Dear Mr Mole,
As I have stated ad nauseam, Glenn is not allowed to wear a tracksuit during cross-country runs. It was the wearing of shorts and vests in sub-zero temperatures that put the backbone into our young men and enabled our great country to win two world wars and several rowing medals at the Atlanta Olympics in 1996.
Yours, R Patience (Chief Executive), Neil Armstrong Community College
I rang Pandora at the Commons and was put through to a call centre where a recorded voice told me to press the star button if I was a constituent, or the hash button if I had a complaint about the NHS, street lighting or council house transfers.
I listened in fury as the voice took me through numbers one to eight before telling me to "press button nine if you wish to speak to a person directly". "At last," I said, "I get to speak to Pandora." But it wasn't she. It was Lorraine from the call centre, who, after acrimonious exchange, informed me that "my call was being recorded".
I rang my new stepmother (and Pandora's mother), Tania, and asked for Pandora's email address. "I'm cleaning out the koi carp pond, Adrian," she said. "Could you ring me back at a more convenient time?"
"So, you are putting your koi carp pets in front of your step-grandson's dilemma, are you?" I said angrily.
"As a matter of fact, I am," she snapped. "I agree with Patience. Shorts and vests did make this country great." It's true: advancing age does turn people right-wing. Tania used to be a leading radical in the political circles of Ashby-de-la-Zouch.
Tuesday, March 14
Now William is in trouble at school for opining that Posh Spice should be the next Queen of England. According to him, Mrs Claricoates, his teacher, made him sit in the Wendy-and-Kevin house alone during storytime. As a punishment, I know that's not exactly in the bamboo-under-the-fingernails league, but he was still upset when he got home and totally confused about the hereditary principle.
I kept Glenn at home today while I considered my next move in the tracksuit row: a letter to Jeremy Corbyn? Alert the Leicester Mercury? Or a petition?
Wednesday, March 15
Vince Ludlow has been arrested for failing to pay £140 arrears! Four policemen served a warrant on him at 7.30am. Apparently, he was fined £280 in October 1997. He stole the brass knob from the door of the magistrates court after celebrating his birthday at Snobs in town. Peggy was distraught as, from our respective doorsteps, we watched the police van turn the corner. She sobbed, "Vince gone, and not a bleedin' fag in the 'ouse."
Thursday, March 16
My father is worried about Longbridge. "It's bloody tragic. How'mi gonna get spares for the Rover?"
Saw Lizzie Broadway, my old schoolfriend, in the newsagents. She was buying cat food. I asked if she lived on the estate. "God, no," she said. "Do I look socially excluded?" before hurrying towards her BMW on the kerb, where a gang of local lads were measuring the hub caps with a tape measure.
Friday, March 17, St Patrick's Day
Pandora rang and ordered me to stop harassing her. In only three minutes she used the words «clear» or «clearly» 19 times. Is it now compulsory for politicians to use this word?
Piggmalion
Monday, March 20, 2000
Glenn's photograph is on the front of tonight's Ashby Bugle. The headline said, "Glen cross about country run." It was not a flattering portrait: the combination of his new Beckham haircut and the way he was scowling into the sun gave him the look of a youth at a fascist training camp. As I paid for my copy, a pensioner behind me looked at Glenn and said, "I wunt like to meet him down a dark alley."
I longed to tell the mustachioed lard-belly that Glenn was a good boy, but she picked an argument with the newsagent about non-delivery of her People's Friend, so I left without defending my son. When I got home, I read the article with growing disgust; it was littered with inaccuracies.
To the Editor, the Ashby Bugle
Dear Sir, It is not my habit to write to the papers, but I must on this occasion as you have written an ill-informed and inaccurate article about my son, Glenn, and his refusal to wear shorts during cross-country running at his school, Neil Armstrong Comprehensive.
1. Glen is Glenn. You misspelt his name throughout.
2. I am Adrian Mole, not A Drain-Mole.
3. I am 33 years old, not 73.
4. I am not 'unemployed'; I am currently writing a serial-killer-comedy for the BBC called The White Van.
5. Glenn does not wear an earring in his right ear. He wears it in his left lobe.
6. Glenn does not have the support of our MP, Dr Pandora Braithwaite. She refused to back our campaign. I quote from her recent emaiclass="underline" "I am too fg busy with the Onion Working Party to faff about with fg school uniform issues."
I remain, Sir, yours, A Mole, father of Glenn
Tuesday, March 21
Glenn came to me tonight as I was ironing and listening to The Archers. He begged me to allow him back to school, and said he would happily wear white shorts on cross-country runs. I reminded him that Midlands Today was interested in covering his campaign on its news spot.
He said, "It's not my campaign any more, Dad. It's yours." As I ironed his white shorts, I reflected on the sacrifices parents make for their children. I'll be a laughing stock at the next parents' evening.
Thursday, March 23
The following letter was in the Bugle tonight.
Dear Editor
The BBC would like to make it clear that Adrian Mole has not been commissioned by us to write a serial-killer-comedy called The White Van.
Yours sincerely, Geoffrey Perkins (Head of Comedy)
So, the BBC now employ spies to read the regional newspapers, does it? Institutional paranoia or what?
Friday, March 24
Pamela Pigg from the homeless unit called round on her way home from work, to tell me there's a vacant maisonette on the Prescott Estate. "It's a new housing complex, purpose-built for tenants aspiring to join the new middle class."
She said that Alan Titchmarsh had been consulted about the design of the patio/wheelie bin area. He had declined, but as Pamela said, "At least he was consulted."
I made her a cup of Kenco and broached the delicate matter of changing her name by deed poll. She got very defensive and said there had been a Pigg in the Domesday Book, a Pigg at Ypres, and recently a Pigg had been awarded an OBE for services to the post office. When I said tentatively, "Yes, but how can a Mole go out with a Pigg?" she said shyly, "Well, we'd be Pamela and Adrian, wouldn't we?"
Saturday, March 25
Pamela and I had our first tryst watching the boat race. I bet her £500 that Cambridge would win, but I don't care. I think I may be in love with a woman called Pigg.
Fool for love
Tuesday, March 28, 2000
It's Pamela! Pamela! Pamela! I keep whispering her name to myself. However, I don't whisper her surname — Pigg — though I remain optimistic that she will eventually seize the day and change her name by deed poll.
But oh, those sublime three syllables: Pam-e-la. It's Abba's music! It's a mountain stream. It's Leicester Town Hall gardens with the cherry blossom out. It's Edward Heath's laugh. It's a refrigerated Crunchie bar.
But Pigg. Pigg is brutish and short. It's slurry. It's the Queen Mother's teeth. It's that local authority prickly stuff that thrives next to inner ring roads. It's the predictable twist at the end of a Jeffrey Archer story. It's Ann Widdecombe's fringe.