Adrian Mole: Diary of a Provincial Man

Mistaken identity

Sunday, September 30, Ashby-de-la-Zouch

Brett has written a 1,500-word article for The Independent, headed “The Osama Bin Laden I Knew.” He claims to have first met Bin Laden in the breakfast room of a boarding house in Blackpool. "I was immediately suspicious of him," wrote Brett. "He claimed to have been in England for five years, yet he did not appear to know that pepper was shaken from the pot with the multi-holes. In the bar that night, he ordered a pint of snowball and a packet of pork trotters (sic). When I commented that snowballs were usually drunk by women, and in much daintier glasses, Bin Laden snarled, 'I am a British citizen, I hate slugs, and I visit a garden centre many times a year. Also, I watch the whores of western culture on EastEnders.

“When our landlady failed to bring him a packet of pork trotters, saying, 'It's scratchings you want, love, an' we're out of 'em due to swine fever', he went berserk and shouted, 'I am a legitimate citizen of this country — here is my passport and my HGV licence. " After I had finished reading the piece, Brett asked me for a critique. I said, "It is a tissue of lies from beginning to end. It is a well-known fact that Osama bin Laden does not speak English." Brett replied airily, "Our conversations were conducted in Arabic throughout." I scoffed, "Are you claiming that a Blackpool landlady is fluent in Arabic?" "Yes," said Brett. "Her name is Fatima Hardcastle — we do live in a multicultural society now, you know." I know Brett is lying, but how can I prove it? I can only pray that The Independent throws this piece of fiction back in his face before he brings shame on the Mole dynasty.

Monday, October 1

I have long suspected that my sister Rosie is not my father's child, and that she was sired by Mr Lucas, our next-door neighbour. My theory was confirmed today when my white-faced mother burst into my kitchen and sobbed, "If they bring in ID cards with DNA profiling, I'm done."

Tuesday, October 2

I phoned Pandora at the Grand Hotel in Brighton, and urged her to speak against the introduction of ID cards. She barked, "Clear this line! Don'tcha know there's a war on?" And then she cut me off.