Adrian Mole: Diary of a Provincial Man

Mole's millennium

Friday, December 24, 1999 Wisteria Walk, Ashby-de-la-Zouch, Leicestershire

I thank God that my work at Brown's Poultry is seasonal and therefore over. I managed to keep my turkey-plucking job a secret from my family, though tonight my mother asked me why I had feathers in my hair. I made up the ludicrous story that a pillow had burst as I walked through Debenhams bedding department while Christmas shopping. She narrowed her eyes and was about to speak when Ivan called from the kitchen that the Sellotape had run out. This led to a row, with various members of the family accusing the others of wasting, hogging or using too much Sellotape while wrapping presents.

Being the only one sober, I was forced to drive to the BP garage. The shelves were empty of stationery goods, but Mohammed, the manager, took pity on me and gave me some sticky-tape from the back office. It was an act of Christian charity. Later, I was blowing the feathers out of my underpants with a hairdryer when my mother barged into my room. She said, "If you're going to indulge in bizarre sexual practices, you should put a bolt on that door."

Christmas Day

William quickly tired of his main present, The Barbie Hair Salon: the rollers were fiddly and Barbie kept slipping out of the chair until I fastened her in with a lump of Blu-tak. My father arrived at 11 and sneered when he saw William brushing the doll's tresses with a tiny plastic brush. "He'll end up a bleedin' poofter," he laughed, before thrusting an ill-wrapped present into William's arms. It was an Action Man, riding a motorbike armed with a rocket-launcher and enough ammunition to annihilate China. I said, "I specifically requested that William was not to be given any gender-targeted toys." Later, I watched in disgust as my little son made Action Man rampage through the hair salon, kidnap Barbie and subject her to various indignities.

Boxing Day

The Moles took tea with the Braithwaites today. The atmosphere was strained to start with, and was made much worse when my mother ridiculed the Dome, saying it looked like a female porcupine about to mate. Pandora snapped that she had been invited to Millennium Eve in the Dome. I asked to see her ticket. She said it was "in the post".

Friday, December 31, 1999

I borrowed my mother's car and spent the evening driving Glen and William around Leicestershire in a fruitless search for beacons and fireworks. Eventually, in Victoria Park, we came across a brazier on a pole fuelled by a cylinder of British Gas. A kindly Hindu man handed out samosas to the few spectators. As midnight sounded in Leicester Town Hall Square, I shared a bottle of buck's fizz with a party of drag queens dressed as Sleeping Beauty, Cinderella etc. William asked to be introduced to the "beautiful princesses". He didn't appear to notice that most of them had severe five-o'clock shadow.

When the clock struck 12, I kissed my boys, then we linked arms with strangers and attempted to sing “Auld Lang Syne.” Some rowdy elements in the crowd sang the tune but improvised the words, bellowing scurrilous and defamatory things about Sir Cliff Richard. Later, at home, we watched as a family as the guests inside the Dome criss-crossed arms. Glen said, "How come the Queen don't know how to do “Auld Lang Syne” proper, Dad?" For once, I didn't correct his appalling grammar, though I have resolved to do so in the year 2000.

As I went up the stairs to bed, Ivan drunkenly whispered, "Your mother told me about your feather fixation. Do you want to talk about it?" I resolved, at that moment, to move into 7 Scrag Close, the council house I'd previously, arrogantly, stupidly, turned down.