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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 ca
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 pi
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 Cha
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!
Throw in the towel
Sunday, October 14
That monster, Brett, is still living in my house. He is now sharing his electronic Super-Bed with an assortment of slags from the estate. I have provided Gle
Brett's documentary, Weep, England! Weep!, is now in production. Many of the interviews are conducted in this house. Cables cover the floors and most of the doors have been removed to facilitate camera movements. The house is no longer mine. Why don't I tell him to leave? The sad truth is that I am afraid of him. He makes me feel that I am of low class, unattractive and provincial.
Monday, October 15
I came down this morning to find Sandra Alcock sitting at my kitchen table, half-dressed and spitting on to a block of mascara. When I asked her to cover herself up, she grabbed a tea-towel and tucked it between her bra straps. However, I must admit that the sight of Sandra's long legs in white stilettos stimulated my endocrine system, and I had to turn hurriedly towards the sink to hide my sexual excitement. I wonder if Pamela Pigg would be interested in a bout of sexual intercourse? I heard that she and Alan Clarke split, due to a row over globalisation. I'll ring her later today.
Tuesday, October 16
I will be meeting up with Pamela after her dog training class tonight. She sounded delighted to hear from me again, so with a bit of luck it shouldn't take long to get her into bed. And I won't be forced to waste time messing around with meals, and day trips to historical monuments, etc.
Pamela looked charming in the candlelight at the Costa Brava restaurant, and my tortilla and chips were excellent. But I was in bed by 11pm — alone. I am taking her to Belvoir Castle on Friday.
Wednesday, October 17
I was woken by Sandra Alcock at 3.15am. She was standing in my front garden, screaming that Brett Mole was a bastard. And that Justine Badaoui was a scut-bag. Brett filmed the whole scene, up until the police arrived and took Sandra and Justine away.
Friday, October 19
We explored every corridor of Belvoir Castle. Had scones in the tea room. I even bought Pamela a tea-towel. Yet I slept alone. Why?
Bio-heroism
Monday, October 22, Ashby-de-la-Zouch
Gle
Dear Mr Mole,
In this time of national crises, it is incumbent on us all to support our government. During a senior pupils debate, chaired by myself, your son Gle
I hope to God (or Allah) that the war will be over by Christmas. I can't have Gle
Gle
Tuesday, October 23
I went into the chemist this morning to buy a tin of Johnson's baby powder. The shelves where this i
Wednesday, October 24
Brett's documentary, Weep, England! Weep!, which was meant to expose the wasted lives of sink council estate tenants, has been cancelled by the commissioning editor, who emailed, "Your doco is not conducive to the national interest at this time." I am overjoyed to tell you, dear diary, that within the space of two hours, Brett, the crew and the equipment were gone.
Thursday, October 25, 2am
I have just had a distraught phone call from Pamela Pigg. She told me that her body was covered in red spots: "It's smallpox!" I drove to her house and examined her naked body. By a process of elimination, I finally deduced that she was allergic to the hyacinth bulbs she'd been potting earlier in the day.