Adrian Mole: The Cappuccino Years Part 7

Sat.u.r.day May 24th I came down this morning to find Savage slumped on a stool at the preparation table. He told me he'd been there since we closed at 3 a.m. and that he still loved his Kim. I asked him what had initially caused the marriage to break down, and he brushed away a tear. 'I paid for a ten-week course of elocution lessons for her,' he said. 'I couldn't bear that Ess.e.x accent on my pillow every morning.' He shuddered at the memory, as though his wife's accent was a physical thing: a loathsome insect crawling on his bedlinen. 'She ripped me off, Adrian,' he said. 'She didn't go to a single elocution lesson. She got her mate Joanna Lumley to give her a few pointers.'

'What did she spend the money on?' I asked.

He broke down completely, and sobbed like a small child. I patted his heaving shoulders. 'I gave her a thousand quid for those lessons,' he gulped, 'a thousand f--quid. And d'you know what she blew it on?'

'Shoes?' I ventured.

He shook his head.

'A lover?'

'No, no.'

'Cocaine?'

'No!' he roared. 'Worse than that!' He lowered his head and his voice and whispered, 'She donated it to the f--Labour Party!'

Was ever a man deceived?

It explains why Joanna Lumley is barred from Hoi Polloi for life.

Sunday May 25th Trinity Sunday I took advantage of Savage's deep unhappiness to ask for a day off today. He said, 'Yeah. Going to see your son, the half-caste kid?'

I said, 'No, I'm just going to see my son.'

'I didn't know you had two,' he said.

I was determined to press the point home to him. 'I don't call him 'my son the half-caste kid',' I said. 'His name is William.'

Savage could benefit from going on a racial-awareness course. I might suggest it to him. I find his prejudices most offensive. He is like all aristocratic people. They are all inbred, deranged s.e.xual deviants who should be put up against the drystone walls of their country estates and, if not actually shot, then at least...made to feel very uncomfortable indeed.

Monday May 26th I rang last night to tell my mother that I would be coming to Wisteria Walk and bringing a piece of illegal beef on the bone with me. Rosie answered the phone in her usual ungracious manner, which entails using the least possible vocal power without resorting to complete silence.

'Is Dad there?'

'Yuh.'

There was a long pause, though I could hear snotty breathing. 'Rosie?' I said.

'Yuh.'

'Can I speak to Dad?' I shouted.

'He's in bed,' she shouted back, and then she actually volunteered the information that he'd been in bed for a week with severe depression, brought about by the stress of his driving in London last Sunday. I asked where William was and she told me that he was sitting in an empty Kellogg's cornflakes box in front of the television, watching a Jeremy Clarkson video. This bleak image brought a lump to my throat, and I couldn't wait to get to Ashby-de-la-Zouch and hold the boy in my arms.

Later Apart from seeing William my visit was a waste of valuable time. n.o.body would eat the beef on the bone. My mother was out most of the afternoon, 'walking the dog', my father was in bed with the curtains drawn, and Rosie left the house with a hideous-looking youth called Aaron Michelwaite, whose face is deformed with lip, eyebrow, nose, eyelid, ear and tongue rings. Rosie saw me gawping and said, 'You should see his Prince Albert.' Once again I didn't get the reference.

I could barely be civil to the youth. He is extremely well spoken, but he is far too old for Rosie (he is nineteen), and I hinted to him that my sister is a virgin and I would prefer it if she stayed in that condition for as long as possible. I said, 'Rosie may look like Baby Spice, but she's an innocent, do you understand, Aaron?'

'Innocent.' He snorted. 'I've had more than cider with Rosie, mate.' At the time I took his punning remark to mean that they shared a taste for strong alcohol--vodka, perhaps. But as I drove back to London I pondered on his oblique reference to Laurie Lee's cla.s.sic, and I am now convinced that they are in fact having a full-blown s.e.xual relations.h.i.+p.

Saw thirteen Eddie Stobarts. Nine waved, four didn't.

Bowels--blocked p.e.n.i.s--unresponsive to stimuli Sat.u.r.day May 31st Belinda from Pie Crust Productions rang, but I was in the middle of a tricky stage with some lambs' t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es, so I couldn't take the call.

Luigi tells me that a Prince Albert is a ring-chain device worn on the p.e.n.i.s. I have written to Rosie. I feel that I am in loco parentis.

'My dear Rosie...that' is as far as I got. I was so outraged by the thought of Aaron Michelwaite's Prince Albert that I threw down my pen in disgust.

Friday May 30th Malcolm took a message from Belinda at Pie Crust, begging me to ring her back. Malcolm said, 'She sounded as if she was gagging for it.' I led him to believe that Belinda's interest in me was s.e.xual.

Edna rang, cancelling my appointment with Pandora. She has to wait in--she's having a futon delivered. I pointed out to Edna that I could go round to Pandora's flat, which I've never seen, and wait in with her, but apparently she wants to wait for her futon alone.

Belinda strode into the restaurant kitchen today and said, 'OK, I'm not proud. I've come to you to beg you to do it.'

Malcolm, Luigi and the temporary kitchen a.s.sistants, Sven and Boris, goggled at her Lycra-clad b.r.e.a.s.t.s and b.u.m in her cycling shorts-vest combo. I steered her outside into the yard where all the fire extinguishers are kept until the fire officer rings to tell us he's coming round to do an inspection.

'I've changed my mind,' I said. 'I can't cook,' I admitted.

Ever since Savage spilled his guts to me (if only he had literally spilled them, I would have gladly cooked them up with a bit of garlic salt and enjoyed eating them)--about his undying love for Kim, he has totally ignored me. I asked him this morning if he had ordered the tinned carrots, saying, 'We are dangerously low.' But he looked straight through me. I am always aware when we are low on carrots because I use the stacked tins as my bedside tables.

Summer Sunday June 1st I spent the day alone, with the Observer. There was a cat in the kitchen yard today that looked amazingly like Humphrey, the cat who once resided at Ndeg10 Downing Street before Cherie Blair begged her husband to dispose of it, 'by foul means or fair'--this is according to a high-ranking member of the RSPCA, who told Luigi, who told Malcolm, who told me.

The cat I saw this morning was undoubtedly Humphrey: thinner, scraggier, flea-ridden and lacking any formal identification, but it was he, of that I have no doubt. Stories of him 'going to a good home, somewhere in Streatham' are false. No doubt the truth will come out one day when Cabinet papers are released under the thirty-year rule. I will be sixty-plus by then, but I will have the quiet satisfaction of knowing that I fed several cod's heads to the Prime Minister's spurned cat, thus helping it to survive in the mean streets of Soho.

Monday June 2nd Humphrey was at the kitchen door mewing pathetically this morning. Malcolm wanted to take him home, but I pointed out that a dormitory in a hostel was a home in name only. I think he saw my point. But he went out after his duties at lunchtime and bought Humphrey an engraved cat collar. Unfortunately Malcolm was 'taught' by the phonetic method of spelling, so the cat is now called 'Humfri'.

Tuesday June 3rd Humfri now has two bowls, a bed, a basket, a scratching post, a puffer bottle of flea powder, worm tablets, a ball/bell combination, a grooming brush, and is registered at a veterinary surgeon's in Beauchamp Place.

Malcolm has showered the animal with his savings and his love. Yet the cat does not show the least sign of grat.i.tude.

Zippo came into the restaurant tonight and said, 'OK, Adrian, you win. You held out for nine-fifty a show, and that's what we're offering. And we'll throw in a limo there and back, plus a set of pans.'

To test him I drawled, 'A thousand five hundred, plus residuals.' Plus residuals is a term I have heard many times in Hoi Polloi. I'm not exactly sure what it means, but television people have the phrase continually on their negotiating lips. But at that moment his mobile trilled.

He shouted into it, 'OK, five hundred thou' for Burt's hairpiece, but that's my final offer.' He snapped the mobile shut, turned to me and said, 'We'll go for six shows in two days, terribly knackering, I'll supply the bennies.' More code speak--I feel alone in a parallel universe.

Wednesday June 4th I rang Edna Kent this morning and asked her for the name and phone number of Barry's agent. She gave me his name, but said his phone number was ex-directory. Then she divulged it anyway. There is a solidarity among us Ashby-de-la-Zouchians.

His agent is an American called Brick Eagleburger. I rang Mr Eagleburger and was immediately put on hold after a harsh-voiced American woman (a recording) said, 'Hi, I'm Brick's a.s.sistant, Boston. Neither of us is available right now, but if you'll hold a moment we'll be right with you.' I was then played an excerpt from Porgy and Bess. I was singing along to 'Bess, You Is My Woman Now', when the same harsh-voiced woman broke in, 'Hi, Boston Goldman here, how may I help you?'

I managed to stammer out that I was one of Barry Kent's oldest friends, and that I required advice as I was possibly about to embark on a TV career. Boston said, 'Sounds kinda exciting but Brick's had closure on his client list since January 1st.'

I wasn't sure what she meant and asked her to rephrase her words.

'Since January 1st,' she said, slowly, as though speaking to an idiot, or a foreigner, 'Brick has had closure on his client list.'

'So, he's not taking on any more clients?' I checked.

Boston sounded less friendly. 'Congratulations! As your own talented Sir Cliff Richard would say,' she joked, though with little humour, I thought.

Thursday June 5th I rang Edna again and reported yesterday's conversation. She told me that Boston was a failed stand-up comedienne. It explains a lot. Edna told me to persist until I got to speak to Brick himself. Savage has found out about Humfri's tenure in the kitchen, and has ordered us to get rid of him. Large Alan has tipped him off that the health inspectors are planning midnight raids in the Soho area. Malcolm is distraught, he said tonight. 'No 'uman ever wants to get near to me, an' I never get to touch another 'uman. But Humfri, 'e can't wait to sit on my knee.' Humfri is only interested in him because of the food Malcolm feeds him, on an hourly basis. I almost pointed this out to him, but I drew back from the brink.

Friday June 6th Humfri now has another possession: a litter tray. In my flat.

Sat.u.r.day June 7th Phoned Brick, got Boston. To try to get into her good books I asked her if she had been christened Boston. She flew into a rage. 'You're a.s.suming I'm a Christian, are you? British boy! That my mom and pop stood at the font in some f--Midwest tight-a.s.sed Protestant church and christened me into the Christian community, eh? Is that kosher with you?'

I said that I was sorry if I had offended her. Though to be honest, dear Diary, I didn't know what I was apologizing for.

I asked, once again, to speak to Brick; she once again put me on hold. I now know all the words to most of the songs from Porgy and Bess. I could give a recital.

Sunday June 8th William rang me today. He wanted to know when I was coming up to see him. I said I wasn't sure (which is true: I need to be in London for the Pie Crust negotiations). The kid droned on about somebody or something called Barney, then put the phone down abruptly before I could say a proper goodbye. I felt guilty for at least half an hour after his call. Apparently Savage and Kim are reconciled. I only know this from reading the Taki column in the Sunday Times today. I'm personally very pleased: Kim is the only person who understands the stock-control data on the computer. Perhaps I'll get those carrots I asked for days ago.

Wednesday June 11th A bad day. At 2300 hours we were raided by the public health. It couldn't have come at a worse time. Malcolm had brought the cat down from the flat and was cradling him in his arms, next to the dried goods store. Luigi, curse him, was on the draining board, sitting cooling his feet in the sink.

Savage and Kim were totally drunk and seemed to be under the impression that the public health inspectors, a Mr Voss (thin, pale) and a Ms Sykes (thin, tanned), were a s...o...b..z double act.

A fine-tooth comb would have been a blunt instrument compared to the meticulous scrutiny that kitchen underwent during Voss and Sykes' inspection. They left, eventually, at 2.30 a.m. after finding one hundred and twenty violations of the Public Health Act. Including traces of foot fungus in the sink.

The restaurant was closed down until all the work stipulated in the order had been completed.

Thank G.o.d I have another string to my bow with Pie Crust Productions.

Thursday June 12th There is a new notice in the window of Hoi Polloi.

Closed by MI5 on the orders of Commissar Blair--due to the fact that Hoi Polloi is a libertarian stronghold. Signed--Hon. P. Savage Friday June 13th Large Alan has offered Malcolm a job sweeping up sequins and feathers from the dressing room at the lap-dancing club. Free meals, PS5 an hour, minicab home. Malcolm said he is going to think about it. Why?

Luigi is riddled with guilt as well he may be. His feet alone accounted for seventeen public-health violations.

I record the first three shows on Monday.

Sat.u.r.day June 14th My auntie Susan has been honoured with the prestigious Prison Officer of the Year award. It was presented to her by Jack Straw. She told my mother that Mr Straw said he intends to conduct an inquiry into lesbianism in prisons. 'Among the staff or the prisoners?' asked my aunt. She reported that Mr Straw blushed at the question, and turned the conversation to a safer subject: the menace of garden slugs.

Nigel called and asked if he could sleep on my settee over the weekend. He says that he is coming to London to be counselled by a group called Outings. They specialize in advising gay men and women on how to tell their parents they are gay. (Not that the parents are gay, of course. Presumably if the parents were gay they would know already. Though I suppose it is possible to be gay and not know. In that case, am I gay? I've been an admirer of Judy Garland for years.) I said I would allow him to sleep on the sofa (or settee, as he calls it) and I warned him about the storeroom decorative motif. He said he didn't care so long as there was a spare shelf for his exfoliation skincare products.

Sunday June 15th Nigel will be out all day, being advised by Outings. I told him that my aunt Susan, see above, told my grandma and grandad she was gay by saying, 'I'm a lesbian, like it or lump it'. 'It was all over in five seconds, bar the shouting,' I said.

Nigel shuddered and said, 'Without an anaesthetic, how brave,' as though Aunt Susan were an amputee.

I am surrounded night and day by the s.e.x industry of Soho and by people whose lives are ruled by s.e.x. Yet I am myself as chaste as a sea-horse. I think Justine has made a few 'moves' in my direction. I b.u.mped into her at the Cafe Italia yesterday, and she spoon-fed me the froth off her cappuccino. She said she has heard a rumour that Savage and Kim are selling Hoi Polloi and setting up an oxygen bar, which sells fresh air to health freaks. Savage will blow the place up within days. He leaves burning cigarettes on every surface.

Nigel cut my hair, ready for the camera tomorrow. He said, 'I won't allow you to hit the screens looking like Princess Diana on testosterone.'

A moment after he'd started, I heard him take a sharp intake of breath and knew he'd spotted my thin/bald patch. I asked him to measure it, using the device on my Swiss Army knife.

He told me that the bald patch has a circ.u.mference of one inch. However, we worked out that if I use a strong hairspray and comb my hair in a southwesterly direction, my secret will remain safe.

Nigel has gone back to Leicester to tell his parents and Next about his lover, Norbert. Savage has given me notice to quit the flat. I will take him to the highest court in the land before I do so. Though I have to admit that a move back to Leicester seems more and more attractive.

Monday June 16th Up at five, fed fish, changed cat litter, shaved, dressed, caught the tube to Sh.o.r.editch. An hour early, Pie Crust closed. Nowhere to buy a cup of tea. Streets full of mad men and women. Walked about. Felt conspicuous in three-piece and overcoat. Hoped wouldn't be knocked over as had pig's head in Next nylon tote-bag.

Belinda, Zippo and a hair-and-make-up artist called Zo, arrived together at 7 a.m. in black cab. Looked surprised to see me. 'Have sent limo to pick you up,' said Belinda. She very annoyed. She rings driver of limo on mobile. 'Yeah, I know, the d.i.c.k-head's here,' I heard her say.

Later Zo looks at hair. 'Who did hair last?' she asks. 'Club-fingered friend with blunt scissors?' Say yes. Ask how did she know. She rolls eyes and restyles hair so I look '1940s, like Hitler'. Say I don't like Hitler hairstyle. Zo says, 'Zippo, how 1940s d'you want him?' Zippo and Belinda and Zo confer over my head. Apparently hairstyle has to reflect offal theme. War years, etc.

I'm sick of writing in Bridget Jones telegramese, so will revert to my natural free-flowing prose style.

'Which is why I went for the Hitler,' says Zo, who, it transpires, knows very little about twentieth-century political history. I pointed out to her that Hitler was a monster, responsible for starting the Second World War. 'I didn't do the history module,' she says, defensively. 'I dropped it for environmental studies.'

To Zo, and many of her generation, Hitler is merely the Old Brown.

We settled on a Dambusters concept for my TV hairstyle, 'a sort of short back and sides with att.i.tude', as Zo called it. She warned me that I was going thin on top and recommended an American spray called Falshair, which settles on the scalp and gives the appearance of real hair. It is available on Cable TV's shopping channel. She said it comes in seven colours, 'including your colour--mouse with a hint of grey'. I remarked (quite coolly, given that my heart had almost stopped), 'Going grey already, hey?' Which made me sound like Jerry Seinfeld.

Zo said, 'It's only at a 2Y2 per cent ratio, but if you want to cover it up, there's a product called...'

I didn't take it in, dear Diary. It was one of those moments. I felt acutely aware of my own mortality. The swift slide towards the death of follicles, the breakdown of tissue, the hardening of some arteries, the narrowing of others. The piping voicebox of adolescence would return.

I have reached my prime without noticing it or enjoying it. I am only a few short decades away from being unable to cut my own toenails. Can I trust Mr Blair? Will the future National Health Service provide adult Pampers on prescription, should I need them? These thoughts flashed through my mind in a nanosecond. I was brought back to the present world by Zo asking me to close my mouth while she applied a heavy-duty foundation to my 'acne-scarred' face. Meanwhile, the lights and camera were being adjusted in the mock kitchen in a corner of the studio. I was introduced to my on-air 'co-presenter', an Indian man called Dev Singh. He had thick glossy hair, large brown eyes, eyelashes like black palm trees. The teeth! The lips! He said, 'I haven't closed my eyes for two nights. I'm so, so scared.'

I admitted that I was also a little apprehensive. 'Oh, thank you, thank you for sharing that with me,' he said. He then confessed to me that he was a strict vegetarian and that even the thought of handling offal made him retch. Belinda broke in and said, 'Dev, vou're only here to look pretty. We don't expect you to touch the filthy stuff.'

I asked Belinda what Dev's exact role was to be, and pointed out that no mention had been made about me needing a co-presenter. 'Yeah, well, we looked at your pilot tape again, and thought we needed to s.e.x it up a bit,' she said.

Thankfully I still had Cath. She had already prepared the ingredients and placed them in little bowls. She'd even cleaved halfway through the pig's head for me. I changed into my whites, and Dev changed into a red silk s.h.i.+rt, and a pair of tight white Levi's, and we staggered through a rehearsal, miming the cooking as we went. At the end Zippo said, 'Cath, find us some raunchy-looking vegetables and fruit, there's a love.' She came back five minutes later with a bag full of carrots, cuc.u.mbers and melons, and dumped it on the worktop. 'See what you can do with those, Dev,' said Zippo. 'Five minutes' rehearsal, then we go.'

Dev moved among the suggestive fruit and veg like a magician practising a trick, then he looked up from his work and said, 'Well, I'm ready, as you can see from the state of my trousers.'

Everyone in the studio laughed, apart from me, Cath, and Zippo, who was on the phone to LA arguing about the cost of Burt Reynolds' just-woken-up wig.

I've had worse moments in my life--sitting in Casualty aged fifteen with a model aeroplane Super-glued to my nose was unforgettably awful--but being upstaged by Dev and his double entendres came quite near. As I was limo'd home, I was visited by a feeling of self-disgust. I have not written a single creative or poetic word for weeks. I have sold my soul for a mess of pottage.

Thursday June 19th Justine asked me this evening if I was gay! I blame Pandora. I have been pa.s.sionately in love with her since I was thirteen and three-quarters, and I am unable to give myself emotionally (or s.e.xually) to any other woman.

Friday June 20th Zippo rang me to say that they have edited the first three shows. Dev Singh's contribution has been kept to an absolute minimum. That grotesque business with the cuc.u.mber and the pig's ears has been edited out totally.

Zippo confided in me that they 'are thinking of letting Dev go'. I said I thought that would be a wise decision. He asked me to fax him a list of ingredients needed for Monday's recordings. I faxed him three recipes: Giblet Pie, Baked Bullock's Heart and Economical Soup for the Poor. I was about to ask him if he would be interested in producing The White Van, but he said, 'Got to go. Goldie's agent is on line two. She's asking for wig parity.'

Monday June 23rd Pandora rang, and said, 'If the News of the World ring you, say, 'No comment'.' She wouldn't elaborate. It sounds ominous. We talked for a while about our parents' romance, using a code: A was my mother, B was her father. Pandora said that C (her mother) had rung her up in tears, saying that she had found a Kit-Kat wrapper in B's anorak pocket.

'G.o.d!' I said. 'A eats two Kit-Kats a day. But why is C so suspicious? Why shouldn't B eat a Kit-Kat?'

'He's boycotted Rowntree's products since 1989,' said Pandora. 'Something about the working conditions of the cocoa-workers.'

'They're getting careless,' I said. We agreed to review the ABC situation next week.

I went back to bed, still exhausted from yesterday's recordings. I never want to see, smell or even touch offal ever again.

Dev Singh had not been 'let go', far from it. If anything he had been let loose! Everyone in the studio was convulsed with laughter at his tiresome antics--apart from me and Cath.