Adrian Mole: Diary of a Provincial Man

That yolk isn't funny anymore

Saturday, March 31

I'm glad to see the end of this accurs-éd month. William went into the back garden to try out his new red wellingtons. Minutes later, he had to be rescued by me and Glenn after sinking up to his waist in the squelching bog that used to be the lawn.

Michael Fish told me and my fellow British TV gogglers at lunchtime today that the previous 12 months had been the wettest since records had been kept. I said to Michael, "I'm not surprised, Mike."

I was about to tell him about William's near miss when I realised, to my horror, that Michael Fish would not have been able to hear me. I must get out more.

As I was cooking the boys' Quorn burgers tonight, I had a sudden brainwave, and phoned Pandora on her direct number at the Ministry of Agriculture, Fisheries and Food. She answered at once. For a joke, I pretended to be the chief vet of Norfolk. I said, "Moi dear gal, Oi'm the chief vet of Norfolk. Oi'm sorry gal, but Oi've got bad news, there's been a serious outbreak of beak and claw down here. More than 11 million chickens and turkeys are affected."

She gave an audible gasp. Then said, "Christ, what next? Is it safe to eat the eggs?"

I answered in my newly acquired Norfolk accent, "No, my dear, they must be gathered from their coops, stamped, ’DO NOT INGEST. THIS EGG IS CARRYING THE BEAK AND CLAW VIRUS'."

There was silence and she stifled a sob. She then shouted across the office, "Get me Tony, at once!" She then spoke urgently to somebody nearby, and I heard a male voice shout, "Fuckin' 'ell, there's beak 'n' claw in Norfolk!" He sounded hysterical.

I was starting to regret my deception, but when Pandora asked me if she should arrange for the poultry to be slaughtered and the eggs to be buried, for some reason I answered, "Put the birds out of their misery, by all means, but the eggs could come in useful — for throwing at politicians during the run-up to the general election."

After I'd slammed down the phone, I was ashamed of myself. Pandora was so proud of her recent promotion to junior minister for poultry. I tried to ring back, but the phones in her office were permanently engaged. What I had intended to suggest to her was that, rather than destroy infected sheep, instead each household in Britain be given a skinned and disembowelled carcass to put in the freezer. After all, foot and mouth presents no danger to we homo sapiens. (To keep things fair, vegetarians could be given a token for a bag of turnips or something.) This would surely win votes for new Labour.

Sunday, April 1, April Fool's Day

A Leicester courier firm, 24-7, woke me early this morning with the most wonderful letter of my life:

Monday, April 2

My birthday cards were illustrated by the usual symbols of masculinity: vintage cards, foaming tankards and fishing rods.

At 9.30 precisely, I rang Ms Moore's number. Pandora answered. "April Fool, you birthday boy bastard,"she shouted before slamming down the phone.