The Secret Diary of Adrian Mole (16 page)

Mr Singh and all the little Singhs brought along Indian firecrackers. They are much louder than English ones. I was glad our dog was locked in the coal shed with cotton wool in its ears.

Nobody was seriously burnt, but I think it was a mistake to hand out fireworks at the same time the food was being served.

I burnt the red phone bill that came this morning.

Twenty-first after Trinity. Remembrance Sunday

Our street is full of acrid smoke, I went to see the bonfire, the
Now!
magazines are still in the hot ashes, they are refusing to burn properly. (Our red phone bill has disappeared, thank God!)

Mr Cherry is going to have to dig a big pit and pourquicklime over the
Now!
magazines before they choke the whole suburb. Went to see Bert. He was out with Queenie.

Back to school. The dog is at the vet’s having the cotton wool surgically removed.

My nipples have swollen! I am turning into a girl!!!

Veterans’ Day,
USA
. Remembrance Day, Canada. Full Moon

Dr Gray has struck me off his list! He said nipple-swelling is common in boys. Usually they get it when they are twelve and a half. Dr Gray said I was emotionally and physically immature! How can I be immature? I have had a rejection letter from the BBC! And how could I have walked to the surgery with swollen nipples?

I don’t know why he calls it a surgery anyway; he never does any surgery in it.

Told Mr Jones I couldn’t do PE because of swollen nipples. He was extremely crude in his attitude. I don’t know what they teach them at teacher-training college.

Pandora and I had a frank talk about our relationship tonight. She doesn’t want to marry me in two years’ time!

She wants to have a career instead!

Naturally I am devastated by this blow. I told her I wouldn’t mind her having a little job in a cake shop or something after our wedding, but she said she intended to go to university and that the only time she would enter a cake shop would be to buy a large crusty.

Harsh words were exchanged between us. (Hers were harsher than mine.)

Charred
Now!
magazines are blowing all over our cul-de-sac. They seem to have special powers of survival. The council have sent a special cleaning squad to try and trap them all.

The dog’s ears are now clear of cotton wool. It only pretends not to hear.

Went to see B.B. but he is out with Queenie. She is pushing him around the leisure centre.

Twenty-second after Trinity

Read
A Town Like Alice
, by Nevil Shute, it is dead brill. I wish I had an intellectual friend whom I could discuss great literature with. My father thinks
A Town Like Alice
was written by Lewis Carroll.

I came home from school with a headache. All the noise and shouting and bullying is getting me down! Surely teachers should be better behaved!

My father is a serious worry to me. Even the continuing news of Princess Diana’s conception does not cheer him up.

Grandma has already knitted three pairs of bootees and sent them off care of Buckingham Palace. She is a true patriot.

Moon’s Last Quarter

The trees are stark naked. Their autumnal clothes Litter the pavements. Council sweepers apply fire Thus creating municipal pyres. I, Adrian Mole, Kick them And burn my Hush Puppies.

I have copied it out carefully and sent it to John Tydeman at the
BBC
. He strikes me as a man who might like poems about autumn leaves.

I have got to get something broadcast or printed soon else Pandora will lose all respect for me.

Pandora has suggested I start a literary magazine using the school duplicator. I wrote the first edition during dinner-time. It is called
The Voice of Youth
.

Pandora looked at
The Voice of Youth
. She suggested that instead of writing the whole magazine myself, I invite contributions from other talented scribblers.

She said she would do a piece about window-box gardening. Claire Neilson has submitted a punk poem, it is very avant garde, but I am not afraid to break new ground.

Punk Poem
Society is puke,

Soiled vomit.

On the Union Jack

Sid was vicious

Johnnie’s rotten,

Dead, dead, dead.

Killed by greyness.

England stinks.

Sewer of the world.

Cess-pit of Europe.

Hail punks,

Kings and Queens

Of the street.

She wants it put in under an assumed name, her father is a Conservative councillor.

Nigel has written a short piece about racing-bike maintenance. It is very boring but I can’t tell him because he is my best friend.

We go to press on Wednesday. Pandora is typing the stencils over the weekend.

Here is my first editorial:

Hi Kids,

Well here’s your very own school magazine. Yes! Written and produced entirely using child labour. I have tried to break new ground in our first edition. Many of you will be unaware of the miracles of window-box gardening and the joys of racing-bike maintenance. If so, hang on to your hats, you’re in for a magic surprise!

ADRIAN
MOLE
,
EDITOR

We are going to charge twenty-five pence a copy.

Pandora’s father has stolen a box of stencils from his office. As I write, Pandora is typing the first pages of
The Voice of Youth
, I am half-way through writing an expose about Barry Kent. It is called ‘Barry Kent: The Truth!’ He hasn’t dared to lay a finger on me since grandma’s dramatic intervention, so I know I shall be safe.

Too busy to go and see Bert, I will go tomorrow.

Last after Trinity

Finished the expose on Barry Kent. It will rock the school to its foundations. I have mentioned Barry Kent’s sexual perversions—all about his disgusting practice of showing his thing for five pence a look.

Had a Christmas card from grandma, and a letter from the post office to say that they are cutting the phone off!

Forgot to call round and see Bert. Pandora and I were too busy putting the paper to bed. How I wish I was putting Pandora to bed.

2 AM
. What am I going to do about the phone bill?

Nigel has just gone off in a sulk. He objected to the editing I did on his article. I tried to point out to him that one thousand five hundred words on bicycle spokes was pure self-indulgence, but he wouldn’t listen. He has withdrawn his article. Thank God! Two pages less to fold.

The Voice of Youth
hits the classrooms tomorrow.

Must go and see Bert tomorrow.

We have been hit by a wildcat strike! Mrs Claricoates, the school secretary, has refused to handle
The Voice of Youth
. She says there is nothing in her job description to say she has to mess about with school magazines. The editorial team offered to duplicate copies ourselves, but Mrs Claricoates says that she alone knows how to ‘work the wretched thing’. I am in despair. A whole six hours’ work wasted!

Thanksgiving Day,
USA
. New Moon

Pandora’s father is photocopying
The Voice of Youth
on his office machine. He didn’t want to, but Pandora sulked in her room and refused to eat until he agreed.

Five hundred copies of
The Voice of Youth
were on sale in the dinner hall today.

Five hundred copies were locked in the games cupboard by the end of the afternoon. Not
one
copy was sold! Not one! My fellow pupils are nothing but Philistines and Morons!

We are dropping the price to twenty pence on Monday.

My mother phoned and wanted to speak to my father. I told her that he is on a fishing weekend with the Society of Redundant Electric Storage Heater Salesmen.

A postcard from the post office to say that unless my father phones the post office before five-thirty our phone will be disconnected.

A telegram! Addressed to me! The BBC? No, from my mother:

ADRIAN
STOP
COMING
HOME
STOP

What does she mean ‘Stop coming home’? How can I ‘stop coming home’? I live here.

The phone has been cut off! I am considering running away from home.

Advent Sunday

My mother has just turned up with no warning! She had all her suitcases with her. She has thrown herself on the mercy of my father. My father has just thrown himself on the body of my mother. I tactfully withdrew to my bedroom where I am now trying to work out how I feel about my mother’s return. On the whole I am over the moon, but I’m dreading her looking around our squalid house. She will go mad when she finds out that I have lent Pandora her fox-fur coat.

St Andrew’s Day

My mother and father were still in bed when I left for school.

Sold one copy of
The Voice of Youth
, to Barry Kent. He wanted to discover the truth about himself. He is a slow reader so it will probably take him until Friday to find out. We are going to try dropping the price to fifteen pence to try to stimulate demand. There are now four hundred and ninety-nine copies to be sold!

My mother and father are in bed again and it’s only 9 PM!

The dog is very pleased my mother is back. It has been going about smiling all day.

I called the post office and pretended to be my father. I spoke in a very deep voice and told a lot of lies. I said that I, George Mole, had been in a lunatic asylum for three months and I needed the phone to ring up the Samaritans, etc. The woman sounded dead horrible, she said she was fed up with hearing lame excuses from irresponsible non-payers. She said thatthe phone would only be reconnected when £289.19 had been paid, plus £40 reconnection fee, plus a deposit of £40!

Three hundred and sixty-nine pounds! When my parents get out of bed and discover the lack of dialling tone, I will be done for!

My father tried to phone up after a job today! He has gone berserk.

My mother cleaned my bedroom, she turned up my mattress and found the
Big and Bouncys
and the blue phone bill.

I sat on the kitchen stool while they interrogated me and shouted abuse. My father wanted to give me a ‘to-within-an-inch-of-his-life thrashing’, but my mother stopped him. She said, ‘It would be more of a punishment to make the tight-fisted sod cough up some of his building-society savings’. So that is what I’m being forced to do.

Now I will never be an owner-occupier.

Drew out two hundred pounds from my building-society account. I don’t mind admitting that there were tears in my eyes. It will take another fourteen years before I can replace it.

Moon’s First Quarter

I am suffering from severe depression. It is all Pandora’s father’s fault. He should have had a holiday in England.

Had a letter from grandma to ask why I hadn’t sent her a Christmas card yet.

Second in Advent

I am still being treated like a criminal. My mother and father are not speaking to me, and I’m not allowed out. I might just as well turn to delinquency.

Stole a Kevin Keegan key ring from Mr Cherry’s shop. It will do for Nigel’s Christmas present.

I am dead worried about the key ring; we did Morals and Ethics at school today.

Can’t sleep for worrying about the key ring. The papers are full of stories about old ladies getting done for shoplifting. I tried to overpay Mr Cherry for my Mars bar, but he called me back and gave me my change.

Had a dream about a jailer locking me in a prison cell. The big iron key was attached to the Kevin Keegan key ring.

The lousy, stinking, sodding phone is reconnected!

Full Moon

Phoned the Samaritans and confessed my crime. The man said, ‘Put it back then, lad’. I will do it tomorrow.

Mr Cherry caught me in the act of replacing the key ring. He has written a letter to my parents. I might as well do myself in.

Third in Advent

Thank God there is no post on Sundays.

My mother and father had a festive time decorating the Christmas tree. I watched them hanging the baubles with a heavy heart.

I am reading
Crime and Punishment
. It is the most true book I have ever read.