Sunday October 6th
Turning the pages of my Observer today, I saw Barry Kent’s ugly face staring out at me. Apparently he is a new member of a place called the Groucho Club. I read the accompanying article avidly. It is exactly the sort of place I would like to be a member of. Should I ever reach that goal, I shall tell the manager (Liam) the truth about Kent’s past and have him blackballed.
Elizabeth Taylor has married a bricklayer with a bad perm. He is called Larry Fortensky. Michael Jackson’s ape, Bubbles, was the best man.
Chapter Nineteen: Time to Move On
Jake slipped out of the cottage as the village church struck midnight. He ran stealthily down the lane and towards the minicab which was waiting, as instructed, by the post office. As he threw his rucksack into the back of the car and climbed in after it, he sighed with relief. He never again wanted to see the apple cheeks of his grandmother and he vowed to burn the next corn dolly he came across.
‘Put your foot down!’ Jake barked to the minicab driver. ‘Take me to the nearest urban conurbation.’
The minicab driver’s brow was furrowed. ‘What’s an urban conurbation when it’s at ‘ome?’ he said.
Jake snapped, ‘Okay, dolt! You want specifics, take me to the Groucho Club.’
At the mention of the magic words, the cab driver’s shoulders straightened. The dandruff stayed on his scalp. He had waited years to hear the words, ‘Take me to the Groucho Club’. He looked at Jake with a new respect and he did as he was told. He put his foot down on the clutch and the minicab sped away from the Wolds and towards the great metropolis where, in the Groucho, the Great were no doubt quaffing the house wine and exchanging witticisms. Jake hoped Belinda would be there, at the bar, showing her legs and laughing hysterically at one of Jeffrey Bernard’s jokes.
Monday October 7th
Barry Kent is making a film for BBC2 about his ‘roots’. The television cameras were in the Co-op, blocking the aisles. I couldn’t get to the cat food, so I complained to the manager (who, incidentally, didn’t look a day older than seventeen). He replied, ‘Barry Kent’s comin’ here in person this afternoon.’ It was as though he were talking about royalty.
I said, ‘I don’t give a toss. I want three tins of Whiskas, now!’ The boy manager went off and, in crawling tones, asked the cameraman to pass him three tins of cat food. With what I thought was ill grace, the cameraman obliged and, after paying the starstruck child, I left the shop.
Tuesday October 8th
My mother has been persuaded to give a talk to camera about ‘the Barry Kent she once knew’. I urged her to tell the truth, about the bullying, lying, scruffy, thick youth we knew and despised.
But my mother said, ‘I always found Barry to be a sensitive child.’ The director made her stand by her overflowing wheelie bin in the side yard.
My mother said, ‘Shouldn’t I be made-up, by a proper make-up artist?’ Nick, the director, said, ‘No, Mrs Mole, we’re going for actuality.’ My mother touched the cold sore on her lip and said, ‘I’d counted on a bit of camouflage to hide this.’ A strong light was turned on her, which showed every line, wrinkle and bag on my mother’s face.
Then the director shouted, ‘Go!’ and my mother went. To pieces. After seventeen attempts, BBC2 gave up, packed their gear and went off. My mother ran upstairs and threw herself on the bed. There is nothing so pitiful as a failed interviewee.
Saturday October 12th
Kent is still poncing around the neighbourhood. I saw him being filmed walking up our street. He was wearing a floor-length overcoat, cowboy boots and dark glasses. I ducked out of sight. I have no wish to be publicly identified as the dork in Dork’s Diary.
I took the dog for a walk to the field where Pandora used to ride Blossom, her pony. It tired very quickly. I had to carry it back.
I saw Mrs Kent, Barry’s mother, on the way home. She was walking her pit bull terrier. I asked her if she had registered the beast yet (as required by law).
She said, ‘Butcher wouldn’t hurt a fly.’
I said, ‘It’s not flies I’m worried about. It’s the tender flesh of small children.’
She changed the subject and told me that Barry had bought her the council house she now lives in. This made me laugh quite a lot. The Kents’ house is a byword for squalor in our neighbourhood. They chop the internal doors up for firewood every winter.
Sunday October 13th
Finished Chapter Nineteen tonight.
Jake was sick of being interviewed. He ordered the journalists to leave the Groucho Club and leave him alone. He turned to Lenny Henry and said, ‘Let’s have a drink, Len.’ Lenny smiled his thanks and Jake snapped his fingers. A waiter came running immediately and bent deferentially towards Jake. ‘A bottle of champagne – a big one – and make that three glasses,’ for Jake had just seen one of his best friends, Richard Ingrams, of News Quiz fame, come through the hallowed swing doors. ‘Hey, Rich, over here!’ shouted Jake. There was a sound of scuffling coming from the reception area. Jake turned his head round to see Liam, the manager, throwing Kent Barry, the failed writer, out of the club and into the gutter.
Monday October 14th
Dear Bianca,
After further reflection, can I take you up on your offer? It would be most convenient for me to spend a few days sleeping on your floor in Oxford. Quite honestly, I cannot tolerate another moment living with my family. It isn’t just the noise level and the constant bickering; it’s the small things – the encrusted neck of the HP Sauce bottle; the slimy soap dish; the dog hairs in the butter. You can telephone me on the above number, any time, night or day. Nobody sleeps in this house.
All my very best wishes,
Adrian Mole
Tuesday October 15th
My sister Rosie told me that she hated me this morning. Her outburst came after I suggested that she comb her hair before going to school. My mother got out of bed and came downstairs. She lit her second cigarette of the day (she smokes the first in bed) and immediately took Rosie’s side. She said, ‘Leave the kid alone.’
I said, ‘Somebody has to maintain standards in this house.’
My mother said, ‘You can talk. That beard looks like a ferret’s nest. I don’t know how you can bear to have it so near to your mouth. A public health inspector would close it down.’
During the ensuing row, nasty things were said on both sides, which I now regret. I accused her of being a neglectful mother, with loose morals. She counterattacked by describing me as ‘a fungus-faced dork’. She said she had secretly read my Lo! manuscript and thought it was ‘crap from start to finish’. She said, ‘in the unlikely event of it being published, I hope you will use a pseudonym, because, to be honest, Adrian, I couldn’t stand the public shame.’
I put my head on the kitchen table and wept.
My mother then put her arm around me and said, ‘There, there, Adrian. Don’t cry. I didn’t mean it, I think Lo! The Flat Hills of My Homeland is a very interesting first attempt.’
But it was no good. I wept until dehydration set in.
10.00 p.m. Why hasn’t Bianca phoned? I used a first class stamp.
Thursday October 17th
Drew more money out of the Market Harborough Building Society. My dream of being an owner-occupier has receded even further into the realms of fantasy.
I have received a postcard of the Forth Bridge, with no address but posted in London.
Dear Adrian,
I’m going to London to try for a proper job. I’ve got an interview with British Rail. In a rush. Please reply c/o my friend Lucy:
Lucy Clay
Flat 10
Dexter House
Coghill Street
Oxford
She has promised to pass on any messages.
I hope you are well and happy. I miss you!
Love,
B.
PS. How about a London floor when I find one?
Friday October 18th
Chapter Twenty: The Reckoning
Jake pushed the earth wire out of the lawnmower plug, then screwed the plug together again. He could hear his mother on the telephone to her new lover (a schoolboy called Craig).
He waited for her to finish cooing her endearments down the phone and re-emerge on the terrace. ‘I’ve cut half the lawn, mother,’ he shouted, ‘but I’ve got to go to the barber’s now.’
His mother frowned and dropped ash all down her cashmere dress. ‘But Jake, darling,’ she remonstrated. ‘You know I hate to see a job half done.’ She went towards the lawnmower.
Jake chuckled inwardly. He had banked on this trait of his mother’s. As he passed through the french windows, he heard the hover-mower whir into life, to be followed immediately by the high-pitched scream.
Jake immediately felt guilty, then comforted himself by thinking that he had advised his mother time after time to install a circuit breaker; advice she had foolishly chosen to ignore.
Sunday October 20th
It was my father’s access day today. He came to take Rosie out to McDonald’s as usual. While she looked for her shoes, my father and I talked man to man about my mother. We agreed that she was an impossible person to live with. We had a good laugh about Martin Muffet, who was in the back garden building a lean-to conservatory with the assistance of his Black and Decker work bench. We agreed that, since marrying my mother, Muffet has aged ten years.
I congratulated my father on capturing Mrs Belinda Bellingham, and confessed that I didn’t have much luck with women. My father said, ‘Tell them what they want to hear, son, and buy them a bunch of flowers once a fortnight. That’s all there is to it.’
I asked him if he intended to marry Mrs Bellingham, but before he could answer, my mother staggered into the room carrying a large cardboard box which contained the swag she’d bought from a car boot sale. She’d bought a painting of Christ on the cross; an ashtray with two scottie dogs painted on it; an aluminium toast rack; twenty-seven bent candles; a chenille tablecloth; a Tom Jones LP; six cooking apples; and a steering wheel. As she excitedly unpacked the junk onto the kitchen table, I saw my father looking at her with what I can only describe as lovelight in his eyes.
Monday October 21st
Bianca rang, but I was out cutting Bert Baxter’s disgusting toenails. My mother wrote down a telephone number where I could contact Bianca, but then lost it almost immediately. We searched the house, but failed to find the scrap of paper. I expect the dog ate it. It has recently taken to scoffing whole pages of the Leicester Mercury, a sign of its increasing neurosis or a vitamin deficiency – who knows? Nobody can afford to take it to the vet to find out.
Tuesday October 22nd
I sent a postcard of Leicester Bus Station to Bianca c/o Lucy Clay:
Dear Bianca,
Thank you for your postcard of the Forth Bridge.
I was most surprised to hear that you were leaving Oxford and going to the ‘Smoke’, as the cockneys say.
I wish you luck in your search for a ‘proper’ job. Keep me posted. I have had no luck yet, but I keep trying.
It is very difficult living here with my family. There is a total clash of lifestyles. I strive to be tolerant of the noise and disorder, but it is hard, very hard.
Yours,
With very best wishes,
Adrian
Mrs Bellingham has offered me a job selling security devices. It is evening work. I have to call on nervous householders after dark and put the fear of God into them until they sign up for a burglar alarm or security lights. I said I would think about it.
Mrs Bellingham said in her careful voice, ‘There are three million unemployed. Why do you need to think about it?’
I said I hoped that beggars could still be choosers.
She is offering me £3.14 an hour. No commission, no insurance stamp, no contract of employment – cash in hand. I asked her if she objected to my belonging to a union. Her face went whiter than ever and she said, ‘Yes, I’m afraid I do. Mrs Thatcher’s greatest achievement was to tame the unions.’ My father is a Thatcherite’s lackey!
Thursday October 24th
I despise myself. I have only been working for two nights, but I have already sold a whole house security system, six car alarms, four peepholes and half a dozen bike locks. My method is simple. I get into the house and show the householders the portfolio that Mrs Bellingham has assembled. It consists of lurid stories cut out of the tabloid newspapers and police press releases. After leafing through this alarming document, it would take great insouciance for the householder to deny that more security in the home is a desirable thing.
Mrs Bellingham has instructed me to ask the question, ‘Don’t you think your family deserves more protection from the dark forces of evil that are at large in our community?’
So far only one person has said, ‘No,’ and he was the defeated-looking father of six teenage boys.
Monday October 28th
Shaved beard off. Mrs Bellingham said it made me look untrustworthy. I am completely in her power. If she ordered me to go to work wearing a Batman outfit, I would have to obey her. I have no legal rights of employment.
Thursday October 31st
At last! The economic recovery is on its way! The Confederation of British Industry has reported that they expect outputs and exports to increase in the years ahead. According to the CBI, manufacturers are expecting huge new orders. I broke this good news to my mother. She said, ‘Yes, and the dog is getting married on Saturday and I’m its Matron of Honour.’ Then she and Martin Muffet went off into one of their mad laughing fits.
Ken Barlow of Coronation Street fame has been on trial for being boring. He was found ‘Not Guilty’ and awarded £50,000.
My mother has got a job as a security guard in the new shopping centre that has just opened in Leicester city centre. She looks like a New York City policewoman in her uniform. She told the security firm, ‘Group Five’, that she was thirty-five years old! She is now living in fear that her true age, forty-seven, will be revealed. Is everybody partially sighted at Group Five? Did her interview take place in a candlelit office? I asked her these questions.
She said, ‘I bunged on rather a lot of Max Factor’s pan-stick and sat with my back to the window.’
Friday November 1st
In view of my continuing success in flogging her security paraphernalia, Mrs Bellingham has raised my hourly rate from £3.14 to the heady sum of £3.25! Gee whiz! Fire a cannon! Release the balloons! Open the Bollinger! Issue a press release! Inform the Red Arrows!
Saturday November 2nd
Jake used his Swiss Army knife to dismantle the burglar alarm and in a matter of moments he had circumnavigated the padlocks, bolts and chains on the front door and was standing in the front hall of Bellingham Towers.
Upstairs, sleeping after an hour of arduous love-making, were the owners of the historic country house, Sir George and Lady Belinda, and their daughter, the Honourable Rosemary. Jake chuckled as he stuffed silver and objets d’art into a black plastic bag. He felt no guilt. He was robbing the filthy rich to feed the filthy poor. He was the Robin Hood of Leicestershire.
My mother claims that I look exactly like John Major, especially when I am wearing my reading glasses. This is total rubbish: unlike Mr Major, I have got lips. They may be on the thin side, but they are distinctly there. If I were Major, I’d have a lip transplant. Mick Jagger could be the donor.
Tuesday November 5th
Robert Maxwell, the mogul, has fallen overboard from his yacht, the Lady Ghislaine.
Went to Age Concern Community Bonfire Party. Pushed Bert Baxter there in his wheelchair. Baxter was asked to leave after half an hour because he was seen (and certainly heard) to throw an Indian firecracker into the bonfire. The organizer, Mrs Plumbstead, said apologetically, ‘Safety has to be paramount.’
Baxter said scornfully, ‘There were no such thing as safety when I were a lad.’
I pushed him home in silence. I was furious. Because of him
, I missed the baked potatoes, sausages and soup. I had to wait for an hour for the district nurse to come and put him to bed.
Thursday November 7th
Kevin Maxwell has denied that his deceased father’s businesses have financial problems.
Query: Would our banks lend £2.5 billion to a man with money problems?
Answer: Of course not! Our banks are respected financial institutions.
Sunday November 10th
To Grandma’s for the Remembrance Day poppy-laying ceremony. I am proud of my dead grandfather, Albert Mole. He fought valiantly in the First World War so that I would not have to live under the tyranny of a foreign oppressor.
I cannot let the above sentence lie. The truth is that my poor, dead grandfather fought in the Great War because he was ordered to. He always did what he was told. I take after him in that respect.
Monday November 11th
A gang of Leicester yobs shouted out, ‘Hey, John Major, how’s Norma?’ tonight, as I came out of the cinema. I looked around, thinking that perhaps the Prime Minister was visiting the Leicester Chamber of Commerce, or something, but there was no sign of him. I then realized, to my horror, that they were addressing their yobbish remarks to me.