought a semi-colon was a partial colostomy. I have written to Brett, care of Balliol College. The formality of a letter is needed, in the circumstances.
Big brother
Monday September 10, Ashby-de-la-Zouch
A letter from Oxford! A vellum envelope, addressed to me in exquisite copperplate handwriting. Inside, a matching piece of personalised notepaper, headed Brett Mole, Balliol College, Oxford. Website: www.brettmole.com.
Dear Adrian,
What a lark. We must meet and swap goss about our mutual father. When are you next in Oxford?
Yours fraternally,
Brett
I logged on immediately to www.brettmole and learned more about my half-brother than I needed to know. There were photographs of Brett mountaineering, white-water kayaking, playing tennis, limboing on a Caribbean beach, modelling on a catwalk and shaking hands with Prince Charles. His website informed me that Brett is 6ft 2in tall, takes a 16-inch collar and size 11 shoes.
On another page I discovered that Brett achieved 14 GCSEs at A grade. His four A-levels were starred. He has published a volume of poetry, called Blow out the Candle. The reviews were ecstatic. I hate him already.
I emailed him the following message:
"Dear Brett, I thank you for your letter of the 10th. Sadly, I am almost never in Oxford.
Yours sincerely, Adrian (Mole)."
Disconcertingly, Brett emailed back almost at once.
"Hi Bro, Leaving soonest for train to Leicester. See you around 4pm today."
I emailed back that I had got the builders in, and that there was no water, heat, light or toilet facilities, and suggested that he postpone his visit for at least six months. I finished with, "Please confirm that you are not coming."
I waited by the machine for over half an hour, but no reply came. I am not ashamed of living in a council house on a sink estate. As for graffiti and abandoned cars, I hardly notice them. But Brett almost certainly will. I tidied up as best I could, and rearranged the bookcase so that he could not fail to see that I was conversant with Dostoevsky, Tolstoy and Chekhov. At 4.05pm, I heard the taxi pull up outside, then a confident voice boomed, "Where's my brother?"
The martial art of paper folding
Sunday, September 23. Ashby-de-la-Zouch
Brett is still here. He claims that the events of September 11 have traumatised him and have rendered him incapable of using transport of any kind. Over breakfast this morning, he said to me, "I could be here for ever, Adrian." He is formidably clever, and seems to have read every book printed in English, French and German since Caxton invented the printing press. Infuriatingly, he quotes from them constantly, and corrects my own attributions.
He has been helping out Glenn with his homework; consequently, the teachers at Neil Armstrong Community College are now talking excitedly about the boy being only the second pupil to get to Oxbridge (the first was Pandora). William is in love with "Uncle Brett", and follows him around the house like the Old Shep that Elvis sang about. Origami is only one of Brett's many skills. This morning he transformed the G2 section of the Guardian into Balliol College, complete with dons and undergraduates.
He is constantly on the phone to his many friends around the world. He assures me that he will stump up for his share of the phone bill. Then, a moment later, laughs about his state of penury.
He and my father get on like a house in flames, and talk endlessly about football players, cricketers and rugby oafs — people I have never heard of.
Monday, September 24
I heard with alarm today that, due to the coming «Crusade» or "Infinite Justice" or "The Conflict" or "World War Three", David Blunkett has warned that my civil liberties may be restricted in the future, and that I may have to carry an identity card with me at all times. Since I am constantly losing my Sainsbury's Reward Card, the future looks dim for me.
Tuesday, September 25
Brett is making a documentary about post-twin towers trauma using a Panasonic hand-held digital video camera. Channel 4 and BBC 2 are bidding for the rights. He interviewed me at length in the kitchen. When he played it back to me, I noticed that my Afghan coat was hanging on the back of the kitchen door. I asked Brett to re-shoot, but he refused, saying that he would not be censored.
Mistaken identity
Sunday, September 30, Ashby-de-la-Zouch
Brett has written a 1,500-word article for The Independent, headed “The Osama Bin Laden I Knew.” He claims to have first met Bin Laden in the breakfast room of a boarding house in Blackpool. "I was immediately suspicious of him," wrote Brett. "He claimed to have been in England for five years, yet he did not appear to know that pepper was shaken from the pot with the multi-holes. In the bar that night, he ordered a pint of snowball and a packet of pork trotters (sic). When I commented that snowballs were usually drunk by women, and in much daintier glasses, Bin Laden snarled, 'I am a British citizen, I hate slugs, and I visit a garden centre many times a year. Also, I watch the whores of western culture on EastEnders.
“When our landlady failed to bring him a packet of pork trotters, saying, 'It's scratchings you want, love, an' we're out of 'em due to swine fever', he went berserk and shouted, 'I am a legitimate citizen of this country — here is my passport and my HGV licence. " After I had finished reading the piece, Brett asked me for a critique. I said, "It is a tissue of lies from beginning to end. It is a well-known fact that Osama bin Laden does not speak English." Brett replied airily, "Our conversations were conducted in Arabic throughout." I scoffed, "Are you claiming that a Blackpool landlady is fluent in Arabic?" "Yes," said Brett. "Her name is Fatima Hardcastle — we do live in a multicultural society now, you know." I know Brett is lying, but how can I prove it? I can only pray that The Independent throws this piece of fiction back in his face before he brings shame on the Mole dynasty.
Monday, October 1
I have long suspected that my sister Rosie is not my father's child, and that she was sired by Mr Lucas, our next-door neighbour. My theory was confirmed today when my white-faced mother burst into my kitchen and sobbed, "If they bring in ID cards with DNA profiling, I'm done."
Tuesday, October 2
I phoned Pandora at the Grand Hotel in Brighton, and urged her to speak against the introduction of ID cards. She barked, "Clear this line! Don'tcha know there's a war on?" And then she cut me off.
Like a vandal in the wind
Saturday, October 6, Ashby-de-la-Zouch
Dear Diary,
My half-brother is still here. God knows, I am the kindest and most tolerant of men, and I am with the Muslims when it comes to extending the hand of hospitality to those seeking sanctuary. But I have to confess that I am irritated beyond endurance by the presence of Brett Mole in my house. I ha
te him. I have come to dread the sound of his footsteps on the stairs. I cannot bear the way he seems to suck Rice Krispies down his throat. But I am a lone voice. He is loved and admired by everyone I know.
There is a messianic quality about him. Alarmingly, he told me that he intends to start a new political party financed by the Princess Diana Fund. I told him, angrily, that the day after the Parisian tragedy, I had driven to Kensington Gardens and pinned a £10 note to a tree, together with a poem:
Oh Diana!
Oh Diana! Was a song of my mother's
youth.
Sung by Paul Anka,
who was small and white of tooth.
The refrain, Oh Diana!
Beats inside mum's head
A blank, a blank, a doo-dah
That her Diana is dead.
As you may have noticed, Diary, I was unable to find suitable rhymes in order to complete the poem satisfactorily. I still can't. I am thinking about contacting Earl Spencer to inform him of Brett's political ambitions.
Wednesday, October 10
A Harrods van delivered Brett's new bed this morning. It took two men all day to install it in the spare bedroom. It has an in-built telescopic television, a CD player, and will adjust to 19 positions. I gasped when I saw the invoice: £7,999. Brett said it was a treat to himself; he has been commissioned by Channel 4 to make a documentary on poverty, and is filming it on my council estate. The old mattress is in the front garden, waiting for the council to remove the eyesore.
Thursday, October 11
Brett has scattered the contents of my wheelie-bin in the front garden, and slashed the mattress with a Stanley knife. He said it would make a great establishing shot for his documentary, now entitled Weep, England! Weep!
Throw in the towel
Sunday, October 14
That monster, Brett, is still living in my house. He is now sharing his electronic Super-Bed with an assortment of slags from the estate. I have provided Glenn and William with earplugs so that their sleep is not disturbed.
Brett's documentary, Weep, England! Weep!, is now in production. Many of the interviews are conducted in this house. Cables cover the floors and most of the doors have been removed to facilitate camera movements. The house is no longer mine. Why don't I tell him to leave? The sad truth is that I am afraid of him. He makes me feel that I am of low class, unattractive and provincial.
Monday, October 15
I came down this morning to find Sandra Alcock sitting at my kitchen table, half-dressed and spitting on to a block of mascara. When I asked her to cover herself up, she grabbed a tea-towel and tucked it between her bra straps. However, I must admit that the sight of Sandra's long legs in white stilettos stimulated my endocrine system, and I had to turn hurriedly towards the sink to hide my sexual excitement. I wonder if Pamela Pigg would be interested in a bout of sexual intercourse? I heard that she and Alan Clarke split, due to a row over globalisation. I'll ring her later today.
Tuesday, October 16
I will be meeting up with Pamela after her dog training class tonight. She sounded delighted to hear from me again, so with a bit of luck it shouldn't take long to get her into bed. And I won't be forced to waste time messing around with meals, and day trips to historical monuments, etc.
Pamela looked charming in the candlelight at the Costa Brava restaurant, and my tortilla and chips were excellent. But I was in bed by 11pm — alone. I am taking her to Belvoir Castle on Friday.
Wednesday, October 17
I was woken by Sandra Alcock at 3.15am. She was standing in my front garden, screaming that Brett Mole was a bastard. And that Justine Badaoui was a scut-bag. Brett filmed the whole scene, up until the police arrived and took Sandra and Justine away.
Friday, October 19
We explored every corridor of Belvoir Castle. Had scones in the tea room. I even bought Pamela a tea-towel. Yet I slept alone. Why?
Bio-heroism
Monday, October 22, Ashby-de-la-Zouch
Glenn has been excluded from school, for calling Tony Blair a twat. He brought home a note from Roger Patience, the headmaster, which said:
Dear Mr Mole,
In this time of national crises, it is incumbent on us all to support our government. During a senior pupils debate, chaired by myself, your son Glenn succeeded in undermining the morale of teachers and pupils alike by his passionate denunciation of the bombing of Afghanistan. He also called our great leader, Mr Blair, 'a leading Twat'. I have therefore excluded him from the school premises for the duration of the war.
I hope to God (or Allah) that the war will be over by Christmas. I can't have Glenn hanging around the house all day. It is imperative that I finish my post-twin towers novel quickly. The book (as yet no publisher) must be ready for publication in the spring.
Glenn protested his innocence, saying, "I didn't say Tony Blair was a leading twat. I said he was leading TWAT (The War Against Terrorism)."
Tuesday, October 23
I went into the chemist this morning to buy a tin of Johnson's baby powder. The shelves where this innocent product is usually kept were bare. The girl behind the counter said, "It's coz of anthrax." She informed me, somewhat pompously, that if I wished to purchase talcum powder, I would have to give my name and address, and prove it by showing my last three gas bills. I left the shop in disgust, empty-handed.
Wednesday, October 24
Brett's documentary, Weep, England! Weep!, which was meant to expose the wasted lives of sink council estate tenants, has been cancelled by the commissioning editor, who emailed, "Your doco is not conducive to the national interest at this time." I am overjoyed to tell you, dear diary, that within the space of two hours, Brett, the crew and the equipment were gone.
Thursday, October 25, 2am
I have just had a distraught phone call from Pamela Pigg. She told me that her body was covered in red spots: "It's smallpox!" I drove to her house and examined her naked body. By a process of elimination, I finally deduced that she was allergic to the hyacinth bulbs she'd been potting earlier in the day.
Achey-quakey heart
Friday, October 26, Ashby-de-la-Zouch
In the words of Marvin Gaye, "What's going on?" Chaos surrounds me. Alan Clarke appeared on my doorstep in the early hours of the morning, sobbing that I had stolen "the love of his life, Pamela Pigg".
I led him into the kitchen and listened as he ranted that he'd watched through Pamela's IKEA bamboo blinds, as she stood naked in her bedroom with me. I tried to explain that I was dabbing camomile lotion on to her skin, which was inflamed by hyacinth bulb allergy, but he obviously didn't believe me. IKEA should warn their customers that their bamboo blinds do not guarantee privacy. Clarke rolled a joint and offered me a puff. With Mr Blunkett's permission, I accepted. My head began to spin and I found myself blurting out the plot of my new novel. "An allegory about twins called Jack and John Towers who are struck down by a fatal illness." It was dawn before Clarke left.
Saturday, October 27
Mohamed is convinced that oil is at the centre of the Afghan war. He should know, he is the manager of a BP garage and as such has insider knowledge.
Sunday, October 28
The day started well. My mother and father took the boys to Leicester's Golden Mile to watch the Diwali celebrations. With the house empty for once, I phoned Pamela and asked her round for tea. By 4pm we were in bed. There was no sign of the hyacinth allergy. Her skin was pale and smooth. Sexual intercourse was taking place when, at 4.25pm, the bed shook. In fact, the whole house shook and several slates fell off the roof. Pamela muttered into my neck, "My God, Adrian, you made the earth move for me."
Monday, October 29
The headline in the Leicester Mercury screamed EARTHQUAKE! DID YOU FEEL THE TREMOR? Apparently, Pamela and I were at the very epicentre of a 3.8 on the Richter scale, which caused terrified residents of Melton Mowbray and North Leicestershire to flee their homes in terror. A box on the front page of the Mercury asked its rea
ders, "What were you doing when the earthquake struck? Let our news desk know." I hope to God Pamela does not comply with this request.
Gunpowder, treason and burnt sausages
Monday, November 5, Ashby-de-la-Zouch
My Independent was not delivered this morning. I went to the newsagent to complain and collect it in person. A youth of about 14 was sitting on the pavement outside the shop, next to a balloon wrapped in a bundle of rags. The balloon was sporting a crudely felt-tipped beard and round glasses.
As I passed by, the youth muttered, "Penny for the guy?" I searched through the small change in my wallet and gave him a penny. He dashed it angrily to the ground and said, "Tight bastard." I said I had rarely seen such a poor representation of Guy Fawkes. He adjusted the rags on top of the balloon's head and said, "That's because it ain't Guy Fawkes, it's Osmar bin Laden, ain't it? We're burnin' 'im on the reccy tonight."
11pm
That's the last back garden bonfire party I will ever throw. The sausages burst inside the oven, the potatoes burned to cinders, and my economy box of fireworks lasted less than 10 minutes. Neither of the Catherine wheels spun. My guests were continually turning their heads eastwards, where rockets from the community bonfire were filling the sky with spectacular patterns and colour.