True Confessions of Adrian Albert Mole (12 page)

Saturday June 4
^th

Mother has come to her senses. She was downstairs as usual this morning. Her day of insurrection has not been mentioned.

Sunday June 5
^th

Glancing through the accounts I noticed a new entry: “Mrs Roberts, wages: sixpence a week.”

So, Father has capitulated to industrial action has he? How despicable! That is something I would never
ever
do.

We have not yet had a reply from the King. We are most displeased. When we are Queen we will remember this insult. We will take our revenge on our royal relations. The Throne! The Throne! The Throne!

∨
The True Confessions
∧

Correspondence of a Queen in Waiting

Dear Claire,

We are a woman of sixty plus years old, married to a man much older than myself. Our children have long fled from the nest. I have a demanding and fulfilling full-time job. I live in several comfortable homes. My social life is rich and varied and I travel the world and meet interesting, powerful people. I have a very posh accent and am terribly
good
at things.

My problem is this. Nobody likes me. I know this for a fact. Wherever I go people grovel and fawn and smile to my face, but they do this out of fear; their eyes show their terror.

I am
so
unhappy, Claire; what do you advise?

Size Fourteen of Westminster.

Dear Size Fourteen,

Well, well, well. You are in a dither aren’t you? Is there a possibility that you have halitosis, or an offensive body odour? Or perhaps you are
too
good at things. How about a public failure? Have you considered coarsening your accent? You say your husband is much older than yourself. Does this mean that you have ceased to have a warm, loving relationship? If so why not try awakening his desires? There are some wonderful multi-coloured condoms on the market now, any of which would add pep to your marriage bed.

Claire.

Dear Claire,

1 Four Metropolitan Police sniffer dogs have examined me for halitosis and body odour. All four pronounced me odour free.

2 I have already
tried
public failure: four million people are unemployed in this country.

3 I occasionally forget myself and coarsen my posh accent in the heat of debate.

4 I sent for the condoms and gave them to my husband; saying, “for the bedroom dear.” He blew them up and hung them over the bed.

What
am
I to do?

Size Fourteen of Westminster.

Dear Size Fourteen,

I now know who you are. If you want friends you must resign. There is no alternative.

Claire.

Dear Earnest Eggnogge,

How dare you waste my time; don’t you know I am a
de facto
royal personage? I’ve received some whining, snivelling, wipe my eyes, pass the Kleenex letters in my time, but yours truly takes the Huntley and Palmers. Quite frankly, I don’t give a toss that your old mother died of hypothermia last winter or that your zit-faced, moronic teenaged lout of a son has not worked since leaving school. And the news that your wife has been waiting for six years to have her nasty, infected womb removed left me cold. Haven’t you got a sharp knife, for God’s sake? Show some initiative, man, borrow a surgical handbook from the library (be quick, I’m thinking of privatizing them), scrub the kitchen table, put your wife on her back and delve in there. (Wash your hands first.)

In your horrible working-class handwriting you inform me that your stinking lavatory pan has been leaking for over a year and that rats regularly cavort in your living room. Can’t you see the obvious solution, you contemptible prole? Train the rats to do simple tricks – jumping over cans of baked beans, etc., charge the public an entrance fee to goggle at the spectacle and with the proceeds you can stroll around a bathroom supplies centre and nonchalantly order yourself a whole bathroom suite, should you so wish.

You dare to say that I am out of touch with ‘real people’ and suggest that I ‘jump on a train and come up North’.

Firstly, Mr Eggnogge, I am married to a ‘real person’. Denis is, contrary to appearances, neither a robot, nor an extraterrestrial being, nor an aqueous creature who crawled out of a deep lake.

Secondly, I would rather spend the night with Guy the Gorilla (yes, I know he’s dead) than climb aboard one of those vile, rattling contraptions and visit you all up there in slag heap land. We have nothing in common. I hate ferrets, dripping, pigeons, corner shops and fat, ugly pale people who are unable to speak in complete sentences and who don’t understand how the International Monetary Fund works.

Finally, at the end of your letter you bleat on about your dole payment, calling it a ‘pittance’ and an ‘affront to your dignity’. This last bit made me laugh quite a lot. What did you get for Christmas? A subscription to
Marxism Today
?

Listen, parasite, that’s the point, don’t you see? We don’t need you and your sort any more. Get the message now? Take my advice, shovel the coal out of the bath, then fill it up and jump in and drown yourself.

H.M. Thatcher.

NB.
Note to Private Secretary

Tidy this up a bit will you Rupert?

Dear Mr Eggnogge,

The Prime Minister was most concerned to hear of your difficulties. She is looking into the various matters you raised in your letter.

Yours sincerely,

Rupert Brown Bear.

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