It was the first time I had eaten Japanese food cooked by an Englishman. William eyed the sushi with alarm and whispered, "Please, Dad, can I have a bowl of Coco Pops." The headmaster suspended his whispered monologue to Cliff about the goings-on in the boiler room to lecture William on the perils of E numbers in breakfast cereals. I left soon after I had initiated an argument about the prawn tempura. I told Cliff that he should have cooked it at the last moment before serving rather than trying to keep it warm on a hostess trolley for 20 minutes. He went berserk. When we got home, Glenn told me that Peggy Ludlow had called round to borrow some HP sauce. I forgot myself and asked Glenn what Peggy was wearing. He said, "A leopardskin." I said, "A leopardskin what? He said, "Just a leopardskin, dad." I slept fitfully. Why am I sexually attracted to such a common woman?
Monday, February 21
The BBC Drama Department has finally returned the script of my serial killer comedy, The White Van. The letter said, "This department is not minded to produce a 12-part series about a serial killer who uses a white van for his nefarious activities. Especially as this is Mr William Hague's chosen mode of transport for his "Keep The Pound" campaign.
Tuesday, February 22
Nigel is living here temporarily. He and Cliff are finished. It seems the prawn tempura row went on after I left and continued non-stop for almost two days. Nigel turned up on my doorstep sobbing. To comfort him I told him that I hated Cliff. Nigel whined, "But I lurve him," like one of those pathetic trailer-trash morons on the Jerry Springer Show.
Wednesday, February 23
Pamela Pigg from the Homeless Unit called unexpectedly this afternoon. She said that an anonymous caller had left a message on her voicemail exposing me as a heterosexual who'd lied about my sexuality in order to procure a council house. Fortunately, I was half-way through bleaching Nigel's roots at the time, so she took in the scene, apologised and left.
Sunday, February 27
Leicester won the Worthington Cup today. Glenn said, "Dad, I ain't never been so 'appy." For once, I didn't correct the boy's grammar.
The loneliness of the cross country runner
Monday, February 28, 2000, Arthur Askey Way
Glenn returned home from school today with a letter from his physical education teacher, Mr Lunt. It said:
"Dear Mr Mole,
Glenn gave me the following note at the beginning of games today. Although it is not written in Glenn's handwriting, I feel sure that it is not written in yours either."
I read the enclosed ill-written note. It said:
"Dear Mr Lunt,
something tragic 'as happened to Glenn my son he has got a terminal decease and he wont live long it is only a matter of time he dous not no so dont tell him it wood be better if he did not do cross country running as it mite set him off yours sinserly Mr Mole."
Glenn broke down and admitted that he had persuaded his mother, Sharon Bott, to write the note. He said,"I 'ate cross-country runnin', Dad. We 'ave to wear shorts an' run through villages an' the villagers laugh an' call me chicken legs."
I confronted Sharon in her chaotic kitchen, where she was defrosting chicken korma for the kids' tea. Not for the first time, I was appalled that I had once enjoyed sexual relations with this woman. She now makes Moby Dick look dainty.
As she prised the lids off the foil containers, she whined, "I've gotta soft heart, Aidy, I don't like to think of our Glenn 'aving the piss took out of him."
I asked her not to interfere in Glenn's education in future. She said, "I am his mother. 'E's got 'alf my genes."
I said, "Yes, the grammar, punctuation and spelling genes, unfortunately." As I was leaving, she said, "I still love you to bits, Aidy." I pretended not to hear her
I wrote Mr Lunt the following reply:
"Dear Mr Lunt,
My own adolescence was made a torment by taunts about my acned complexion. Glenn has a similar complex about his abnormally thin legs. Will you please allow Glenn to wear tracksuit trousers on his next cross-country run, or change the route and stick to unpopulated fields and lanes in future, thus avoiding the taunts of ignorant fox-killing, songbird-culling, hedge-removing, river-polluting country dwellers.
I remain Sir, AA Mole."
Tuesday, February 29
Leap Day. A letter from the Rt Hon Neil Kinnock! Whom I met once when I was the offal chef in Hoi Polloi, the Soho restaurant before it was reopened as the Oxygen Bar, H2O.
The letter said:
"Dear Mr Mole,
I have great pleasure in enclosing your invitation to the Labour Party Centenary Dinner on Monday, April 10, 2000. I will be hosting the evening, and I am delighted that once again the Prime Minister will be our guest of honour.
"As you may expect there will be very strict security. I regret therefore that I am unable to give you the exact location at this stage except to say that it will be at a central London hotel…"
I obviously made a lasting impression on Mr Kinnock. He must have truly enjoyed his sheep's testicle in blackcurrant coulis.
8.30pm Sharon Bott has just left this house in tears. She arrived uninvited at 7.30 in a taxi. She produced a bottle of Safeway's Cava, then got down on one huge knee and asked me to marry her. I turned her down. Glenn was disappointed. He said, "I would 'ave bin the only one in our class to 'ave a mam and dad livin' together."
Wednesday, March 1
A terse reply from Lunt: "Dear Mr Mole, The wearing of tracksuit trousers is prohibited during cross-country runs. Best wishes, Mr Lunt. PS As a country dweller, I find your remarks about country folk extremely offensive."
Friday, March 3
My mother has just pointed to the small print at the bottom of my Centenary Dinner invitation. The tickets cost £600. I have made an optician's appointment.
Patched up
Sunday, March, 5, 2000, Arthur Askey Way
I spent the day debating with myself — should I continue to fight the tracksuit-trousers ban on Glenn's behalf or should I give in, thus subjecting the lad to mental torture during cross-country runs and possible trauma in later life? I rang around and sought the opinion of others. My father reminded me that he had "gone out on a limb" to support me when I stood up against the tyrannical headmaster, pop-eyed Scruton, by wearing red socks to school, thereby defying the black-socks-only rule. My mother said, "Give in, Aidy — you can't beat Jack Straw's authoritarian regime."
I rang my MP, Pandora Braithwaite, who had joined me in my red-socks rebellion 20 years ago. She said, "Can't talk now, darling, I've got Ken and Frank round for dinner, and I'm about to serve the pig's brains in goat's cheese." So, it is as I suspected all along! Ken Livingstone and Frank Dobson are hand-in-glove with each other. Their true enemy is Tony Blair. They have conspired to make Mr Blair look as though he can't control his party.
After Glenn had gone to bed, I wrote to his headmaster, Roger Patience: