Sue Townsend - Adrian Mole - Diary of a Provincial Man

Tuesday, August 7, Ashby-de-la-Zouch

The fondue party was held at Alan Clarke's thatched cottage in Frisby-On-The-Wreake. According to local gossip, Frisby is a hotbed of paganism. In 1974, several donkeys mysteriously disappeared overnight and were believed to have been ritually sacrificed. Alan Clarke fancies himself as a local historian. As we twirled our fondue forks over the pan of bubbling cheese, he regaled his guests with anecdotes about his life in the village. The guests were Pamela Pigg, me, Glenn, Nigel and Peter Elf.

I took Glenn with me because it is time the boy was taught how to conduct himself in sophisticated company. Before we got out of the car, I warned him not to say serviette, or to inform the other guests that his ambition is to be a heterosexual when he grows up.

To a background of Bob Dylan's harmonica, we chomped through seven varieties of hot cheese. I incautiously mentioned how saddened I had been to hear of the death of Larry Adler and added that, in my opinion, Adler had been the greatest harmonica player the world had ever known. Peter Elf said camply, "I wouldn't slash my wrists if I never heard the harmonica again." Alan jabbed his fondue fork angrily into the rough-hewn table, stormed over to the stereo and removed the long-player from the turntable. There was an awkward silence, which Glenn broke eventually by saying, "When I grow up, I want to be a heterosexual."

I was glad to get out of that cottage and rejoin the 21st century — personally, I think Alan Clarke knows what happened to those donkeys.

Friday, August 10

A bombshell! I was idly turning the pages of the Ashby Bugle tonight, when I saw the headline "Third Time Lucky For Ashby Couple?" On the right-hand side was a photograph of my parents' wedding day, taken in the late 1960s. Underneath was another photograph of my parents' wedding day, taken in the late 1980s. I read to my horror that they were intending to marry again, for the third time. I immediately rang my mother. She said, "We were going to tell you. Some bastard at the Ashby Bugle has leaked the story."

Saturday, August 18

Today, I was a guest at my parents' third wedding. I was a four-month-old foetus when my mother first married my father. I, of course, remember nothing of the occasion — though my dear, dead grandma, May Mole, told me that my mother disgraced herself at the reception by accidentally setting fire to her wedding veil while attempting to light a Capstan with a broken Swan Vesta match.

My father put the blaze out with a bowl of cling peaches in juice, snatched from the buffet. In the resulting confusion, Grandma's 75 home-stuffed vol-au-vents (one per guest) were despoiled. Although only a foetus, I feel sure that this unsavoury incident made me into a non-smoker, with an aversion to swans.

Today's ceremony was conducted at County Hall, the administrative nerve centre of Leicestershire. It was somewhat disconcerting to look up from the baggy faces of my lovelorn parents pledging their vows, to see a County Hall apparatchik photocopying what appeared to be fixed-penalty forms in an adjacent office. If I ever marry again, I will make sure that the setting is suitably romantic. Rutland Water at sunset is said to be a breathtaking sight, though in the summer, midges might present a problem.

The reception took place in the One-Stop Centre function room on a nearby council estate. As we guests queued up to offer our congratulations to the bride and groom, we were forced to rub shoulders with benefits claimants, young offenders and a pensioners' ping-pong group. I'm the most liberal and democratic of men, but surely a hotel would have been more suitable?

The musical entertainment was provided by Alan Clarke and his folk group, The Shanty Men, who wore matching Aran sweaters and sang about herrings. I was glad when one of them, Abbo Palmer, broke off and announced that Clarke was 50 that day. Clarke looked horror-struck and Pamela Pigg, his present amour, said to me, "The bloody liar, he told me he was 37-and-a-half."

My father stood up and made a speech about the "happiest day of his life" — his voice was blurry with sentimental tears. Unfortunately he was talking about something Ian Botham did 20 years ago at Headingley.

Saturday, August 25

I fear I am losing the battle to mould William's character to my own satisfaction. He does not seem to appreciate high culture and has appalling taste in music and literature. He's only six, but at his age Mozart was selling out concerts all over Europe. I played the whole of Wagner's Ring Cycle on my stereo this week, hoping that constant exposure to the shrieking and wailing would break down his defences. It failed. As the last note faded, William rushed to put on the CD of “Mambo № 5”, sung (sic) by Bob the Builder.

Since being introduced to WWF (World Wrestling Federation) at my mother's house, he is now addicted — and I use the word carefully. He lives only for Fridays when Sky Sports One broadcasts two hours of this so-called "Sports Entertainment". His heroes are The Rock and The Undertaker, and his antiheroes are Stone Cold Steve Austin and DDP (Diamond Dallas Page). All of the above are hideous looking, over-muscled brutes who do not look as if they have ever read world literature, and probably think that Nabokov is an illegal steroid.

Last night I found William six inches from the TV watching an action replay of The Rock's finishing manoeuvre. His victim was Booker T. The Rock was smashing Booker T's head through a table. When I made an objection, William said, "Quiet, Dad. The Rock's going for the one-two-three count. If he gets it, he'll leave the Astrodome with the WWF championship belt."

I pointed out to William that wrestling was merely a sublimation of sub-erotic activity. The hulks refuse to accept the truth — that they have more in common with Oscar Wilde than they can possibly know. William shouted, "For God's sake, stop talkin'!" I took the remote from him and flipped through the channels looking for a David Jason drama. William screamed, then held his breath until his lips turned blue. He only resumed breathing when I flicked back to Sky Sports One.

Sunday, August 26

Pandora claims that she has been approached by the News Of The World to visit Jeffrey Archer in prison and acquire, by whatever means, his DNA — £10,000 was mentioned. After some thought, she turned it down.

Saturday, September 1, Ashby-de-la-Zouch, Leicestershire

I am powerless to make my boys either happy or unhappy. External forces dictate their mood. Namely, sport. As Glenn settled down in front of the television with a bag of nachos and a cheese dip to watch Leicestershire play Somerset, in the final of the Cheltenham and Gloucester Trophy at Lord's, he said, "Don't do no Hooverin' in 'ere, Dad, I gotta concentrate on the match."

I pleaded with him to turn down the sound on the TV and listen to the commentary on Radio 4. I said, "At least that way you will hear some erudite conversation." I brought in the Sony portable and switched it on to hear Henry Blofeld and Jonathan Agnew discussing a chocolate cake sent in by a listener, a Mrs Daphne Calf, from Wolverhampton. Then Blofeld said, "Aggers, my dear old thing, you're looking frightfully smart today."

Glenn rolled his eyes at William, who grabbed the TV remote and turned up the sound. I took the radio into the kitchen and fiddled the knob until I found Classic FM. I washed up to the sound of Gershwin's “Rhapsody In Blue,” which always reminds me of Skegness. It was playing when my father confessed to my mother that he had sired a child by another woman.