I came down this morning to find Sandra Alc.o.c.k sitting at my kitchen table, half-dressed and spitting on to a block of mascara. When I asked her to cover herself up, she grabbed a tea-towel and tucked it between her bra straps. However, I must admit that the sight of Tracy's long legs in white stilettos stimulated my endocrine system, and I had to turn hurriedly towards the sink to hide my s.e.xual excitement. I wonder if Pamela Pigg would be interested in a bout of s.e.xual intercourse? I heard that she and Alan Clarke split, due to a row over globalisation. I'll ring her later today.
Tuesday, October 16
I will be meeting up with Pamela after her dog training cla.s.s tonight. She sounded delighted to hear from me again, so with a bit of luck it shouldn't take long to get her into bed. And I won't be forced to waste time messing around with meals, and day trips to historical monuments, etc.
Pamela looked charming in the candlelight at the Costa Brava restaurant, and my tortilla and chips were excellent. But I was in bed by 11pm - alone. I am taking her to Belvoir Castle on Friday.
Wednesday, October 17
I was woken by Sandra Alc.o.c.k at 3.15am. She was standing in my front garden, screaming that Brett Mole was a b.a.s.t.a.r.d. And that Justine Badaoui was a scut-bag. Brett filmed the whole scene, up until the police arrived and took Sandra and Justine away.
Friday, October 19
We explored every corridor of Belvoir Castle. Had scones in the tea room. I even bought Pamela a tea-towel. Yet I slept alone. Why?
Monday, October 22, Ashby-de-la-Zouch Glenn has been excluded from school, for calling Tony Blair a t.w.a.t. He brought home a note from Roger Patience, the headmaster, which said: Dear Mr Mole, In this time of national crises, it is inc.u.mbent on us all to support our government. During a senior pupils debate, chaired by myself, your son Glenn succeeded in undermining the morale of teachers and pupils alike by his pa.s.sionate denunciation of the bombing of Afghanistan. He also called our great leader, Mr Blair, 'a leading t.w.a.t'. I have therefore excluded him from the school premises for the duration of the war.
I hope to G.o.d (or Allah) that the war will be over by Christmas. I can't have Glenn hanging around the house all day. It is imperative that I finish my post-twin towers novel quickly. The book (as yet no publisher) must be ready for publication in the spring.
Glenn protested his innocence, saying, "I didn't say Tony Blair was a leading t.w.a.t. I said he was leading t.w.a.t (The War Against Terrorism)."
Tuesday, October 23 I went into the chemist this morning to buy a tin of Johnson's baby powder. The shelves where this innocent product is usually kept were bare. The girl behind the counter said, "It's coz of anthrax." She informed me, somewhat pompously, that if I wished to purchase talc.u.m powder, I would have to give my name and address, and prove it by showing my last three gas bills. I left the shop in disgust, empty-handed.
Wednesday, October 24 Brett's doc.u.mentary, Weep, England! Weep!, which was meant to expose the wasted lives of sink council estate tenants, has been cancelled by the commissioning editor, who emailed, "Your doco is not conducive to the national interest at this time." I am overjoyed to tell you, dear diary, that within the s.p.a.ce of two hours, Brett, the crew and the equipment were gone.
Thursday, October 25, 2am I have just had a distraught phone call from Pamela Pigg. She told me that her body was covered in red spots: "It's smallpox!" I drove to her house and examined her naked body. By a process of elimination, I finally deduced that she was allergic to the hyacinth bulbs she'd been potting earlier in the day.
Friday, October 26, Ashby-de-la-Zouch In the words of Marvin Gaye, "What's going on?" Chaos surrounds me. Alan Clarke appeared on my doorstep in the early hours of the morning, sobbing that I had stolen "the love of his life, Pamela Pigg".
I led him into the kitchen and listened as he ranted that he'd watched through Pamela's IKEA bamboo blinds, as she stood naked in her bedroom with me. I tried to explain that I was dabbing camomile lotion on to her skin, which was inflamed by hyacinth bulb allergy, but he obviously didn't believe me. IKEA should warn their customers that their bamboo blinds do not guarantee privacy. Clarke rolled a joint and offered me a puff. With Mr Blunkett's permission, I accepted. My head began to spin and I found myself blurting out the plot of my new novel. "An allegory about twins called Jack and John Towers who are struck down by a fatal illness." It was dawn before Clarke left.
Sat.u.r.day, October 27 Mohamed is convinced that oil is at the centre of the Afghan war. He should know, he is the manager of a BP garage and as such has insider knowledge.
Sunday, October 28 The day started well. My mother and father took the boys to Leicester's Golden Mile to watch the Diwali celebrations. With the house empty for once, I phoned Pamela and asked her round for tea. By 4pm we were in bed. There was no sign of the hyacinth allergy. Her skin was pale and smooth. s.e.xual intercourse was taking place when, at 4.25pm, the bed shook. In fact, the whole house shook and several slates fell off the roof. Pamela muttered into my neck, "My G.o.d, Adrian, you made the earth move for me."
Monday, October 29 The headline in the Leicester Mercury screamed EARTHQUAKE! DID YOU FEEL THE TREMOR? Apparently, Pamela and I were at the very epicentre of a 3.8 on the Richter scale, which caused terrified residents of Melton Mowbray and North Leicestershire to flee their homes in terror. A box on the front page of the Mercury asked its readers, "What were you doing when the earthquake struck? Let our news desk know." I hope to G.o.d Pamela does not comply with this request.
Monday, November 5, Ashby-de-la-Zouch My Independent was not delivered this morning. I went to the newsagent to complain and collect it in person. A youth of about 14 was sitting on the pavement outside the shop, next to a balloon wrapped in a bundle of rags. The balloon was sporting a crudely felt-tipped beard and round gla.s.ses.
As I pa.s.sed by, the youth muttered, "Penny for the guy?" I searched through the small change in my wallet and gave him a penny. He dashed it angrily to the ground and said, "Tight b.a.s.t.a.r.d." I said I had rarely seen such a poor representation of Guy Fawkes. He adjusted the rags on top of the balloon's head and said, "That's because it ain't Guy Fawkes, it's Osmar bin Laden, ain't it? We're burnin' 'im on the reccy tonight."
11pm That's the last back garden bonfire party I will ever throw. The sausages burst inside the oven, the potatoes burned to cinders, and my economy box of fireworks lasted less than 10 minutes. Neither of the Catherine wheels spun. My guests were continually turning their heads eastwards, where rockets from the community bonfire were filling the sky with spectacular patterns and colour.
The recreation ground was thronged with my fellow council tenants and their social workers and probation officers. The community police team was in charge of the fireworks and, in a daring social experiment, Wayne Drabble, the arsonist who burned down the scout hut last year, was in charge of the bonfire. I b.u.mped into Mohamed at the halal barbecue, and he told me that his youngest brother, Imran, is talking hot-headedly of flying to Afghanistan to fight alongside his Islamic brothers.
Mohamed said that Imran had tried to persuade his girlfriend, Kylie Dodge, to cover herself up with a burka, and walk 10 paces behind him. But she said she had a good pair of legs and she weren't going to cover them up for n.o.body. Mohamed went on to say that he doubted that Imran could find his way to Heathrow, let alone Afghanistan. He said, "And he'd have to buy a beard from a joke shop, coz he ain't never needed to shave, not once in his whole life."
Sunday, November 11, Ashby de la Zouch As I was making my way to B&Q this morning with William, to buy spare bulbs for our Christmas tree lights, I pa.s.sed a group of ancient men and women marching towards the war memorial. Some were carrying wreaths of poppies, others had medals pinned to their anoraks.
One old bloke, a double amputee, was being pushed in a wheelchair by his wizened wife. William asked in too loud a voice, "Where's that man's legs gone, dad?" I answered, "He left them in some corner of a foreign field, so that we English could be free men and women, son."
A Boys' Brigade band full of spotty youths began to play Pack Up Your Troubles In Your Old Kitbag. The old people tried to march in time to the music, but some of them were too slow to keep up. Tears p.r.i.c.ked my eyes. I dashed them away as we entered the superstore. As we made our way through to the Christmas department, William asked me if I would have to go to war, to fight "Osmar" bin Laden. I told him that I was a pacifist and did not believe in war. William said, "But what if Mr Bin Laden came into my bedroom and was going to kill me. Would you let him, Dad?"
It was a tricky moral dilemma, which was not helped when my mother appeared from behind an artificial conifer, saying, "Yes, what would you do, Mr bleedin' pacifist?"
I stammered out that in the unlikely circ.u.mstance of the world's most wanted terrorist appearing in William's bedroom, then of course I would arm wrestle Bin Laden to the floor and keep him there until help arrived in the form of a Panda car from Ashby de la Zouch police headquarters.
William seemed rea.s.sured and went off to watch a mechanical Santa ringing a bell. But my mother gave a nasty laugh and said, "The last time you were in an arm wrestling compet.i.tion was in 1982, at the youth club table-top sports day. You were beaten 10 times out of 10 by Pandora Braithwaite. You were wearing that brown jumper that grandma knitted you for your birthday."
My mother's memory is phenomenal. She could go on stage as Pauline Mole, The Memory Woman.
Wednesday, November 21, Ashby de la Zouch.
Mohammed has been arrested! His brother Imran told me that Mohammed had been stacking bags of Real-Wood logs on the forecourt when he was surrounded by police marksmen, who ordered him to take off his clothes and walk towards them with his hands up. Before he got into the back of the van, Mohammed shouted (according to a witness, Wayne Worthington, who had gone to the garage to pick up the wrestling magazine, Raw), "I was only parked on that double yellow for two minutes!" I think it's disgusting that precious police resources are being squandered on minor parking offences.
My allegorical novel, Jack And John Towers, is proving difficult to write. Mainly because I have never been to New York. Yet I must press on. Any writer worth his salt has to pen a post-Twin Towers book. I expect Will Self is writing along similar lines. Note to self (myself). Remember to ring the multiplex and book tickets for Harry Potter. William has said he will kill himself if he isn't taken to see the film soon.
Thursday, November 22.
Imran came round this morning. I offered him a cup of tea and a slice of toast. He shook his head and said, irritably, "It's Ramadan, Moley. I'm fasting, ain't I?" He came to tell me that his brother has been detained on "suspicion of terrorism". Apparently, an anonymous caller had informed the security forces that Mohammed had taken a flying lesson at Leicester airport. Imran said, "It's all my fault: I brought him a flying lesson gift voucher last Christmas." I sent a text message to Pandora: "Our mutual school friend, Mohammed, is a victim of state repression. Ring soonest."
Friday, November 23.
Spent all day on the phone, organising a Free Mohammed rally in the town hall square. An alliance is forming, which includes BP customers, Nigel's Gays Against Daisy Cutters Group and Alan Clarke has promised to attend with his Morris Men. No word from Pandora.
The following was found on sc.r.a.p of Bronco toilet paper in Adrians house: Sat.u.r.day, November 24.
4am. A dawn raid! Diaries, computer, mobile phone impounded. Am being arrested under Blunkett's anti-terrorist bill. Please inform Liberty. Where will they take me? And for how long? I'm finished.
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