Adrian Mole: The Cappuccino Years

by Sue Townsend

  Monday October 20th

  I shall not be making any more entries in my diary until my book is finished. I must keep the deadline or risk losing all credibility. I have written to the Tortoise Society to say that I am unable to open their Christmas Fayre ‘due to pressure of work’.

  Friday October 31st

  A horrible thing happened today. I was unable to control myself when William found and scoffed my last packet of Opal Fruits. I went berserk, shouted at him and told him that he would end up in prison if he carried on stealing other people’s property. He fled in tears to my mother.

  Later, Ivan came into my room, sat down on my bed in a caring way, and said, ‘Adrian, do you think you may be sort of getting dependent on Opal Fruits?’

  I pushed his hairy wrist off my shoulder, drove to the cash-and-carry warehouse and bought a multi-pack of OFs. I have hidden them under my bed. I have fitted a bolt to my door. I have not finished or even started the book, despite sitting at my desk for sixteen hours a day.

  FAX MESSAGE

  To: Boston Goldperson – Brick Eagleburger Associates

  From: Adrian Mole

  Date: 31.10.97

  Dear Boston,

  First may I say how much I admire your decision to change your surname from Goldman to Goldperson. In these times when so many women are renouncing their feminist principles, it is heartening to know that you still carry the flame.

  Now for the bad news. It has become apparent to me that I will be unable to meet my latest deadline of November 1st for the delivery of Offally Good! – The Book!. Family matters have occupied my time and attention to the detriment of my creative impulse.

  In your role as agent’s assistant will you please break the news to Arthur Stoat of Stoat Books Ltd. I will, of course, return my advance of £250, though I will need to give one month’s notice to my bank or risk losing the accumulated interest. I hope to see you when I am next in London. I am slightly concerned that Birdwatching and The White Van remain unsold despite their obvious mass-market appeal.

  Yours, A. Mole

  Saturday November 1st

  FAX MESSAGE

  From: Boston Goldperson

  To: Adrian Mole

  Listen, kiddo, The f------ offal book has been sold already. W. H. Smith have made it their Book of the Week! The cover has been sent to The Bookseller! Stoat Books have had advance orders for 25,000 copies in hardback! This book is a f------ bestseller! It has to be written! Stoat is threatening to sue this agency for every cent we have if you don’t deliver. So write the mother!

  Boston

  Sunday November 2nd

  William seems to have forgiven me for the Opal Fruits incident, though my mother is unrelenting and has not laid a place at the table for me for three days. Ivan is negotiating with Tania over his Tyrolean-style garden shed. He wants to take it down and reassemble it here, in the back garden of Wisteria Walk. I objected, saying that it would take up nearly all of the lawn. ‘Where will William play?’ I asked my mother.

  ‘In your garden?’ she said.

  ‘I haven’t got a garden,’ I pointed out.

  ‘Then get a garden,’ she said.

  I think this is a hint that she wants me and William to move out.

  Monday November 3rd

  I went to see my father and Tania today. I took William with me. My father was on the back lawn digging a hole for Tania’s Koi carp pool. A black Labrador puppy called Henry was watching him. ‘Our baby,’ said Tania.

  I asked if we could move into the Tyrolean shed until I found something permanent. Neither of them looked very keen. Unfortunately, at that moment, William had a spectacular tantrum because I refused to sing the Teletubbies song, there and then. After five minutes of watching him scream, drum his heels and roll around on the grass, Tania said, ‘Should we call an ambulance?’

  My father said, ‘No, Adrian was just the same when he was three. You had to do “Incy Wincy Spider” fifty times a day.’

  Eventually Tania said, ‘I don’t think it would work out, Adrian, not with the dog and the carp. Your father and I have a domestic routine that suits us and, anyway, we’re not insured for small children.’

  This was patently ridiculous, but I let it pass. William, now recovered from his tantrum, asked for Coco Pops. My father, who used to eat three bowls a day himself, said, ‘Coco Pops are full of additives and E numbers, William. How about a nice glass of carrot juice?’

  We went into the kitchen where my father demonstrated the juicer machine to an indifferent William. Henry, however, watched my father’s every move with rapt attention.

  Tania asked me how the book was progressing.

  Perhaps if I stay awake for three days and nights on the trot I will be able to write it. Noël Coward wrote Private Lives over a long weekend with the aid of stimulants. I rang Nigel for help on how to track down some Pro-plus, but he was out at his grandma’s funeral.

  Started on the introduction at midnight, when the household was relatively quiet.

  Hello Offal lovers,

  Man has lived on offal since time began: petrified offal has been found in ancient caves in France, proving that offal was once the staple diet of French cavemen. This legacy can still be seen today in the world-famous French cuisine, to which flock gourmets from throughout the world.

  There is something about the last sentence that is not quite right. The syntax? The grammar? After spending an hour staring down at it, I went to bed, exhausted.

  Wednesday November 5th

  Ivan has put a veto on a bonfire or fireworks in the garden, saying, ‘They’re primitive, barbaric and dangerous. It’s time that Guy Fawkes Night was abolished.’ The government seem to agree with him. The population of Britain are being urged to attend organized events with paramedics in attendance. I bought William some sparklers and he waved them about a bit on the patio. The New Dog watched through the patio doors.

  Worked on the introduction until 3 a.m.

  The gourmets today still flock from their homes throughout the world to partake of the legacy which is offal!

  It’s still not quite right.

  Thursday November 6th

  William had a mega-tantrum in Clarks. He wanted a pair of mini Doc Martens in red patent leather with twelve lace-holes. I wanted him to have a pair of black-leather Velcro-fastening ‘school shoes’. He sank on to Clark’s carpet and screamed. At the manager’s request, I dragged him out of the shop. I ended up buying him some Bugs Bunny slip-on plimsolls from Woolworths. They are totally unsuitable for winter, but if he wears thick socks with them his feet should be warm enough.

  When we got home my mother said, ‘I thought you went out to buy winter shoes. He’ll catch his death in those.’ She looked down at the plimsolls disdainfully. I felt my parental confidence seep out of the house.

  Friday November 7th

  I now have no income. I am eating into my capital. Rang the bank call centre in a panic, but forgot code word. I told the woman on the line that it was the name of a seaside resort on the east coast, but she simply repeated, ‘I am afraid I must ask you for the fifth letter of your password, sir.’

  I pleaded with her for my balance, but to no avail.

  Have our financial services been colonized by extraterrestrials? Is it all a plot to send us mad and take over the world? I am not given to paranoid fancies normally, dear Diary, but I confide in you that I am seriously thinking of withdrawing all my money and placing it in a box under my bed. I’ve worked hard for that money and no Martian is going to get its slimy green hands (tentacles?) on it.

  Sent the introduction and one further offal recipe to Arthur Stoat. A sense of achievement.

  Saturday November 8th

  What was I thinking of, dear Diary? I wouldn’t dream of keeping my money under my bed. I shall hide it in several faux baked-bean tins, and keep them on the top shelf of the pantry.

  Sunday November 9th

  Poppy Day

  I dropped a pound coin i
n a collecting tin by mistake today. I’d meant to give 20p. The old man shaking the tin was quite rude. He almost slammed the 80p change into my hand.

  Monday November 10th

  Brick rang at 3 p.m., he said he’d had a fax from Arthur Stoat.

  FAX MESSAGE

  To: Mr Brick Eagleburger

  From: Arthur Stoat

  Date: 10.11.97

  Dear Mr Eagleburger,

  Your client Mr Adrian Mole has reneged on his agreement with Stoat Books Ltd, to deliver the completed manuscript of Offally Good! – The Book! by 1st November.

  I seriously doubt that Mr Mole is capable of writing this book and suggest that you and Mr Mole find a ghost-writer with the ability to complete the task. He will, of course, be expected to meet any expenses incurred.

  Given the somewhat ‘hand-to-mouth’ nature of Stoat Books’ finances and the fact that we have missed a crucial opportunity to capitalize on the Christmas market, Mr Mole’s failure to deliver means that the staff of Stoat Books will not now be enjoying their end-of-year bonus. This is especially disappointing as research conducted by Stoat Books Ltd has shown that one in ten male student viewers intended buying the book for their mother or stepmother.

  I have moved the delivery date to the third week of December and hope to publish on January 14th to coincide with the first transmission of Ping with Singh.

  Yours sincerely,

  A. N. Stoat

  Managing Director – Stoat Books Ltd

  What is this Ping with Singh?. It’s the first I’ve heard of it.

  Tuesday November 11th

  I was in Safeway for the one-minute silence. The cash registers were turned off. An assistant on the cheese counter giggled nervously after thirty seconds.

  Apparently Dev Singh has written a book on microwave cookery. Serialization rights have been bought by Good Housekeeping and there is already talk of a stage adaptation to be directed by Ned Sherrin.

  Wednesday November 12th

  Ivan asked me in the kitchen this morning to get my own phone/fax line installed. He said that he is starting up a new business as a website designer and needs to use his line exclusively. I pointed out to him that the line did in fact belong to my mother, who was my blood relation; therefore I had more authorization over the line than he did.

  He spluttered, ‘That’s patent nonsense. Your mother and I are life partners, and what’s more I paid the last bloody phone bill, and fitted a new fax roll.’

  When I reminded him that I paid £40 a week to live in this house he said, ‘We heavily subsidize you and William, who’s constantly leaving the lights on and wasting food.’

  Rosie came in, looking upset. She wiped the bread-knife on the corner of her pyjama jacket and said to Ivan, ‘If you don’t like it here, why don’t you go home to your wife?’

  Ivan said, ‘I happen to be in love with your mother, and she happens to be in love with me, check?’

  He went outside to sort his recycling bags before the dustbin men came. Rosie watched him from the window as she waited for her toast to cook. She said, ‘Which do you hate most about him? His Birken-stocks, his hairy wrists, or the cap he wears when it rains?’

  I said, ‘The way he says, “Enjoy,” before every meal.’

  Thursday November 13th

  After taking William to school I went to the Housefinder centre and informed them that I urgently required a three-bedroomed detached house with a garden to rent for no more than £60 per week. I stipulated that it must be in a superior area where there were no rough people. It must have trees and the garden should face south. The person behind the desk, a moustachioed youth wearing a too-big suit, said, ‘We don’t cover the Highlands of Scotland.’ I gave him my card, but as I was passing the window I saw him drop it into the wastebin.

  When I picked William up from Kidsplay Ltd, he said, ‘Your breath smells like poo, Dad.’

  This was only half an hour after I had rigorously brushed my teeth. For how long has my breath smelled like poo?

  I mobiled for an appointment and drove to the surgery, where Mr Chang the dentist broke the news to me that I have got a gum disease called pyorrhoea. Unless I have £1,000 worth of treatment immediately I could be toothless in a year.

  Mr Chang used to be NHS but he no longer caters for the poor: ‘They bring tooth decay on themselves,’ he said. ‘They are always eating the confectionely.’ So, Opal Fruits have brought me to this.

  Mrs Wellingborough, Chang’s receptionist, whispered to me that it might be worth getting a second opinion. Apparently Chang is up in front of the dentists’ self-regulatory council next week for overcharging a woman for a clean and polish. Mrs Wellingborough recommended Jeffrey Atkins. ‘He’s the crème de la crème,’ she said. I am seeing Atkins next Tuesday.

  Rosie has found a fiendish method of causing Ivan pain. During a discussion at the dinner table about our lack of outings as children, Rosie said to my mother, ‘You never took us nowhere.’ She saw Ivan wince and whisper, ‘Double negative,’ to himself.

  She has been torturing him grammatically ever since.

  Saturday November 15th

  I took William to Twycross Zoo today. It was a terrible mistake. When he saw that the lions were in cages, he wept and pleaded, ‘Let them out, Dad, please, let them out.’ He seemed to be under the impression that they were cartoon creatures, rather than live beasts capable of tearing his head from his shoulders.

  Sunday November 16th

  It has been revealed that a millionaire with a fringe and aviator glasses – Bernie Ecclestone – has donated £1,000,000 to the Labour Party’s funds. The tiny Formula One boss is anxious to keep tobacco sponsorship for his noisy sport. Tony Blair is baffled and hurt by public criticism and charges of corruption. ‘I’m a pretty straight kinda guy,’ he said. I have been pondering this statement. Break the sentence down and much is possibly revealed.

  Bowels – blocked

  Mood – black

  Prospects – hopeless

  Breath – foul

  Monday November 17th

  People have been flinching away from me all day. My gums have turned me into a social pariah.

  Tuesday November 18th

  Jeffrey Atkins was shocked at the shoddy state of my mouth and Chang’s fillings. He examined me and said that my bad breath is the result of ‘impacted food in one tooth only’.

  As he probed my mouth he held forth on the state of the arts in Leicester. It was, of course, a one-sided conversation (though I hope my eye-rolling was eloquent). I stumbled into the reception area where I asked Hazel the receptionist if it was possible to give Jeffrey a tip. She said, no, dental etiquette forbids tipping.

  Friday November 21st

  Michael Hutchence of INXS is dead, choked by his own belt, which was tied to a hotel doorknob. My mother said she couldn’t understand why men choke themselves in order to achieve heightened sexual satisfaction. She said, ‘He made love to some of the most beautiful women in the world, so why would he want to hang off a door?’

  Ivan said, ‘Because it’s less complicated than having a relationship with a woman. One doesn’t have to tell a door twenty times a day that one loves it.’

  Well! Well! Well! Is Ivan tiring of my mother’s emotional neediness?

  Saturday November 22nd

  Pandora graced Wisteria Walk with her presence after her surgery at the health centre. She was tired and irritable and complained about the long hours she was working. She hates her constituents. Their incessant complaints about council-house transfers and on-in-the-day street lights are driving her crazy. She said, ‘If it wasn’t for Mandy and our Grand Plan I would go back to Oxford.’

  Naturally I asked her what the ‘Grand Plan’ was. She said, ‘I’m to be the first woman Prime Minister in Britain.’

  I said, ‘And Mrs Thatcher? She never existed?’

  ‘Mrs Thatcher is a man in drag, everybody knows that,’ she said contemptuously.

  I reeled back at this
revelation. ‘What’s her/his real name?’ I asked, agog.

  ‘Leonard Roberts,’ she said. ‘His parents disliked boys, so he was rechristened Margaret by a crooked vicar in Grantham and re-registered in the next district by a registrar who forged a new birth certificate. Leonard was dressed like a girl and treated like a girl.’

  ‘And his genitalia?’ I questioned.

  ‘Abnormally small,’ she said.

  There were so many questions I wanted to ask. Did Denis know his wife was really a man?

  And how did Thatcher give birth to the twins, Carole and Mark? I told Pandora about my ‘William Hague is Thatcher love-child theory’. She said, ‘No, William Hague is the result of a cloning experiment conducted in the sixties. The sperm was taken from Churchill and the eggs were donated by Thora Hird.’

  She then went into the kitchen to have a ‘girly’ talk with Rosie and my mother. They laughed solidly more or less for an hour and a half, only stopping when I went in to complain about the cigarette smoke pouring out from under the door.