Adrian Mole and the Weapons of Mass Destruction

  5 Harrow Street was a waste of time. My father was too frightened to get out of the car. My mother was brave enough to look through the letter box. She said that a flock of pigeons had broken in and made themselves at home. She made it sound as though the birds were sitting around drinking tea and watching television.

  As my mother was getting back into the car, a youth in a top with the hood pulled over his face approached her and said, ‘Yo, woman, do you wanna score some draw?’

  My mother said, ‘Not today, thank you,’ as if she was refusing a Betterware catalogue.

  She turned to my father in the back and said, ‘Do you remember those Saturday nights when we used to smoke dope, George?’

  My father said, ‘Shush. Not in front of Adrian, Pauline!’

  I said, ‘When was this? Was I born?’

  My mother said, ‘It was the 1960s, Adrian. Everybody did it.’

  I said, ‘Everybody? Grandma Mole? Winston Churchill?’

  I was disgusted with them and didn’t speak until we got to Tania’s house.

  Pandora was looking ravishingly beautiful in a cream trouser suit. I will never stop loving her.

  A large photograph of Ivan was on the sideboard next to a burning candle and a vase of red flowers. The photograph had been taken when he was still married to Tania. Nobody mentioned the fact that he was on honeymoon with my mother when he drowned. Also nobody mentioned that my father was living with Tania when the tragedy occurred.

  When Pandora went into the garden to smoke a cigarette, I followed her and asked her if she would agree to be interviewed for my book, Celebrity and Madness.

  She threw her treacle-coloured hair back and snapped, ‘How dare you call me a celebrity? I’m a serious politician with a crippling workload.’

  I said that I had often seen her in the pages of Hello! on the arm of various old blokes.

  She said that she was powerless to stop the paparazzi. She smoked in silence while I watched her lovely face. Then she sighed deeply. I asked her what was wrong.

  She said that she missed her dad and added, ‘Has your mother ever talked to you about it?’

  I told her that I only knew what had been written in the papers and that my mother had been deeply traumatized into silence by the tragedy.

  Pandora said bitterly, ‘So traumatized that she seduced your father away from my mother within a week of my dad’s funeral.’

  I said, ‘It’s baby-boomer behaviour, Pandora. That entire generation is morally corrupt.’

  I told her about my parents’ 1960s drug habit. She laughed and said that a few spliffs on a Saturday night didn’t constitute a habit.

  I told her about poor blind Nigel and she said she already knew and had put him in touch with the top man at the RNIB.

  ‘For counselling?’ I asked.

  ‘No. For fund-raising,’ she said. ‘Nigel’s well connected with the gay mafia. He is a direct route to the pink pound.’

  Tania called us in for tea and we spent an uncomfortable hour eating and drinking and reminiscing about Ivan. However, we were all careful to avoid mentioning the circumstances of his watery death.

  To break the tension I told Pandora that I had written to Tony Blair, asking him to send some documentation verifying the Weapons of Mass Destruction/Cyprus/forty-five-minute statement.

  My mother said, ‘The tight git is fretting about losing his holiday deposit.’

  Pandora said that she rarely saw Mr Blair nowadays as he was never in the country. I asked her if war with Iraq was inevitable.

  She said, ‘I’ve heard a rumour that the MOD is about to call up reservist medical staff.’

  My mother said, ‘So there’ll be even fewer doctors and nurses in the hospitals.’

  My mother had obviously been gossiping while I was outside with Pandora, because Tania said, ‘I hear you have got a new girlfriend, Adrian.’

  Pandora said, ‘What’s her name?’

  I took a deep breath and said, ‘Marigold Flowers.’

  Pandora laughed, showing a half-masticated Brie and cranberry sandwich, and said, ‘Christ, a comedy name. You must bring her to meet me. I’ll give her tea at the House.’

  I will, diary, but not until Marigold has had a chance to read and study and implement the advice given in the What Not to Wear book.

  Monday October 21st

  Full Moon

  My solicitor, David Barwell, phoned to say that he has received the papers from Mark B’astard and my mortgage company and warned me that there was an £8,000 shortfall. He asked me how I intended to cover this.

  I said, ‘But I had worked out on my calculator that I only needed £3,000 in cash.’

  Barwell said, ‘Perhaps the batteries were low.’

  I said, ‘It runs on solar power.’

  He said, ‘But we haven’t enjoyed much sunshine lately, have we, Mr Mole? You’ve obviously got your sums wrong.’ And he asked me again how I intended to find the difference.

  I told him that I had £4,000 worth of hard-earned savings in the Alliance and Leicester Building Society and that I hoped to borrow the rest somehow.

  He said, ‘The law doesn’t operate on hope, Mr Mole, it operates on certainties. You will need to bring the full deposit into my office before the end of the week, or the property will be put back on the market.’

  He then asked me if I wanted to be put in touch with an independent financial adviser. I told him that it was on the advice of an independent financial adviser that my father had invested his pension in Equitable Life.

  Barwell was silent for a long time and then he said, ‘Point taken.’

  I immediately phoned my bank in Calcutta and explained my predicament to the woman on the end of the line. She said she would send me a bank loan application form.

  I asked if it would be posted from Calcutta.

  She said, ‘No, Watford.’

  Tuesday October 22nd

  No sign of bank form.

  Saw Marigold after work. She was wearing a tartan plastic Alice band.

  Wednesday October 23rd

  Phoned Calcutta. A bloke said that a bank loan form had been sent to A. Vole at Leicester, North Carolina, USA, on Monday October 21st.

  I requested that the form be sent again and gave the correct name and address. I stressed the urgency.

  Life of Pi won the Booker Prize last night. My mother asked what it was about. I told her it was about a Hindu Christian Muslim boy who spends a year on a lifeboat in the Pacific with a Bengal tiger.

  She said, ‘Why didn’t the tiger eat the boy?’

  I said, ‘If the tiger had eaten the boy there would have been no novel.’

  She said, ‘But it doesn’t make sense.’

  My father, the esteemed literary critic, joined in, saying, ‘A kid wouldn’t last five minutes with a hungry tiger.’

  I said, ‘The story is an allegory.’ And I left the kitchen before they could ask me technical questions about the lifeboat.

  Thursday October 24th

  Took my Hugo Boss suit to the dry-cleaner’s and pointed out the white stains on the trousers. I was careful to tell the woman behind the counter that the stains were evaporated milk and had been there since last Christmas.

  *

  My mother phoned me at work and told me that a letter from Barclays had arrived. I asked her to open it and read what it said over the phone. After an agonizing wait (how long does it take to open an envelope, for Christ’s sake?) my mother told me that the communication from Barclays was my Visa statement. However, there was a blank cheque attached to the statement and a letter, saying, ‘Dear Mr Mole, The attached cheque can be used where your Barclaycard may not be accepted: e.g. payment of utility bills, local tradesmen, home improvements or school fees. Cash rate applies. Please see conditions on reverse of this statement.’

  I asked my mother what the conditions were.

  She scanned the back of the statement and said, ‘It says something about… “for any amount as long as
you remain within your credit limit…”’

  I asked her what the interest would be on the cheque.

  She said, ‘It’s 2 per cent for cash advances.’ She went on, ‘It says here your credit limit is £10,000. How did you wangle that?’

  I told her that Barclaycard had been most obliging to me in the 1990s, when I presented my cable television show, Offally Good!

  She said, ‘But you didn’t make any money out of that.’

  I said, ‘No, but it’s credit that counts. Barclaycard have faith in me.’

  I asked my mother to do me a huge favour and bring it to the shop, so I could sign the cheque immediately and deliver it to Barwell’s office. She reluctantly agreed, but only after I pointed out to her that I was in danger of losing my loft apartment.

  She said, ‘I need to buy shoes for Glenn’s passing-out parade anyway.’

  What is it about shoes and women? Why do they need new shoes for every occasion? I have three pairs: a black pair, a brown pair and a pair of flip-flops for when I am on holiday. These are perfectly adequate for my needs.

  10 p.m.

  Barwell has had his asthma-inducing carpet removed and has replaced it with laminated floorboards.

  A Visa cheque for £8,000 made out to David Barwell, Client Account, and signed A. Mole is safely in the system.

  Angela got me to sign a lot of legal papers. She asked me if I wanted to read them before I added my signature.

  I glanced through them quickly and said, ‘It’s all mumbo-jumbo to me.’

  She said, ‘It’s all mumbo-jumbo to Mr Barwell.’ She looked towards his office and said bitterly, ‘He’s complaining about the floorboards now. They’re too slippery apparently.’

  According to Angela, I could be moving into my loft in a week!

  Friday October 25th

  9.45 p.m., Wisteria Walk

  As I was filing my financial papers away into my fireproof cabinet, I read for myself the letter from Barclaycard inviting me to cash their cheque. I was astounded, appalled and horrified to read that the interest rate charged on my cheque is 21.4 per cent, and not 2 per cent as my mother had erroneously told me on the phone. The 2 per cent is the charge they will make for processing the cheque (£160).

  There has been no sun in the last few days so, rather than trust my calculator, I phoned my friend Parvez, who has just passed his accountancy exams.

  He said he charged £25 for the first ten minutes of phone advice and thereafter £2 a minute. I hurriedly gave him the figures and asked him how much I would end up paying for my £8,000.

  After eleven minutes, during which Parvez asked me a lot of time-consuming and unnecessary questions, he said, ‘It’s gonna cost you an arm, a leg and a torso. A minimum of £162.34 a month. If you pay the minimum each month, it’s going to take thirteen and three-quarter years to pay off and it will cost you £26,680.88 if interest rates don’t go up. You’ve fallen into the compound interest trap, Moley, innit?’ He then said, ‘I’m taking on new clients at the moment. Do you want to book an appointment?’

  I said, ‘Couldn’t we just go out for a drink together and have a chat?’

  He said, ‘Accountancy ain’t my hobby, Moley.’

  I agreed to go and see him at his house and try to make sense of my financial affairs.

  Saturday October 26th

  Took the car in for a service. I told Les, the mechanic, I occasionally hear a knocking sound coming from the engine.

  He said, ‘What kind of knocking?’

  I said, ‘It’s as if a tiny trapped human is trying to get my attention.’

  Les muttered that it was more likely to be the big end going.

  I told Les that I was driving to Deepcut Barracks in Surrey to see my son’s passing-out parade on Friday.

  He said, ‘You ’ope.’

  Sunday October 27th

  Pandora was right: reservist doctors and nurses are being called up. Britain is now on a war footing.

  I phoned Marigold tonight.

  Her mother answered and said, ‘Netta Flowers speaking.’ I asked to speak to Marigold, but Netta said, ‘She’s in the attic. I daren’t disturb her.’

  She made Marigold sound like Mr Rochester’s mad wife.

  I have started packing my few belongings. I won’t need a removal lorry. The contents of my life will fit into the back of an estate car, including books and clothes.

  Monday October 28th

  Rose at 6.30 and caught the bus from Ashby de la Zouch into Leicester. It was quite pleasant sitting at the front, looking at the countryside. I was able to think about my life during the journey. Where did I want to be ten years from now? Did I want the bother of getting married and starting another family? Or should I concentrate on trying to get published?

  I dictated a letter into my Philips Professional Pocket Memo 398 to Clare Short.

  Dear Clare

  Forgive me for addressing you by your Christian name, but you are so friendly and approachable I was sure you wouldn’t mind. I wonder if you would agree to come to Leicester and be interviewed for my new book, Celebrity and Madness. My thesis is that all celebrities eventually go mad and start to think that they are superhuman.

  I cannot pay a fee or expenses, but I’m sure that you are adequately recompensed for your ministerial duties. Sunday afternoons are good for me.

  As a famously honest and straightforward person, I hope you won’t mind a bit of plain-speaking when directed towards yourself. The scarves you have taken to wearing lately are less successful than you think. In my opinion only French women know how to wear a scarf. Why don’t you pick up a copy of French Vogue the next time you are in an upmarket newsagent’s?

  I look forward to hearing from you in the near future.

  I remain, madam,

  Your most humble and obedient servant,

  A. A. Mole

  When I was getting off the bus, a woman said to me, ‘You’re right about them scarves.’

  Tuesday October 29th

  Moon’s Last Quarter

  Sharon Bott came into the shop this afternoon. She had been shopping at Evans for clothes to wear at Glenn’s passing-out parade. She took the vast garments out of the bags and held them against her. There was a pink jacket that could have graced a hippo, and a pair of wide-legged trousers that an elephant would have found a comfortable fit.

  I introduced Sharon to Mr Carlton-Hayes. In doing so, my two worlds collided. Sharon Bott, the mother of my first, illegitimate son, Glenn, represents the venality and weakness of my flesh, whereas Mr Carlton-Hayes personifies my intellectual and cerebral self.

  Sharon looked around and said, ‘All these books.’ She gave a little laugh as if Mr Carlton-Hayes and I frittered away our working day in meaningless and frivolous activity.

  I told Sharon that Glenn had invited us to a party on Friday night to celebrate his passing out.

  Sharon said, ‘That’ll be a late drive back for you.’

  I said I had no intention of driving back from Surrey in the early hours, due to my poor night vision, and suggested that we stay in a hotel.

  Sharon almost swooned with delight. ‘A ’otel,’ she said. ‘’ow lovely.’ Then her face clouded over. ‘But, Aidy, I can’t afford to pay for a ’otel. And anyway I’m scared to sleep in a room on my own.’

  Before she left, I talked her into buying a pile of Barbara Cartlands that Mr Carlton-Hayes had been anxious to get rid of.

  I rang Les and enquired about my car. He said, ‘The little ’uman is still in the engine.’

  Wednesday October 30th

  Another bus ride.

  Rang Les this morning. He said that the little ’uman was either dead or had escaped.

  I could hear coarse male laughter in the background.

  I said, ‘Are you telling me my car is mended and available for collection?’

  Les said, ‘It’s out at the moment having a test drive. Why don’t you call for it at about 5 o’clock?’

  At 3 p.m. M
r Carlton-Hayes and I were rearranging the window display. The theme was the Middle East. I looked up to see my own car being parked in a disabled bay and a young man in mechanic’s overalls get out and go into the Foot Locker shop opposite.

  I immediately got on the telephone to Les, who said that one of his lads had been tipped off that the new Adidas trainers had arrived in Leicester and that it was first come first served. He said, ‘’ave a heart, Mr Mole. You were young once.’

  I said icily that I was only thirty-four.

  Les said, ‘Sorry. I took you to be a much older gentleman.’

  Working with antiquarian books has obviously aged me prematurely.

  Picked the car up on the way home from work. Les charged me £339 less the petrol for the Foot Locker expedition. I paid him with my Visa card.

  Les said, ‘I’ve given you a complimentary Christmas tree air freshener.’

  I could barely open my mouth to say thanks.

  Spent the evening trying to book three cheap hotel rooms in the Deepcut area, but the only rooms available were ridiculously expensive. I was forced to book two doubles, one for my parents and one for me and Sharon Bott. I will sleep on the floor if necessary. We are staying at the Lendore Spa Hotel.

  I rang Pandora and caught her just as she was about to go into the lobby to vote on the MPs’ working hours bill.

  She snapped, ‘What do you want?’

  I said that if she bumped into Tony Blair, I would be grateful if she could remind him that he hadn’t yet answered my letters.

  She said, ‘Look, I’ve got to go.’

  I asked her if she was supporting the new hours bill or was against it.

  ‘Against it, of course,’ she said. ‘It’s only the mummies and daddies who want to tuck their kiddies up in bed who want the hours changed.’ She added harshly, ‘All women MPs should have their bloody wombs removed before making their maiden speech.’