Adrian Mole: Diary of a Provincial Man

Underneath The Archers

Monday, May 1, Arthur Askey Way

I was driving my mother to the hospital today to visit her ex-husband, and my father (the same man). We were sharing a jumbo-sized Mars Bar in a companionable sort of way — taking alternate bites — when I was pulled over by a police car.

I was not drunk or drugged, and I had been keeping to the speed limit. I asked my mother if she had made a rude gesture to them via the rear-view mirror. She denied it. I was, therefore, baffled as to why I'd been stopped. Two policemen got out of the car. Policeman One said: "Would you step out of your vehicle please, Sir." I did as he asked. Policeman Two said: "You like a bit of chocolate, do you, Sir?" in a sneering kind of way.

"I am a bit of a chocoholic, actually," I joked.

"Like to munch on the cocoa solids in your vehicle, do you, Sir?" said Number One. I was slightly baffled, but answered, "Yes, I usually buy some chocolate when I fill up with petrol."

My mother had been listening to our conversation with ill-concealed irritation. "It's not against the law to eat in your own car, is it?" she snapped.

Policeman Number One slowly walked around to the front passenger window. My mother wound it down. "It is against the law to drive without due care and attention, Madam," he said. "And that jumbo Mars Bar was being passed between you and the driver of the car like a parcel at a kiddies' tea party."

"The policemen in The Bill are always driving and stuffing their faces," she said.

I saw a nerve twitch just above his temple, and he ordered my mother out of the car while he and his colleague examined the interior. (Looking for what: Twix, Smarties, Aeros?)

We were late getting to the hospital. My father's catheter had become detached. While we waited for two sheets to be found from somewhere in the hospital, I watched Beryl, the privatised cleaner, push a filthy, ragged mop around the ward floor. I shuddered to think of the viruses swarming on the end of that mop. I hoped that they hadn't encamped into my father's bed sores.

Wednesday, May 3

What has happened to The Archers? It was once possible to listen to it in the company of the young and impressionable. Now, I have to switch off if Glenn or William are in the kitchen.

The love scenes between Sid Perks and Jolene are audible pornography. It is like overhearing two warthogs mating. Will somebody please put Cathy Perks in the picture. And will the person in charge of accents at the BBC teach that sexual-harassment bloke, Simon, how to speak Canadian?

Judging by the present storyline, I predict that a socially-concerned villager will soon suggest that Ambridge needs a youth club. Suggested script:

Jill Archer (with warm concern): Have you seen the graffiti on uncle Tom's gravestone, "Sid Perks is tooling Jolene"?

Socially-Concerned Villager (with liberal concern): Yes, and I deplore the damage done to the statue of Walter Gabriel on the village green.

Jill Archer: Yes, it was cruel to stuff an organic turnip up his. .

Socially-Concerned Villager (interrupting): It's the set-aside generation, Jill. They've nowhere to go and nothing to do. What they need is a youth club.

Jill Archer: Do you think so? Do you really think so?

Dum De Dum De Dum De Dum Dum De Dum De Dum Dum, etc.

Friday, May 5

Pandora is busy absolving herself from any blame for Mr Dobson's abysmal result in the mayoral election. "I begged him to shave off that bloody beard, lose weight, buy a new suit, dye his hair, get his teeth straightened and whitened. He's only got himself to blame."