Sue Townsend - Adrian Mole - Diary of a Provincial Man

I have been watching you all year, and have been pleased with your behaviour. However, I am sorry to have to tell you that my elves have failed to manufacture enough Playstation 2s, therefore you will not find this item on the sofa on December 25.

Yours, Santa Claus, Greenland

P.S. Two thousand elves have received redundancy notices.

He cried for half an hour because Santa had written «yours», instead of «love». He is a very sensitive boy.

Friday, December 15

The Nativity play started 15 minutes late because one of the parents, a certain Mrs Lucy Morgan, tried to smuggle a video camera into the assembly hall. She refused at first to give it up, citing the Freedom of Information Act. The headmaster, Mr Tree, cited the European Privacy Law. Several Guardian readers got involved in the ensuing debate. Some were on the side of Mrs Morgan, others sided with Mr Tree. William was, quite frankly, a most disappointing shepherd. He dropped his sheep and in a bored manner began to kick it around the stage. At one point, the kicked sheep came dangerously close to toppling the baby Jesus (a swaddled Action Man) from his cradle. Glenn commented as we waited for William, "Mr Blair says it's all right for parents to smack their kids now, Dad." I said, "I can hardly beat William for being a bored shepherd, Glenn." He replied, "If he'd had Jesus outta his cradle, I'd 'ave jumped on the stage an' give him one myself."

Friday, December 22, Ashby-de-la-Zouch

Another night out! This time at Neil Armstrong Comprehensive, my alma mater, to see Glenn in The Holiday Play. In my day, it was simply called the Nativity play. In the 1982 performance, Pandora was a mesmeric Mary. Several men in the audience fainted during Jesus's protracted forceps delivery. I sat next to Mohammed, whose daughter Raki was in the cast playing a glue-sniffer running away from an arranged marriage. To my considerable consternation, Glenn had been cast as a homeless abuser of alcohol. The production was confused, because the children had not been given lines or told where to stand or, in fact, when to take their entrances and exits. This led to severe overcrowding on the stage at times, and necessitated Mr. Billington, the young drama teacher, to issue loud instructions that could clearly be heard above the horrible din of the school orchestra.

Roger Patience, the headmaster, sat next to the stage with his head in his hands. The action apparently took place in a night shelter. A pregnant female called Marie turned up with her «partner» Joe and asked the social worker in charge for sanctuary. What Marie actually said was, "I gotta lie down coz I'm 'aving a kid an' the filth is after me for nickin' a swaddlin' cloth outta the everythin's a pound shop." To which the social worker/innkeeper in turn replied, "Ya gotta be jokin', ain't ya? There ain't no bleedin' room, it's holiday time, you shoulda booked." Here, Joe intervened: "Don't dis my chick, man". Then Glenn made his entrance and proceeded to give an alarmingly realistic depiction of a man who had consumed several bottles of methylated spirits.

A female derelict/angel came on and shrieked, "I just seen a bright star appear in the east. It weren't there before. It done my 'ead in." Mohammed's daughter then entered sniffing on a tube of Bostick (empty, I hope). I felt Mohammed shift uncomfortably in his seat. I lost track of the dramatic events after that and turned my attention to the programme. I noticed that Pamela Pigg had been credited with "facilitating research on the homeless".

When I next looked back at the stage, Raki was giving an improvised speech about the difficulties of being a radical feminist growing up in a fundamentalist Muslim household. Mohammed muttered, "If she thinks she's gettin' them Timberland boots for Christmas, she's gotta nuther think comin'." Mr Billington gave a speech at the end thanking the children for their "enthusiastic grasp of improvisational techniques". He wished us all a "merry holiday".

As we walked to the car park together, Mohammed said, "Moley, why don't they do a proper Nativity play no more?" I said that it was felt in some circles that it was inappropriate in a multicultural school. Mohammed laughed and said, "What kinda circles? Crop?"

We went for a Christmas drink at the Kings Head. I asked for a cheese roll, but was told that they only do Thai food now. I didn't fancy slurping on a bowl of noodles as I drank, so I ate nothing. As a consequence, I felt slightly drunk when I got home and phoned Pamela Pigg and asked her out. She accepted eagerly, saying, "I've longed for this moment." After putting down the phone, I cursed the two pints of shandy I had consumed earlier.

Monday, December 25

Christmas Day has been blighted. A tragedy has befallen my family. Last night, my mother was arrested and charged with GBH. The tableau of Becks, Posh and Brooklyn in her front garden drew huge crowds of gawpers. Bail was refused because she gave a policeman a Chinese burn on his wrist when he tried to dismantle Brooklyn's crib. The policeman is undergoing trauma counselling, and is expected to be on sick leave for two months.

Monday, January 1, 2001, 1.30am

I saw the new year in alone. Glenn has gone to a fancy-dress party at his mother's house. Rather disturbingly, he went as Hannibal Lecter. William is spending the weekend with his mother and her new husband, who are on honeymoon in London.

I hope my ex-wife and her new spouse can forget their sexual passion for long enough to pay proper attention to William. The lad has had two major disappointments in his life lately:

a) Santa's broken promise to bring him a Sony PlayStation 2;

b) Santa's broken promise to bring him a Barbie Plane.

As midnight struck, I reopened the bottle of sparkling chardonnay I failed to finish on Christmas Day, but the sparkle had gone out of it. So I poured it down the sink.

As I wrote the numbers 2001, I was transported back to a classroom at the Neil Armstrong comprehensive, and a lesson on "the future" given by Miss Elf, the humanities teacher. By 2001, according to Miss Elf, the world would be one, big, happy, cappuccino-coloured family. I remember her drawing this frontier-less world. How the chalk dust flew!

Miss Elf was a passionate and committed teacher. In fact, not long after I left school she was committed to the High Towers mental hospital, following a doomed staff-room romance with Podgy Perkins, the games master. He was married with seven children, all boys. (Interestingly, all the boys' names began with G.) Strange what the memory throws up.

Anyway, Miss Elf envisaged that, by 2001, there would be no hunger in the world and that everybody would have access to clean water and a flushing toilet. She drew a typical 2001 world family on the board, using a fresh box of coloured chalks. They all had brown skin and wore white, shiny, body-suits with pointy shoulders. Attached to their ankles were tiny jet engines. These devices enabled the 2001 family to fly like the birds. Though, as she pointed out, intercontinental travel would necessitate many refuelling stops.

Perhaps it is a good thing that Miss Elf is gibbering behind the high walls of an institution. She would be heartbroken to know that her utopian vision is as far away as ever, and that Israel and Palestine are still arguing the toss.

New Year Resolutions

1. I will try and secure the services of Dame Helena Kennedy in a bid to get my mother out of prison.

2. I will persist in trying to get my serial killer comedy, The White Van, made by the BBC.

3. I will try to be less judgmental. Perhaps Jeffrey Archer is innocent. Perhaps the Dome was worth a billion pounds.