Tuesday, October 17
I read the following article in the Independent today: ‘Dr Pandora Braithwaite, the junior minister for fish, admitted in a Newsnight interview with Jeremy Paxman last night to having smoked cannabis during her time at Oxford. To a direct question posed by Paxman, ‘Have you or have you not smoked dope?’ Braithwaite smiled and answered, ‘Have you, Jeremy?’ ‘Paxman snapped, ‘I’m not here to answer the questions, minister, you are.’ Braithwaite said, ‘Okay, yes, I did, we all did. What’s more, I thoroughly enjoyed it. It’s what got me through the work.’’ I now predict terrible things for my love. Her position as a minister of the crown is surely untenable.
Wednesday, October 18
The whole country is talking about Pandora. According to a report in the Guardian, the demand for cannabis in Oxford has skyrocketed.
Thursday, October 19
I returned to work at Eddie’s Tea Bar today, and couldn’t help but notice that many of our trucker customers were scratching their heads. Are the nits being transported throughout Europe? How long will it be before they have taken over the world? At 7pm, Glenn phoned my mother, and told her to come round quickly. I explained my nit theory to her, and after listening for an hour and a half, she sent for Dr Wong.
Friday, October 20
I am calmer now. Dr Wong prescribed Prozac and a course of aromatherapy. He said that I was suffering from stress. I told him about my unhappy childhood, and he was very understanding. Though I heard my mother vehemently denying it: ‘He was a very happy little boy,’ she told the doctor. ‘Until he got older and started reading Dostoevsky and that bleddy Kafka!’ Pandora has sent me a get-well message, and suggested that I recuperate by reading Lord Archer of Weston-Super-Mare’s latest volume. She later phoned and told me the astonishing news that, far from being vilified for her drugs confession, she is being strongly tipped for promotion.
Saturday, October 21
Ashby-de-la-Zouch
Last week Pandora was climbing the rungs of the snakes and ladders of life. This week she is sliding down a python’s back (so to speak). The papers today are full of pictures of her cat, Maurice, who had to be rescued by the RSPCA on Thursday night after neighbours heard piteous miaowing coming from Pandora’s flat in Pimlico. Unfortunately, she was on a fact-finding mission with Keith Allen in Ayia Napa at the time of the cat’s rescue. An RSPCA spokesperson said: ‘Dr Pandora Braithwaite may be charged with the neglect and cruelty of an animal. Maurice had not been fed for five days and was in an emaciated condition.’
I phoned Pandora’s mother, Tanya, for the inside story and she told me that Maurice’s computerised feed-a-pet feeding bowl had developed a fault and had refused to open up and feed the ravenous beast. Some of the headlines were harsh: ‘Pan’s pet starved alone’, ‘Drug MP’s cat horror’, and ‘Pan’s pussy shock’.
In my role (unpaid) as Pandora’s advisor on Middle England, I rang the House of Commons to offer my help. Unfortunately, she was not able to take my call as she was in emergency talks with Alastair Campbell. I left a message with her private secretary, Nigel Hetherington, ‘Tell her to make a large donation to the Cat Rescue Mission’ Nigel said: ‘How very, very original. Thank you for your extremely naff idea, Moley.’
It still rankles with me that Pandora chose Nigel to be her right-hand man rather than me. Okay, so he may have three degrees – in management, business and fashion – but I feel that he lacks a certain je ne sais quoi. I am extremely experienced when it comes to dealing with the media. In 1993, for five months I was the Ashby Bugle’s poetry correspondent (unpaid) until the editor was sacked for gross subordination (throwing an empty vodka bottle at the proprietor). Unfortunately, the new editor was obsessed with sport and turned my weekly column into a Spot The Ball competition, to the detriment, in my opinion, of Ashby-de-la-Zouch’s cultural landscape. William is not eating. I suspect he is seeking attention.
Sunday, October 22
Millbank released a photograph of Pandora and Maurice today together with a condemnation of computerised feeding bowls. Pandora is calling for an enquiry into their reliability. She has vowed to use a cat-sitter in future. When asked about her relationship with Keith Allen, she said: ‘Mr Allen and I were in Ayia Napa on a fact-finding mission. We were investigating the swamping of the British Consulate by penniless British youngsters demanding their airfare home.
Monday, October 23
The police in Nottingham are now strolling about in the city centre with guns. How long will it be before Ashby-de-la-Zouch rings to the sound of the Kalashnikov? Surely we are on a slippery slope.
Tuesday, October 24
Eddie rang today to complain that I haven’t turned up for work. I explained about my childcare problems during half-term. He said: ‘I’m tryin’ to run a bleedin’ caff ‘ere. I don’t give a toss about yer private life, Mole’ This is typical of Britain’s and Eddie’s attitude towards children. It’s no wonder that three of Eddie’s offspring are currently enjoying custodial sentences and that one, Shane, is dancing with the Royal Ballet. Glenn has begged to be in charge of cooking in future. I was happy to pass on the Mole apron. I hadn’t realised that he was interested in the culinary arts.
Wednesday, October 25
William’s appetite has picked up. Glenn has bought Jamie Oliver’s Naked Chef book with the money he has made guarding the cars of the social workers visiting the estate.
Friday, October 27
Ashby-de-la-Zouch
Ivan Braithwaite is home from the mental hospital and is now confined in the box room at Wisteria Walk. My mother is acting as his nurse. I say ‘acting’ because she is most ungracious about her new role. I overheard her talking on the phone to her brother, Pete, who lives in Norwich. It was a self-pitying monologue which I reproduce here, though it gives me no pleasure…
‘When I married Ivan I expected my life to change. As you know, Pete, Ivan is upper-lower-middle-class and he promised to stretch my horizons, but the only horizons I’ve seen lately have been the view from the fourth floor of the mental hospital and the vista of the back of my own back garden. I’ve blown it, Pete. I’ve turned into a bleddy nursemaid. I’m looking after our Adrian’s kids as well, while he’s at work.
[Pause]
‘No, he’s not paying me! He bought me a bunch of forecourt flowers last night and then complained because I’d given the kids lobster nuggets and oven chips for their tea instead of the stupid health stuff he’d brought round in the morning. They’re growing lads, Pete. They need more than a few beansprouts and a lump of tofu. Anyway, I’d better go. I’m sorry we’ve not spoken for over 20 years, Pete, but Mum did promise me her charm bracelet when she died and your wife, Yvonne, had no right to claim it and wear it on her fat wrist at Mum’s funeral.
[Pause]
‘No! Mum promised it to me, Pete!
[Sobbing]
‘She hated Yvonne. She used to call her Nixon…’
[Pause]
‘…because of her five o’clock shadow, that’s why!’
[Pause]
‘Oh, I’m sorry, Pete, I didn’t know that Yvonne had died recently. How recently?’
[Pause]
‘Yesterday! Oh, my god! Oh, Pete. That’s awful!’
[Pause]
‘So, you’ll send me that charm bracelet in the post will you, Pete? Remember to register it.’
At this point the call was disconnected at the Norwich end.
Saturday, October 28
The Dome, Greenwich
I am sitting here in Harry Ramsden’s, waiting for Glenn and William, who are in the queue for the Body Zone. The waiting time is an hour and a quarter. When I suggested an alternative – that we visit the Prayer Zone, which did not have a single visitor – Glenn said, ‘You go in an’ do a prayer, Dad. Me and Will’ll catch you later.’
The boy is getting to be more assertive by the day. He has already taken over the cooking at home and this morning I found a note in a mil
k bottle on our doorstep: ‘No milk today. Gone to the Dome. Cheers milkman, Glenn Bott-Mole’. How long has Glenn had a double-barrelled name? And why is ‘Mole’ second? Glenn Mole-Bott has a much more refined ring to it.
The Prayer Zone was still empty. The woman vicar in the pastel tracksuit was obviously grateful to see me and hear my religious views. I told her I had recently become a tree worshipper and asked if there was an organisation I could join. She looked through her index of the Book Of World Religions, without success before saying, ‘The Liberal Democrats may be your best bet.’
Sunday, October 29
The scenes at St Pancras Station were pitiful last night, as desperate East Midlanders milled around on the concourse before setting off on their detours around the broken rails of Midland Main Line.
Monday, October 30
I woke at 3.30am to find that a twister was spiralling down our street. Several wheelie-bins were overturned and a lousy, stinking tree demolished my shed.
Tuesday, October 31
Ashby-de-la-Zouch
Pandora’s weekend home, Lock Keepers Cottage, on the banks of the river Severn has been flooded out. She had to be rescued by a fireman in a Canadian canoe. The rescue was filmed by Midlands Today. Apparently, she and a 19-year-old youth called ‘Scottish Sandy’ had been marooned for a day and a night in Pandora’s bedroom. According to her, Sandy had been stacking sandbags against her doorstep when the torrent overtook them and they were forced to flee upstairs. When asked by Julia Snoddy, Midlands Today’s weather correspondent, why Pandora had not alerted the emergency services earlier, the controversial MP replied, ‘I knew how busy they were and did not want to add to their workload.’
Asked to describe her ordeal she said, ‘It was hell, I ran out of Marlboro Lights and I’d left my Prada bag on the sitting-room floor. It has been totally ruined by the floodwater. She told Ms Snoddy that she would be pressing Mr Prescott, the flood supremo, for financial assistance towards flood defences in the Severn-Trent area. ‘It is time our rivers were lined with concrete,’ she said. ‘It would be terribly sad to lose the bullrushes and the wildlifey things, but we are living in a new era and cannot afford to be sentimental about nature.’
She pointed out that various retail outlets could be built on the concrete banks of the Severn: ‘Starbucks coffee shops would bring cappuccino to our neglected countryside areas,’ she said. Pandora has always hated the countryside: on our nature rambles with the school, she would wear dark glasses saying, ‘All this green makes me utterly, utterly sick’ Lock Keepers Cottage was furnished in New York style. The blinds were kept permanently down. In fact, they were nailed to the sills.
I sincerely hope that Pandora does not achieve her ambition and become the first female Labour prime minister. During many private conversations with her, she has confided in me that she would be quite happy to see the fens covered in decking, Dartmoor replaced with Astroturf and the Lake District equipped with escalators to make it easier for the disabled. My mother claims that Pandora was only joking, but I’m convinced that her contempt for the English language is genuine.
Wednesday, November 1
My literary agent, Brick Eagleburger (who has failed to sell any of my novels, television series, radio plays or epic poems), got in touch with me today after a period of two years. Somebody in Wolverhampton – a certain Jim Smith – is keen to publish The Restless Tadpole, my 592-page prose poem about a tadpole’s journey from the early days of frogspawnhood to the dying moments of old frogdom. It charts the events of the creature’s life and draws parallels with events in my own, though I did not include my divorce, as I couldn’t find out from any amphibian handbook if frogs went through a form of divorce, or if in fact they stayed faithful to the same partner.
Glenn has just informed me that ‘frogs are at it day an’ night, Dad, with anythink that turns up’. Brick Eagleburger said that Jim Smith had sent a fax saying, ‘The Restless Tadpole is a lyrical lament for the past glory that was the English countryside. I was moved to tears by the frog’s violent death under the wheels of a German juggernaut’ Brick said, ‘The guy’s payin’ zilcho spondoolicks but the exposure’s godda be good for ya’ I asked for the name of Jim Smith’s publication and was told it was Frog Weekly. It touches me greatly that so many people care so deeply about frogs that they can be bothered to fill in the subscription form and fork out nine quid a year. Personally, I can’t bear the loathsome slimy creatures.
Sunday, November 12
Ashby-de-la-Zouch
I was the only one on the BP garage forecourt today to respect the two-minute silence.
Monday, November 13
My agent, Brick Eagleburger, is beside himself with excitement. He is convinced that his Floridian postal vote will secure the presidency for Gore. He may well be right. If Gore wins by one vote, Brick plans to take the credit. He has booked a full-page advertisement in The Stage. It says, ‘Brick Eagleburger, theatrical agent, specialises in weather girls, celebrity chefs and animal acts, including the world famous Billy the Seal. Mr Eagleburger’s postal vote determined the outcome of the American presidential election. New Artistes always welcome. 25% commission. Tax and investment advice included.’
I phoned Brick, and asked when he and I could meet to discuss my writing career. At 33, I am already too old to be eligible for the Young British Writers’ Award. Why does nobody arrange competitions for the young middle-aged? It is sheer prejudice. Just because we are beginning to lose our hair and suffer from occasional sexual dysfunction, it does not mean that our literary faculties are clapped out. Brick told me in his hideous ungrammatical style, ‘I don’t got no windows, Adrian’ He said he was having trouble with Billy the Seal, who had developed a serious cocaine habit after working in a circus in Dublin, where he came under the malevolent influence of Declan Tourette and his amazing foul-talking dog.
Within seven days, poor Billy was snorting a serious quantity of the evil white powder. After a fortnight, he was seriously dependent on Tourette for his supply. Within three weeks, Billy’s career was almost over, his nostrils were seriously damaged and he could no longer catch or throw a ball with his nose. Fortunately, Brick caught him in time and packed Billy off to a secret animal rehabilitation clinic in Milton Keynes. There, together with other damaged animals, Billy broke his expensive habit and cleaned himself up.
Tuesday, November 14
My life is incredibly boring, but today took the biscuit: absolutely nothing happened. I got out of bed. I made scrambled eggs. They were neither good nor bad, but sort of in between. I walked to the newsagent’s, where I was just in time to see a man with a beard (a stranger) buy the last Guardian. I could tell from his accent that he wasn’t from these parts. I think it is disgusting that people are allowed to buy goods willy-nilly, regardless of where they live, thus depriving the locals of vital supplies. I said as much to my mother. She said, ‘Are you seriously suggesting that people should be prohibited from travelling from one area to another? Are you, in fact, advocating a type of postcode apartheid?’ I didn’t know what to say to her. The truth was that, once again, I had reacted to a minor setback in a manner that was entirely inappropriate. Several people have commented that I should see a therapist. However, the waiting list to see a NHS therapist is two years and it would break my heart to fork out £25 a session to find out that there is nothing at all wrong with my personality or emotional make-up.
Wednesday, November 15
I have just emerged from the front room of a Jungian therapist called Dave Mutter. I sat on his pink velour sofa and cried about my Grandma’s Yorkshire puddings for 55 minutes.
Thursday, November 16
I rang Dave and begged him for an urgent appointment. I am seeing him this afternoon. 5.30pm: I told Dave about my recurring dream – that Gordon Brown visits me at night and begs me to help him with the economy. Dave is my only friend. God, diary, I think I may be a little in love with him!
Saturday, November 18
/> Ashby-de-la-Zouch
Dear Diary, I must confide in you a most terrible secret. I am desperately in love with my therapist, Dave Mutter. Not sexually. Absolutely not sexually. Not in any way sexually. Dave is not an especially attractive man: try to imagine Yul Brynner with an overactive thyroid, a grey ponytail and a high-pitched voice. I think you’ll agree that he doesn’t excite homo-erotic fantasies. My love for Dave is pure and strictly platonic. He fills my daytime thoughts. I live only for my next appointment with him. I long to tell somebody. I need to speak his name aloud, but who can I trust to keep my secret?
Perhaps I should see another therapist and confess to him⁄her.
Monday, November 20
Eddie’s café, the layby
I thought up the following poem whilst cleaning the deep-fat fryer at the close of business today. It is a foul, foul job but Eddie bribed me with £25, which will help to pay for an extra session with Dave.
Poem to Dave
Dave Mutter, Dave Mutter
His name is so charming.
My passion for him though
Is slightly alarming.
For 55 minutes
Two sessions a week
I sit on his sofa