Adrian Mole: The Cappuccino Years

by Sue Townsend

  Sunday July 20th

  I spent most of the day poring over Loot, looking for reasonable accommodation in the Soho area. Some joker is asking £500 a week for a converted linen cupboard (plus access to fire escape), in Poland Street, main services not included. I need to get an update on my financial situation.

  I rang my telephone bank and gave my code numbers, 9999, and my password, Yarmouth. The bank official, a pleasant-sounding woman who told me that she was called Marilyn, was horrified that I had disclosed the full password to her. She had been about to ask me what the second letter of the word was. And, had I answered ‘A’, she would have been able to give me the balance of my Instant Access High Interest Account. ‘As it is,’ she said, ‘you’ll need to open a new account. As from now all of your codes are null and void.’

  I begged and pleaded with Marilyn to let me into the secrets of my own account, but she said, ‘The computer has now closed this account. I’ll put another application in the post.’

  I said to her, ‘Where exactly is my money, Marilyn? Is it in an actual place, like a vault?’

  Marilyn said, ‘Your money doesn’t exist, as such.’ She went on, ‘Your money, Mr Mole, is an abstraction wafting in the air between financial institutions, at the mercy of inflation and interest rates, dependent on the health of the global economy.’ She recovered herself and apologized for showing her human face. It was a kamikaze speech.

  Marilyn had already told me that our conversation was being recorded. (I tried to extend the conversation, but Marilyn, who admitted to being forty-four, dark-haired, the mother of three and married, said, ‘Other customers are waiting, Mr Mole.’)

  Monday July 21st

  I can’t remember the last time I felt the warmth of a naked body.

  3 a.m. I remember now, it was last Sunday. The New Dog sat across my lap when I read Grimms’ Fairy Tales to William.

  4 a.m. Can’t sleep for worrying that Justine will turn up for our Japanese meal looking like a cheap tart. I know she wears expensive clothes, but she wears them in such a way that they look like News of the World catalogue wear.

  Tuesday July 22nd

  It was as I feared. I couldn’t relax in the restaurant. We were hopelessly mismatched. Justine was wearing skimpy red Versace, in honour of his memory, and I was wearing substantial grey Next. I knew my way around the sushi and the tempura and the chopsticks; she shuddered at the raw fish and asked the stern waiter for a knife and fork. She is an intelligent girl, but she hasn’t read a book since leaving school. We talked about Cherie Blair, who had spent £2,000 flying her hairdresser, André Luard, out to last month’s summit meeting in Denver. We agreed that this was a very American thing to do. ‘It’s a bit like Elvis flying his favourite cheeseburgers from Memphis to Las Vegas, isn’t it?’ said Justine.

  I replied, ‘Power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely.’

  Justine said, ‘You’re so clever, Adrian. Just being with you is an education.’

  Wednesday July 23rd

  Received another application from my telephone bank, Money Direct. I chose 1111 as my number code, and Cromer as my letter code.

  Why did I withdraw all my money from the building society in 1995? All I had to do then to check my balance was to ring old Mr Lewisham and he would tell me immediately, and he would even ask after the progress of Lo!. It must have broken his heart when I withdrew my £2,709.26 from the Market Harborough.

  Friday July 25th

  Princess Diana’s cleaning bill must be enormous. She is always wearing white clothes lately, giving her the appearance of a virgin or a saint. If I were the boss of Sketchley’s I would offer to sponsor her charitable work. She has promised to buy an artificial leg for a bloke called Mohammed.

  Saturday July 26th

  I rang Money Direct this morning to check the balance of my account. A non-human voice answered the phone and asked me to wait as ‘The lines are busy.’ I listened to four minutes of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, before hanging up in disgust.

  Rang Front-line Insurance to request a claim form – some bastard has stolen William’s tricycle while he and my mother were in the newsagent’s. A robot answered and asked me to hold. It then told me that my call was ‘enormously important’ to Front-line Insurance. Next it informed me that I was number thirteen in the phone queue. Throughout, Chris de Burgh sang, ‘Lady In Red’: a song I have always hated. When Rod Stewart started warbling ‘Sailing’ I slammed the phone down. What has happened to England’s telephonists? Has there been a cull? How long have the robots been in charge?

  Monday July 28th

  Justine rang and asked why I have not called her. I could hardly tell her the truth – that I would prefer her to wear something sensible from Marks & Spencer when we are out in public. I told her instead that I was hard at work on my TV series, The White Van. She asked me for a part if it gets commissioned. She’s got an Equity card apparently, though how Equity can give out one of its precious cards to a girl who wrestles erotically with a boa constrictor is a total mystery to me. What about the plain-faced, flat-chested drama-school graduate who longs to play Ibsen?

  Tuesday July 29th

  Savage burst into my bedroom at 7 a.m. this morning and ordered me out. I said, ‘When?’

  He said, ‘You’ve got an hour!’

  I said, ‘Peter, I’ve worked for you, on and off, for eight years. I’ve got nowhere to go. Have mercy.’

  He said, ‘The builders will be here at eight o’clock, so get the f--- out!’

  Friday August 1st

  Justine’s Flat – Poland Street

  Many men would envy me staying here in a penthouse flat in the heart of London with a girl whose name is written in flashing neon lights outside a ‘theatre’ – so why aren’t I happy?

  After we’d finished shopping for food in Marks & Spencer, I steered Justine towards the ladies’ clothing department. I suggested she try on a nice ecru twinset, in machine-washable wool, together with a pair of easy-fit jeans. She looked at me with horror in her eyes.

  Sunday August 3rd

  Justine’s friend, who works on the handbag counter in Harrods, reports that Princess Diana is getting engaged to Dodi Fayed, the son of Mohammed Al-Fayed, the multi-millionaire owner of the Queen’s favourite store!

  I scoured the press for confirmation of this ridiculous story, and found nothing. I told Justine to stop circulating the rumour.

  Monday August 4th

  Large Alan dropped in today. He didn’t look very keen to see me sitting at Justine’s kitchen table eating a meal she’d just cooked (angel-hair spaghetti and pesto sauce). He said, ‘Justine, you didn’t inform me that you’d got a flatmate.’

  Justine said, ‘It’s only Adrian,’ as though I were an insentient eunuch. ‘We’re on separate futons.’

  I left the room in some upset, but not before hearing Large Alan say, ‘Justine, what do you see in him?’

  She replied, ‘I like intellectual men. There’s more to life than sex, Al.’

  Large Alan said, ‘Is there?’ He sounded genuinely surprised.

  Tuesday August 5th

  I have decided to become celibate. Sex is very overrated in my opinion. It’s all over in a few minutes and is certainly not worth all the fuss and anguish that goes before.

  Dear Stephen Fry,

  My name is Adrian Mole. I once had the honour of cooking you a dish of tripe, which you pronounced ‘unforgettable’ (Hoi Polloi, Sept. 15th, 1996). You didn’t pay us a second visit, to lunch or to dine, but no matter, I still admire your erudition and wit.

  I have recently decided to become celibate, and will shortly be turning into a celebrity, and I wondered if you, as a celebrity celibate, have any tips on how to cope with both of these conditions. I expect you are busy but I’m sure you won’t mind taking some time out of your schedule to advise someone who is practically your doppelgänger. I too am a bit of an intellectual.

  Cheers, Steve,

  Yours, Adrian Mo
le

  PS. I would appreciate an early reply.

  Wednesday August 6th

  An invitation card in the post, redirected from Hoi Polloi. Against a background of photographic offal was written:

  Pie Crust invites

  Adrian Mole and Guest

  to the wrap of Offally Good!

  Attractions include posh nosh, champagne and Dev Singh.

  Justine read it and said, ‘I thought you were the star, Adrian.’

  I said, ‘I am. There has obviously been a mistake at the printer’s.’

  Justine asked if she could come as my guest. She wasn’t my first choice, but after ringing Pandora four times and getting no reply, I informed her that she could come with me on Friday.

  She was pleased but said she had nothing to wear.

  I seized the opportunity and nipped out to Marks & Spencer last night and bought a very attractive, loose-fitting, full-length dress in sludge-green viscose. I presented it to her when she came home from work at 3 a.m. I said, ‘Please wear it tomorrow, at the wrap party.’

  She looked at it with amusement and said, ‘It’s the sort of thing your mother would wear.’

  It just goes to show – she has never met my mother.

  Friday August 8th

  It was a mistake to take Justine to the Pie Crust studios. She was the focus of attention from the moment she stepped off the fire escape in her pink Versace slip dress and her cerise sling-back Manolos. Everyone in the studio looked at me with a new respect. Zippo said to me under his breath, ‘I knew that the idiot-provincial persona you project was an act, Adrian. Christ, she’s a wanker’s dream! She’s a dislocated wrist! She’s duvet heaven!’

  I abhorred his crude language, and told him so. Later, he confessed to me, standing at the urinals, that he had fallen in love with Justine at first sight. I know this is possible because I loved Pandora as soon as I clapped eyes on her.

  Zippo said, ‘Introduce me to her. Please, Adrian.’

  In his excitement he splashed urine on his pale suede Gucci loafers. I kept this knowledge to myself. Why spoil the party for him?

  We joined a throng of Justine’s new admirers, who were listening in some amazement to her tips on caring for the domestic python.

  We pushed through and I introduced Zippo to Justine. He held on to her hand for longer than etiquette demanded.

  Eventually she said, ‘Can I have my hand back? I’m getting cramp.’

  Zippo grabbed two glasses of champagne from Cath’s tray and gave one to Justine saying, ‘I’ve waited all my life to meet you. We must celebrate this momentous occasion.’

  Justine was instantly sucked into the vortex of Zippo’s smarmy talk. He did his Labrador retriever trick with his eyes, and she did her Marilyn Monroe thing with her mouth.

  I asked Zippo if he thought we would get a second series, but he ignored me and asked Justine if she could cook. ‘Not really,’ she said. ‘I just warm up ready-made meals in the micro.’

  ‘Warm Up with Justiner shouted Zippo.

  I pointed out that it sounded like an exercise video. I suggested calling it A Guide to Push-button Cookery.

  Zippo and a few Pie Crust people got very excited at this but they were all on skunk weed so none of them will remember.

  Zippo took Justine aside and I heard them swapping birth signs: Scorpio him, Aries her (a disastrous conjunction, in my opinion).

  Dev Singh turned up late, accompanied by a Sikh bodyguard in a turban. He was soon surrounded by a small crowd of sycophants, who hung on to his every suggestive word.

  Pie Crust Productions have applied to the Lottery Fund for the money to make a documentary about Dev – called, in post-modernistic style, Making a Documentary About Dev. Secretly, Diary, I am still crushed by this news. How much lower can dumbing down go? It’s already in the basement.

  The party moved on to a restaurant in Shoreditch called Shock’s. The place was full of installation artists and examples of their art. Everything seemed to be black, including the food: squid in black ink, cheap caviar, blackberry coulis, finishing with espresso coffee.

  Zippo prised himself away from Justine and made a speech about filming Offally Good!. He mentioned me in passing, but heaped praise on Dev ‘for his glorious humour, so reminiscent of that comic genius, Norman Wisdom’.

  Whoops and hollers greeted this tribute – even the installation artists joined in. Wisdom is obviously big in Shoreditch, as well as Albania.

  Zippo asked if I wanted to say anything. My mind went blank. Then I found myself on my feet apologizing for my performance on programme four when I had stumbled over the word ‘disestablishmentarianism’ eighteen times. Zippo said, ‘Eighteen retakes is nothing.’ He’d heard on the grapevine that Fergie, Duchess of York, held up the filming of her cranberry-juice advertisement in America 103 times because of her inability to articulate ‘I like it’ with conviction.

  I felt vindicated by this piece of information.

  Dev got up and thanked Pie Crust and me for giving him his big break. He said, ‘I couldn’t have done it without Adrian. He’s a brilliant stooge.’

  I took this compliment graciously, I hope – but my ego shrivelled up and ran out into the dark Shoreditch night. It hasn’t been seen since.

  I was sitting between silent Cath and the rumour-monger Belinda, who said she knew somebody who knew somebody who’d worked on Chariots of Fire, partly produced by Dodi Fayed. This person said that Dodi had no conversation. His only hobby was collecting baseball caps. Belinda said there was a story doing the rounds that Dodi and Diana were planning to co-produce a film about an elephant who steps on a landmine.

  I nearly made a fool of myself when I mistook a piece of installation art for the men’s toilet. Luckily I didn’t pull my zip all the way down before realizing my mistake.

  Sunday August 10th

  Leicester

  I was shocked to my marrow to see the front page of the Sunday Mirror today. The headline said, ‘THE KISS’. Underneath was a blurred photograph of Princess Diana and the baseball-cap collector, Dodi Fayed. They were embracing while wearing very little clothing indeed. Prince Charles must have choked on his organic toast.

  My mother and Rosie pored over the photographs, then ordered me to drive to the BP garage and buy all the scandal rags I could lay my hands on. I took William and the New Dog in the car with me. I bumped into Archie Tait, the one-legged pensioner, inside the garage shop. He was buying a Ginster’s Cornish pasty for his Sunday dinner. He saw that I was buying the News of the World and the People and raised his eyebrows. I explained that they were for my mother and sister, and he said, ‘Ah, the insatiable appetite that women have for trivia and gossip.’ I agreed. He invited me and William for afternoon tea. I didn’t want to go – in fact, it was the very last thing in the world I wanted to do – but before I could think of an excuse William had accepted for both of us. The kid doesn’t get out much.

  By the time our visit was over my brain hurt. Archie’s conversation was very intense, and he was constantly asking me to provide the evidence for my opinions. He asked me what I was doing in London now that Hoi Polloi had been closed by the public health. (He is very well informed for a provincial.) I told him about the TV series Offally Good! and he took out his W. H. Smith’s tartan-covered diary and wrote ‘Adrian TV 10.30 a.m.’ under September 10th. He doesn’t have Cable, but he knows somebody who does.

  When I got back from Ashby-de-la-Zouch Zippo was lolling on Justine’s futon. She was heating up moules marinière in the microwave for him. They were laughing at a Norman Wisdom film. Their chrome mobile phones were side by side on the perspex Conran coffee table. Wallpaper was open at a feature about galvanized buckets (the new vases).

  I felt out of place, as though I was wearing a cloak of provincialism. I offered to leave but Justine said, ‘No, Adrian, please stay. We want somebody to witness the first full day of our love.’

  I had eaten on the motorway earlier, so I turned down the mo
ules. In between feeding Justine mussels straight from the shell, Zippo said that a focus group had been shown the first Offally Good! programme that morning and their response was so good that the ratings for the show were predicted to be one million. I went to bed at 11.30 and left them both propped against the futon, surrounded by shells and skunk-weed equipment.

  12.10 a.m. They have just consummated their love. Justine knocked on my door to tell me that Zippo was an ‘incredible, caring, exciting lover’. I said I was pleased for her.

  She asked if I would come into her bedroom to reassure Zippo that she and I had never been lovers. She said Zippo was madly jealous.

  I put on my dressing gown and stumbled into the bedroom. The dimmer switch was turned down to three. A lava lamp bubbled by the side of the bed. The python slithered in its tank. Zippo sat up, his loins barely covered by a white sheet. He asked me if I had ‘slept’ with Justine. I said truthfully that we had not had sexual intercourse, due to my vow of chastity. And also to my antipathy to Justine’s python. I then went back to my own bed.

  It’s time to get out.

  Monday August 11th

  After twenty minutes of electronic procrastination, I found out that I have got £3,796.26 in the telephone bank. This is not enough for a deposit on a London flat. And I need living expenses until my Pie Crust money comes in in September. I’m moving back to Leicester.

  My mother is not pleased, but it’s my family home and I am entitled to live there. My mother said that in her opinion, at thirty, entitlement didn’t come into it. I pointed out to her that, in English law, there was no statute of limitations when it comes to returning home to live. She said, ‘Perhaps not, but there should be!’