Adrian Mole: Diary of a Provincial Man

Like a vandal in the wind

Saturday, October 6, Ashby-de-la-Zouch

Dear Diary,

My half-brother is still here. God knows, I am the kindest and most tolerant of men, and I am with the Muslims when it comes to extending the hand of hospitality to those seeking sanctuary. But I have to confess that I am irritated beyond endurance by the presence of Brett Mole in my house. I hate him. I have come to dread the sound of his footsteps on the stairs. I cannot bear the way he seems to suck Rice Krispies down his throat. But I am a lone voice. He is loved and admired by everyone I know.

There is a messianic quality about him. Alarmingly, he told me that he intends to start a new political party financed by the Princess Diana Fund. I told him, angrily, that the day after the Parisian tragedy, I had driven to Kensington Gardens and pinned a £10 note to a tree, together with a poem:

Oh Diana!

As you may have noticed, Diary, I was unable to find suitable rhymes in order to complete the poem satisfactorily. I still can't. I am thinking about contacting Earl Spencer to inform him of Brett's political ambitions.

Wednesday, October 10

A Harrods van delivered Brett's new bed this morning. It took two men all day to install it in the spare bedroom. It has an in-built telescopic television, a CD player, and will adjust to 19 positions. I gasped when I saw the invoice: £7,999. Brett said it was a treat to himself; he has been commissioned by Channel 4 to make a documentary on poverty, and is filming it on my council estate. The old mattress is in the front garden, waiting for the council to remove the eyesore.

Thursday, October 11

Brett has scattered the contents of my wheelie-bin in the front garden, and slashed the mattress with a Stanley knife. He said it would make a great establishing shot for his documentary, now entitled Weep, England! Weep!