Adrian Mole: Diary of a Provincial Man

No room at the inn, innit

Friday, December 22, Ashby-de-la-Zouch

Another night out! This time at Neil Armstrong Comprehensive, my alma mater, to see Glenn in The Holiday Play. In my day, it was simply called the Nativity play. In the 1982 performance, Pandora was a mesmeric Mary. Several men in the audience fainted during Jesus's protracted forceps delivery. I sat next to Mohammed, whose daughter Raki was in the cast playing a glue-sniffer running away from an arranged marriage. To my considerable consternation, Glenn had been cast as a homeless abuser of alcohol. The production was confused, because the children had not been given lines or told where to stand or, in fact, when to take their entrances and exits. This led to severe overcrowding on the stage at times, and necessitated Mr. Billington, the young drama teacher, to issue loud instructions that could clearly be heard above the horrible din of the school orchestra.

Roger Patience, the headmaster, sat next to the stage with his head in his hands. The action apparently took place in a night shelter. A pregnant female called Marie turned up with her «partner» Joe and asked the social worker in charge for sanctuary. What Marie actually said was, "I gotta lie down coz I'm 'aving a kid an' the filth is after me for nickin' a swaddlin' cloth outta the everythin's a pound shop." To which the social worker/innkeeper in turn replied, "Ya gotta be jokin', ain't ya? There ain't no bleedin' room, it's holiday time, you shoulda booked." Here, Joe intervened: "Don't dis my chick, man". Then Glenn made his entrance and proceeded to give an alarmingly realistic depiction of a man who had consumed several bottles of methylated spirits.

A female derelict/angel came on and shrieked, "I just seen a bright star appear in the east. It weren't there before. It done my 'ead in." Mohammed's daughter then entered sniffing on a tube of Bostick (empty, I hope). I felt Mohammed shift uncomfortably in his seat. I lost track of the dramatic events after that and turned my attention to the programme. I noticed that Pamela Pigg had been credited with "facilitating research on the homeless".

When I next looked back at the stage, Raki was giving an improvised speech about the difficulties of being a radical feminist growing up in a fundamentalist Muslim household. Mohammed muttered, "If she thinks she's gettin' them Timberland boots for Christmas, she's gotta nuther think comin'." Mr Billington gave a speech at the end thanking the children for their "enthusiastic grasp of improvisational techniques". He wished us all a "merry holiday".

As we walked to the car park together, Mohammed said, "Moley, why don't they do a proper Nativity play no more?" I said that it was felt in some circles that it was inappropriate in a multicultural school. Mohammed laughed and said, "What kinda circles? Crop?"

We went for a Christmas drink at the Kings Head. I asked for a cheese roll, but was told that they only do Thai food now. I didn't fancy slurping on a bowl of noodles as I drank, so I ate nothing. As a consequence, I felt slightly drunk when I got home and phoned Pamela Pigg and asked her out. She accepted eagerly, saying, "I've longed for this moment." After putting down the phone, I cursed the two pints of shandy I had consumed earlier.

Monday, December 25

Christmas Day has been blighted. A tragedy has befallen my family. Last night, my mother was arrested and charged with GBH. The tableau of Becks, Posh and Brooklyn in her front garden drew huge crowds of gawpers. Bail was refused because she gave a policeman a Chinese burn on his wrist when he tried to dismantle Brooklyn's crib. The policeman is undergoing trauma counselling, and is expected to be on sick leave for two months.