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Christmas with Adrian Mole

 

From:

Sue Townsend

The Secret Diary of Adrian Mole aged 13¾

 

Adrian Mole is a worrier. The problems of existence hit him hard. Spots, bits of him that won't seem to keep still, the cracks in his parents' marriage, all prey heavily on his mind. There are some consolations. Pandora, a fourteen-year-old feminist, Bert, an eighty-nine-year-old chain smoker and his spoilt best friend Nigel all help to lift the gloomy introspection of Mole's moods.

Mole believes he is an intellectual. He is certainly a poet. I He buys strikingly coloured stationery on which to write his poems and send them to the BBC. He is dogged by ill health as well as by an infuriatingly ever-present pet dog, and by a catalogue of misfortunes familiar to anyone over the age of thirteen.

The acclaim which this book has already won from readers of all ages has assured it a lasting place in the litera­ture of family life.

 

 

Friday, December 18th

MOON'S LAST QUARTER

 

Today's rehearsal of Manger to Star (Christmas Pantomime at school) was a fiasco. Peter Brown has grown too big for the crib, so Mr Animba, the Woodwork teacher, has got to make another one.

Mr Scruton (the headmaster) sat at the back of the gym and watched re­hearsals. He had a face like the north face of the Eiger by the time we'd got to the bit where the three wise men were reviled as capitalist pigs.

He took Miss Elf into the showers and had a ‘Quiet Word'.

We all heard every word he shouted. He said he wanted to see a traditional Nativity play, with a Tiny Tears doll playing Jesus and three wise men dressed in dressing gowns and tea towels. He threatened to cancel the play if Mary, alias Pandora, con­tinued to go into simulated labour in the manger. This is typical of Scruton, he is nothing but a small-minded, provincial, sexually-inhibited fascist pig. How he rose to become a head­master I do not know. He has been wearing the same hairy green suit for three years. How can we change it all now? The play is being performed on Tuesday afternoon.

[…]

I've got no money for Christmas presents. But I have made my Christmas list in case I find ten pounds in the street.

 

Pandora - Big bottle of Chanel No. 5 (£1.50)

Mother - Egg-timer (75p)

Father - Bookmark (38p)

Grandma - Packet of J cloths (45p)

Dog - Dog chocolates (45p)

Bert - 20 Woodbines (95p)

Auntie Susan - Tin of Nivea (60p)

Sabre - Box of Bob Martins, small (39p)

Nigel - Family box of Maltesers (34p)

Miss Elf - Oven-glove (home-made)

 

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Sunday, December 20th

FOURTH IN ADVENT

 

Pandora and I had a private Mary and Joseph rehearsal in my bedroom. We improvised a great scene where Mary gets back from the Family Planning Clinic and tells Joseph she's preg­nant. I played Joseph like Marlon Brando in A Streetcar Named Desire. Pandora played Mary a bit like Blanche Dubois; it was dead good until my father complained about the shouting. The dog was supposed to be the lowly cattle, but it wouldn't keep still long enough to make a tableau.

After tea my mother casually mentioned that she was going to wear her fox-fur coat to the school concert tomorrow. Shock! Horror! I immediately went round to Pandora's house to get the mangy coat, only to find that Pandora's mother has borrowed it to go to the Marriage Guidance Christmas dinner and dance! Pandora said that she hadn't realized that the coat was only on loan; she thought it was a lover's gift! How can a 14¾year-old schoolboy afford to give a fox-fur coat as a gift? Who does Pandora think I am, a millionaire like Freddie Laker?

Pandora's mother won't be back until the early hours so I will have to go round before school and sneak the coat into its plastic cover. It's going to be difficult, but then nothing in my life is simple or straightforward any more. I feel like a charac­ter in a Russian novel half the time.

 

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Monday, December 21st

 

Woke up with a panic attack to see that it was eight-fifty by my bedside digital! My black walls looked unusually light and sparkly; one glance outside confirmed my suspicions that indeed the snow lay outside like a white carpet.

I stumbled through the snow to Pandora's house in my father's fishing boots but found that the house was devoid of humans. I looked through the letterbox and saw my mother's fur coat being mauled about by Pandora's ginger cat. I shouted swear-words at it but the lousy stinking cat just looked sarcastic and carried on dragging the coat around the hall. I had no choice but to shoulder-charge the laundry-room door and rush into the hall and rescue my mother's coat. I left quickly (as quickly as anyone can wearing thigh-length fishing boots, four sizes too big). I put the fur coat on to keep me warm on my hazardous journey home. I nearly lost my bearings at the corner of Ploughman's Avenue and Shepherd's Crook Drive, but I fought my way through the blizzard until I saw the familiar sight of the prefabricated garages on the corner of our cul-de­-sac.

I fell into our kitchen in a state of hypothermia and severe exhaustion; my mother was smoking a cigarette and making mince pies. She screamed, ‘What the bloody hell are you doing wearing my fox-fur coat?' She was not kind or con­cerned or anything that mothers are supposed to be. She fussed about, wiping snow off the coat and drying the fur with a hair dryer. She didn't even offer to make me a hot drink or anything. She said, ‘It's been on the radio that the school is closed because of the snow, so you can make your­self useful and check the camp beds for rust. The Sugdens are staying over Christmas.' The Sugdens! My mother's re­lations from Norfolk! Yuk, Yuk. They are all inbred and can't speak properly!

Phoned Pandora to explain about the fox-fur and the damage, etc., but she had gone skiing on the slope behind the Co-op bakery. Pandora's father asked me to get off the line, he had to make an urgent phone call to the police station. He said he had just come home and discovered a break-in! He said the place was a shambles (the cat must have done it, I was very careful), but fortunately the only thing that was missing was an old fox-fur coat that Pandora had lined the cat's basket with.

Sorry Pandora, but this is the final straw that broke the donkey's back! You can find yourself another Joseph, I refuse to share the stage with a girl who puts her cat's comfort before her boyfriend's dilemma.

 

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Tuesday, December 22nd

 

School was closed this morning because the teachers couldn't manage to get in on time because of the snow. That will teach them to live in old mill houses and windmills out in the country! Miss Elf lives with a West Indian in a terraced house in the town, so she bravely turned out to prepare for the school concert in the afternoon. I decided to forgive Pandora for the fox-fur in the cat's basket incident after she had pointed out that the cat was an expectant mother.

The school concert was not a success. The bell ringing from class One-G went on too long, my father said ‘The Bells! The Bells!', and my mother laughed too loudly and made Mr Scruton look at her.

The school orchestra was a disaster! My mother said, ‘When are they going to stop tuning-up and start playing?' I told her that they had just played a Mozart horn concerto. That made my mother and father and Pandora's mother and father start laughing in a very unmannerly fashion. When ten-stone Alice Bernard from Three-C came on stage in a tutu and did the dying swan, I thought my mother would explode. Alice Bernard's mother led the applause, but not many people followed.

The Dumbo class got up and sang a few boring old carols. Barry Kent sang all the vulgar versions (I know because I was watching his lips) then they sat down cross-legged, and brain­box Henderson from Five-K played a trumpet, Jew's harp, piano and guitar. The smarmy git looked dead superior when he was bowing during his applause. Then it was the interval and time for me to change into my white T-shirt-and-Wran­glers Joseph costume. The tension backstage was electric. I stood in the wings (a theatrical term - it means the side of the stage) and watched the audience filing back into their places. Then the music from Close Encounters boomed out over the stereo speakers, and the curtains opened on an abstract manger and I just had time to whisper to Pandora ‘Break a leg, darling', before Miss Elf pushed us out into the lights. My performance was brilliant! I really got under the skin of Joseph but Pandora was less good, she forgot to look tenderly at Jesus/Peter Brown. The three punks/wise men made too much noise with their chains and spoiled my speech about the Middle East situation, and the angels representing Mrs Thatcher (much hated Conservative Prime Minister at the time) got hissed by the audience so loudly that their spoken chorus about unemploy­ment was wasted.

Still, all in all, it was well received by the audience. Mr Scruton got up and made a hypocritical speech about ‘a brave experiment' and ‘Miss Elf’s tireless work behind the scenes', and then we all sang ‘We wish you a Merry Christmas'!

Driving home in the car my father said, ‘That was the fun­niest Nativity play I have ever seen. Whose idea was it to turn it into a comedy?' I didn't reply. It wasn't a comedy.

 

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Wednesday, December 23rd

 

9. a.m. Only two shopping days left for Christmas and I am still penniless. I have made a Blue Peter oven-glove for Miss Elf, but in order to give it to her in time for Christmas I will have to go into the ghetto and risk getting mugged.

I will have to go out carol singing, there is nothing else I can do to raise finance.

10 p.m. Just got back from carol singing. The suburban houses were a dead loss. People shouted, ‘Come back at Christmas', without even opening the door. My most appreciative audience were the drunks staggering in and out of the Black Bull. Some of them wept openly at the beauty of my solo rendition of ‘Silent Night'. I must say that I presented a touching picture as I stood in the snow with my young face lifted to the heavens ignoring the scenes of drunken revelry around me.

I made £3.13½ plus an Irish tenpence and Guinness bottletop. I'm going out again tomorrow. I will wear my school uniform, it should be worth a few extra quid.

 

Thursday, December 24th

 

Took Bert's Woodbines round to the home. Bert is hurt be­cause I haven't been to see him. He said he didn't want to spend Christmas with a lot of malicious old women. Him and Queenie are causing a scandal. They are unofficially engaged. They have got their names on the same ashtray. I have invited Bert and Queenie for Christmas Day. My mother doesn't know yet but I'm sure she won't mind, we have got a big turkey. I sang a few carols for the old ladies. I made two pounds eleven pence out of them so I went to Woolworth's to buy Pandora's Chanel No. 5. They hadn't got any so I bought her an underarm deodorant instead.

The house looks dead clean and sparkling, there is a magic smell of cooking and satsumas in the air. I have searched around for my presents but they are not in the usual places. I want a racing bike, nothing else will please me. It's time I was indepen­dently mobile.

11 p.m. Just got back from the Black Bull. Pandora came with me, we wore our school uniforms and reminded all the drunks of their own children. They coughed up conscience money to the tune of twelve pounds fifty-seven! So we are going to see a pantomime on Boxing Day and we will have a family bar of Cadbury's Dairy Milk each!

 

Friday, December 25th

CHRISTMAS DAY

 

Got up at 5 a.m. to have a ride on my racing bike. My father paid for it with American Express. I couldn't ride it far because of the snow, but it didn't matter. I just like looking at it. My father had written on the gift tag attached to the handlebars, ‘Don't leave it out in the rain this time' - as if I would!

My parents had severe hangovers, so I took them breakfast in bed and gave them my presents at the same time. My mother was overjoyed with her egg-timer and my father was equally delighted with his bookmark, in fact everything was going OK until I casually mentioned that Bert and Queenie were my guests for the day, and would my father mind getting out of bed and picking them up in his car.

The row went on until the lousy Sugdens arrived. My grandma and grandad Sugden and Uncle Dennis and his wife Marcia and their son Maurice all look the same, as if they went to funerals every day of their lives. I can hardly believe that my mother is related to them. The Sugdens refused a drink and had a cup of tea whilst my mother defrosted the turkey in the bath. I helped my father carry Queenie (fifteen stone) and Bert (fourteen stone) out of our car. Queenie is one of those loud types of old ladies who dye their hair and try to look young. Bert is in love with her. He told me when I was helping him into the toilet.

 Grandma Mole and Auntie Susan came at twelve-thirty and pretended to like the Sugdens. Auntie Susan told some amusing stories about life in prison but nobody but me and my father and Bert and Queenie laughed.

I went up to the bathroom and found my mother crying and running the turkey under the hot tap. She said, ‘The bloody thing won't thaw out, Adrian. What am I going to do?' I said, ‘Just bung it in the oven'. So she did.

We sat down to eat Christmas dinner four hours late. By then my father was too drunk to eat anything. The Sugdens enjoyed the Queen's Speech but nothing else seemed to please them. Grandma Sugden gave me a book called Bible Stories for Boys. I could hardly tell her that I had lost my faith, so I said thank-you and wore a false smile for so long that it hurt.

The Sugdens went to their camp beds at ten o'clock. Bert, Queenie and my mother and father played cards while I polished my bike. We all had a good time making jokes about the Sugdens. Then my father drove Bert and Queenie back to the home and I phoned Pandora up and told her that I loved her more than life itself.

I am going round to her house tomorrow to give her the deodorant and escort her to the pantomime.

 

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Saturday, December 26th

BANK HOLIDAY IN UK AND REP. OF IRELAND (a day may be given in lieu).

N E W  M O O N

 

The Sugdens got up at 7 a.m. and sat around in their best clothes looking respectable. I went out on my bike. When I got back my mother was still in bed, and my father was arguing with Grandad Sugden about our dog's behaviour, so I went for another ride.

I called in on Grandma Mole, ate four mince pies, then rode back home. I got up to 30 mph on the dual carriageway, it was dead good. I put my new suede jacket and corduroy trousers on (courtesy of my father's Barclaycard) and called for Pandora; she gave me a bottle of after-shave for my Christmas present. It was a proud moment, it signified the End of Childhood.

We quite enjoyed the pantomime but it was rather childish for our taste. Bill Ash and Carole Hayman were good as Alad­din and the Princess, but the robbers played by Jeff Teare and Ian Giles were best. Sue Pomeroy gave a hilarious perfor­mance as Widow Twankey. In this she was greatly helped by her cow, played by Chris Martin and Lou Wakefield.

 

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Sunday, December 27th

1ST AFTER CHRISTMAS

 

The Sugdens have gone back to Norfolk, thank God!

The house is back to its usual mess. My parents took a bottle of vodka and two glasses to bed with them last night. I haven't seen them since.

Went to Melton Mowbray on my bike, did it in five hours.

 

Monday, December 28th

 

I am in trouble for leaving my bike outside last night. My parents are not speaking to me. I don't care, I have just had a shave and I feel magic.

 

Tuesday, December 29th

 

My father is in a bad mood because there is only a bottle of V.P. sherry left to drink. He has gone round Pandora's house to borrow a bottle of spirits.

The dog has pulled the Christmas tree down and made all the pine needles stick in the shag-pile.

I have finished all my Christmas books and the library is still shut. I am reduced to reading my father's Reader's Digests and testing my word power.

 

Wednesday, December 30th

 

All the balloons have shrivelled up. They look like old women's breasts shown on television documentaries about the Third World.

 

Thursday, December 31st

 

The last day of the year! A lot has happened. I have fallen in love. Been a one-parent child. Gone Intellectual. And had two letters from the BBC. Not bad going for a 14 ¾-year-old!

My mother and father have been to a New Year's Eve dance at the Grand Hotel. My mother actually wore a dress! It is over a year since she showed her legs in public.

Pandora and I saw the New Year in together, we had a dead passionate session accompanied by Andy Stewart and a bag­piper.

My father came crashing through the front door at 1 a.m. carrying a lump of coal in his hand. Drunk as usual.

My mother started going on about what a wonderful son I was and how much she loved me. It's a pity she never says anything like that when she is sober.

 

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