I have been preoccupied lately with thoughts about my half-brother, Brett. Where is he? Does he still live with his mother, Doreen Slater, aka Stick Insect? How tall is he? I wish I'd been called Brett, rather than Adrian. Bretts climb mountains, play lead guitar at Wembley Stadium and take beautiful women to bed, etc.
My newly wed parents seem less in love than they did last week. My mother was prescribed new spectacles yesterday, and was able to see my father clearly for the first time in many years. She confessed to me that she was «gobsmacked» at "how old your dad looks. What's happened to his face?" She said that he looks like some "sort of reptile". I explained to her that during the time he was married to Tania Braithwaite, she had insisted he attend a tanning parlour once a week. My mother snorted contemptuously, and said, "That's not all she insisted on. He's learned a few tricks in bed that I'm not happy with."
Thursday, September 6
I have decided to make contact with Brett. So I asked my father to come for afternoon tea. Over cucumber sandwiches and a pot of Earl Grey, I asked him bluntly if he has any contact with his other son. My father avoided the question by complaining about the sandwiches, calling them «poncy», and the tea, saying it was "as weak as a sailor's arsehole". Eventually, he confided to me that he had been sending Doreen Slater £20 a week since Brett's birth. He was glad that Brett had won a scholarship to Balliol College, Oxford to read English, because it meant him being 20 quid a week better off.
Balliol College, Oxford! How did he do it? His mother was a slag who was so thick she thought a semi-colon was a partial colostomy. I have written to Brett, care of Balliol College. The formality of a letter is needed, in the circumstances.
Big brother
Monday September 10, Ashby-de-la-Zouch
A letter from Oxford! A vellum envelope, addressed to me in exquisite copperplate handwriting. Inside, a matching piece of personalised notepaper, headed Brett Mole, Balliol College, Oxford. Website: www.brettmole.com.
Dear Adrian,
What a lark. We must meet and swap goss about our mutual father. When are you next in Oxford?
Yours fraternally,
Brett
I logged on immediately to www.brettmole and learned more about my half-brother than I needed to know. There were photographs of Brett mountaineering, white-water kayaking, playing tennis, limboing on a Caribbean beach, modelling on a catwalk and shaking hands with Prince Charles. His website informed me that Brett is 6ft 2in tall, takes a 16-inch collar and size 11 shoes.
On another page I discovered that Brett achieved 14 GCSEs at A grade. His four A-levels were starred. He has published a volume of poetry, called Blow out the Candle. The reviews were ecstatic. I hate him already.
I emailed him the following message:
"Dear Brett, I thank you for your letter of the 10th. Sadly, I am almost never in Oxford.
Yours sincerely, Adrian (Mole)."
Disconcertingly, Brett emailed back almost at once.
"Hi Bro, Leaving soonest for train to Leicester. See you around 4pm today."
I emailed back that I had got the builders in, and that there was no water, heat, light or toilet facilities, and suggested that he postpone his visit for at least six months. I finished with, "Please confirm that you are not coming."
I waited by the machine for over half an hour, but no reply came. I am not ashamed of living in a council house on a sink estate. As for graffiti and abandoned cars, I hardly notice them. But Brett almost certainly will. I tidied up as best I could, and rearranged the bookcase so that he could not fail to see that I was conversant with Dostoevsky, Tolstoy and Chekhov. At 4.05pm, I heard the taxi pull up outside, then a confident voice boomed, "Where's my brother?"
The martial art of paper folding
Sunday, September 23. Ashby-de-la-Zouch
Brett is still here. He claims that the events of September 11 have traumatised him and have rendered him incapable of using transport of any kind. Over breakfast this morning, he said to me, "I could be here for ever, Adrian." He is formidably clever, and seems to have read every book printed in English, French and German since Caxton invented the printing press. Infuriatingly, he quotes from them constantly, and corrects my own attributions.
He has been helping out Glenn with his homework; consequently, the teachers at Neil Armstrong Community College are now talking excitedly about the boy being only the second pupil to get to Oxbridge (the first was Pandora). William is in love with "Uncle Brett", and follows him around the house like the Old Shep that Elvis sang about. Origami is only one of Brett's many skills. This morning he transformed the G2 section of the Guardian into Balliol College, complete with dons and undergraduates.
He is constantly on the phone to his many friends around the world. He assures me that he will stump up for his share of the phone bill. Then, a moment later, laughs about his state of penury.
He and my father get on like a house in flames, and talk endlessly about football players, cricketers and rugby oafs — people I have never heard of.
Monday, September 24
I heard with alarm today that, due to the coming «Crusade» or "Infinite Justice" or "The Conflict" or "World War Three", David Blunkett has warned that my civil liberties may be restricted in the future, and that I may have to carry an identity card with me at all times. Since I am constantly losing my Sainsbury's Reward Card, the future looks dim for me.
Tuesday, September 25
Brett is making a documentary about post-twin towers trauma using a Panasonic hand-held digital video camera. Channel 4 and BBC 2 are bidding for the rights. He interviewed me at length in the kitchen. When he played it back to me, I noticed that my Afghan coat was hanging on the back of the kitchen door. I asked Brett to re-shoot, but he refused, saying that he would not be censored.
Mistaken identity
Sunday, September 30, Ashby-de-la-Zouch
Brett has written a 1,500-word article for The Independent, headed “The Osama Bin Laden I Knew.” He claims to have first met Bin Laden in the breakfast room of a boarding house in Blackpool. "I was immediately suspicious of him," wrote Brett. "He claimed to have been in England for five years, yet he did not appear to know that pepper was shaken from the pot with the multi-holes. In the bar that night, he ordered a pint of snowball and a packet of pork trotters (sic). When I commented that snowballs were usually drunk by women, and in much daintier glasses, Bin Laden snarled, 'I am a British citizen, I hate slugs, and I visit a garden centre many times a year. Also, I watch the whores of western culture on EastEnders.
“When our landlady failed to bring him a packet of pork trotters, saying, 'It's scratchings you want, love, an' we're out of 'em due to swine fever', he went berserk and shouted, 'I am a legitimate citizen of this country — here is my passport and my HGV licence. " After I had finished reading the piece, Brett asked me for a critique. I said, "It is a tissue of lies from beginning to end. It is a well-known fact that Osama bin Laden does not speak English." Brett replied airily, "Our conversations were conducted in Arabic throughout." I scoffed, "Are you claiming that a Blackpool landlady is fluent in Arabic?" "Yes," said Brett. "Her name is Fatima Hardcastle — we do live in a multicultural society now, you know." I know Brett is lying, but how can I prove it? I can only pray that The Independent throws this piece of fiction back in his face before he brings shame on the Mole dynasty.