To keep myself awake as William chewed each individual Coco Pop individually
twenty times (the kid is a genius - how many almost-three-year-olds can count
to twenty?), I read Pandora's election pamphlet, which was fastened to the
fridge with a Postman Pat magnet. It was a tawdry document. She'd been far
too profligate with her exclamation marks.
Dear Voter (it started)
Are you sick of hearing the same tired excuses from the nearly morally
corrupt Tory Candidate for Ashby-de-la-Zouch, Sir Arnold Tufton? Yes!
So am I!
Do you think that his record on civil liberties (petitioning Ashby-de-la-Zouch
council to deter vandals by installing close-circuit TV in the cubicles
of public lavatories) is disgraceful? Yes! I do!
Do you agree with Sir Arnold Tufton that TV license dodgers should be
jailed for a minimum of fifteeen years? No! Nor do I!
Do you demand an explanation as to why Sir Arnold Tufton was photographed
in Marbella in the company of the notorious criminal Len Fox? Would you
like to know what was inside the Jiffy-bag that passed from Len Fox to Sir
Arnold Tufton in the Bar Espanol? Yes! So would I!
If I voted for me on May 1st, I pledge that I, Dr Pandora Braithwaite,
Oxford Don, Linguist of Leicestershire Stock, will work conscientiously,
honestly and fearlessly to represent the wishes of the people of Ashby-de-la-Zouch.
In this cradle of democracy! The mother of parliaments! Send me to the House
of Commons!
IT CLEARLY MAKES SENSE!
At nine o'clock I took a cup of Nescafe' up to my father. He lay where
we had left him, his face to the wall, his hands clasped together as if
in anguished prayer. He said he could hear Tony Blair's voice whispering
from the corner of the room. For a split second I thought madness had set
in and that he would leave the house in a straitjacket, but then I realised
that the clock radio had turned itself on and Radio Four was transmitting
Tony Blair's soundbites. I crossed the room, turned it off and my father
seemed to relax a little. But I couldn't persuade him to leave his bed and
come with me and my mother to vote.
...
My mother and I left William in the care of his depressed grandad and his
foul-mouthed aunt and walked the quarter of a mile to vote.
There was a gaggle of voters outside the Scout hut polling station. Some
enterprising senior Scouts had set up a stall and were selling chilli-flavoured
Doritos and little pots of salsa. There was a choice of Coke or Diet Coke
to drink. 'Whatever happened to tea and home-made scones?' asked my mother
of a Scout-master-type person, who appeared to be in charge.
'We've had to move with the times,' he said politely. 'This is what the public
want.' 'Baden-Powell would turn in his grave,' she said. The man blushed and
turned away, and began fiddling with the salsa dip as though embarrassed.
'What did I say?' she asked of me, as we went into the smelly hut.
'Baden-Powell has been discredited by World in Action. He got a bit
too fond of the boys,' I said.
'There are no heroes left anymore,' she said. 'Apart from Tony Blair...'
A woman in urgent need of orthodontic treatment smiled and handed us our
ballot papers. It gave me a thrill to see Pandora's name - I had forgotten
that she had two middle names: Louise Elizabeth. I wondered if she ever used
her initials. I went into the voting booth and took up the pencil on the string
and paused, savouring the moment. I, Adrian Mole, was about to exercise my
democratic right and vote for a government of my choice. My reverie was broken
when a scrutinizer inquired, 'Are you alright in there, sir?' I drew a thick,
pencilled cross next to Pandora Louise Elizabeth Braithwaite's name, and withdrew
from the cubicle.
As I stood before the ballot box, folding my voting paper into a small square,
I tried to fully realize the awesome significance of the moment.
Wednesday April 30th 1997
I began to cook the cabbages for dinner. Savage liked them to boil for at
least half an hour. My work as a chef had been a doddle since Savage instituted
his Traditional English, No Choice menu.Tonight's repast is:
Heinz tomato soup
(with white bread floaters)
Grey lamb chops
Boiled cabbage avec Dan Quayle potatoes
Dark brown onion gravy
Spotted Dick a la Clinton
Bird's custard (skin £6.00 extra)
Cheddar Cheese, Cream Crackers
Nescafe'
After Eight Mint
There are two types of wine - white £46, red £46
Service charge not included. You are expected to smoke
between courses. Pipes and cigars are particularly welcome.
The restaurant is fully booked six weeks ahead. Savage turned Princess Michael
of Kent away from the door last night. She was distraught.
The restaurant critic A. A. Gill said in his review in the Sunday Times
that Hoi Polloi served execrable nursery food. 'The sausage on my plate could
have been a turd: it looked like a turd, it tasted like a turd, it smelled
like a turd, it had the texture of a turd. In fact, thinking about it, it
probably was a turd.'
Savage has had Gill's review blown up at the Copy Shop and stuck it up in
the window, where it draws admiring crowds.
Thursday May 1st 1997
At junction eighteen I ran out of Opal Fruits, so I pulled into the services
and bought three packets. Are the manufacturers putting something extra in
them? Something addictive? I seem to be getting through rather a lot of them
lately. The other night I woke at 3a.m. and was distraught to discover that
there wasn't a single Opal Fruit in the flat. I tramped the streets of Soho
looking for them. Within two minutes of leaving home I was offered lesbian
sex, heroin and a Rolex watch, but an innocent packet of Opal Fruits took
over half an hour to track down. What does it tell us about the world we live
in?
A Labour government will change all that. Mr Blair is a committed Christian,
and I forecast that a religious revival will sweep the land. I long for the
day that I wake up in the morning and realize that, Hallelujah! I too believe
in God!
Tuesday February 24th 1998
William came home with a note from Mrs Parvez:
Dear Mr Mole,
If you require help in purchasing school shoes for William, may I draw your
attention to the enclosed Social Security leaflet, 'Help with Footwear'.
Sincerely,
Mrs Parvez
There was a message on the answerphone to say that Glenn had not attended
school or afternoon registration. When I tackled him on this, he said, 'I
couldn't do it, Dad. There was no way I could go walkin' in that school in
Marks & Spencer's trainers.' Tears sprang to his eyes. He looked surprised
at this.
I took him and William to the out-of-town shopping complex The Pastures,
where it is now possible to shop until 10 p.m. seven days a week. We went
to Footlocker. A handsome black shop assistant said to Glenn, 'These equal
respect, man.' He handed Glenn a pair of trainers that to my eye looked like
those vehicles that pick up minerals from the surface of the moon. He tried
them on and I could tell he had a moment of epiphany. He said, 'Oh, Dad, they're
top!' They were £75.99.
I said, 'Almost seventy-six pounds for two bits of rubber! It would kill
me, Glenn.'
He handed them back to the shop assistant who put them back in the box. Then
I remembered the grey slip-ons I was made to wear to school, instead of the
Doc Martens that everyone else in my year was wearing. I heard Barry Kent's
taunts in the playground and went back into the shop and bought the trainers.
£75.99! It has made me ill.
Sunday March 22nd
A weekend of non-stop toil. The washing, ironing, folding, putting away of
clothes! The washing, drying and putting away of crockery! The sucking up
of dirt from the floors! The endless wiping of surfaces! The constant preparation
of food! I should have a woman to do all this for me. A woman I don't have
to pay. A wife.