Adrian Mole, The Later Years: True Confessions of Adrian Albert Mole, Adrian Mole: The Wilderness Years, and Adrian Mole: The Cappuccino Years

by Sue Townsend

Overview

As his laugh-out-loud secret diary extends into his later teens and young adulthood, everyone's favorite angsty Brit remains "a brilliant comic creation" (The Times, London).
 
Continue to commiserate with "one of literature's most endearing figures"—a sharp-witted, pining, and achingly honest underdog of great expectations and dwindling patience who knows all (or believes he does) and tells all (The Observer). Having endured the agony of adolescence (just), Adrian now careens into his later teens, torturous twenties, and utterly disappointing thirties in these three hilarious sequels by "one of Britain's most celebrated comic writers" (The Guardian).
 
From the not-so-humble origins of The Secret Diary of Adrian Mole Aged 13 and ¾, Adrian's chronicle of angst has sold more than twenty million copies worldwide, spawned seven sequels, been adapted for television, and staged as a musical—truly "a phenomenon" (The Washington Post).
 
The True Confessions of Adrian Albert Mole: What's happening to Adrian Mole? On the one hand, he's entering the cusp of adulthood and burgeoning success as a published poet. On the other, he still lives at home, refuses to part with his threadbare stuffed rabbit, and has lost his job at the library for a shocking act of impudence: He shelved Jane Austen under Light Romance. Even worse, someone named Sue Townsend stole his diaries and published them under her own name. Of course they were bestsellers.
 
Adrian Mole: The Wilderness Years: At 23¾ years old, Adrian is now technically an adult and almost prepared. On the upside: He's fallen for a perfectly lovely Nigerian waitress; he's seeing a therapist so as to talk about himself without interruption; and he's added vowels to his experimental novel-in-progress (so much more accessible to the masses!). The downside? Pandora is probably history; a pea-brained rival has been published before him to great acclaim; and worse—Adrian has come to the devastating realization that he may not be uncommon after all.
 
Adrian Mole: The Cappuccino Years: At 34¾, impotent intellectual Adrian Mole is soon to be divorced; he hasn't a clue what to do with his semi-stardom as a celebrity chef; his parents have become swingers (with whom is too shocking to go into now); his epic novel is still unpublished; his ex-flame Pandora is running for political office; and his younger sister has rebelled in the most distressingly common ways. There is one upside: Adrian's son has inherited his mother's unblemished skin.
 
"Townsend's wit is razor sharp" (Daily Mirror) as she shows us the world through the older and (possibly?) wiser eyes of her "achingly funny anti-hero" (Daily Mail), proving again and again why she's been called "a national treasure" (The New York Times Book Review).

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781504054133
Publisher:	Open Road Media
Publication date:	05/29/2018
Series:	The Adrian Mole Series
Sold by:	OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED - EBKS
Format:	eBook
Pages:	1030
File size:	5 MB

About the Author

Sue Townsend was born in Leicester, England, in 1946. Despite not learning to read until the age of eight, leaving school at fifteen with no qualifications, and having three children by the time she was in her mid-twenties, she managed to be very well read. Townsend wrote secretly for twenty years, and after joining a writers' group at the Phoenix Theatre, Leicester, she won a Thames Television Award for her first play, Womberang, and became a professional playwright and novelist. Following the publication of The Secret Diary of Adrian Mole Aged 13¾, she continued to make the nation laugh and prick its conscience with seven more volumes of Adrian's diaries, five popular novels—including The Queen and I, Number Ten, and The Woman Who Went to Bed for a Year—and numerous well-received plays. Townsend passed away in 2014 at the age of sixty-eight, and remains widely regarded as Britain's favorite comic writer.
Womberang, and became a professional playwright and novelist. Following the publication of The Secret Diary of Adrian Mole Aged 13¾, she continued to make the nation laugh and prick its conscience with seven more volumes of Adrian’s diaries, five popular novels—including The Queen and I, Number Ten, and The Woman Who Went to Bed for a Year—and numerous well-received plays. Townsend passed away in 2014 at the age of sixty-eight, and remains widely regarded as Britain’s favorite comic writer.
 

Read an Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

Adrian Albert Mole

Adrian Mole's Christmas

December 1984

Monday December 24th

CHRISTMAS EVE

Something dead strange has happened to Christmas. It's just not the same as it used to be when I was a kid. In fact I've never really got over the trauma of finding out that my parents had been lying to me annually about the existence of Santa Claus.

To me then, at the age of eleven, Santa Claus was a bit like God, all-seeing, all-knowing, but without the lousy things that God allows to happen: earthquakes, famines, motorway crashes. I would lie in bed under the blankets (how crude the word blankets sounds today when we are all conversant with the Tog rating of continental quilts), my heart pounding and palms sweaty in anticipation of the virgin Beano album. I would imagine big jolly Santa looking from his celestial sledge over our cul-de-sac and saying to his elves: 'Give Adrian Mole something decent this year. He is a good lad. He never forgets to put the lavatory seat down.' Ah ... the folly of the child!

Alas, now at the age of maturity, (sixteen years, eight months and twenty-two days, five hours and six minutes) ... I know that my parents walk around the town centre wild-eyed with consumer panic chanting desperately, 'What shall we get for Adrian?' Is it any wonder that Christmas Eve has lost its awe?

2.15am Just got back from the Midnight Service. As usual it dragged on far too long. My mother started getting fidgety after the first hour of the co-op young wives' carols. She kept whispering, 'I shall have to go home soon or that bloody turkey will never be thawed out for the morning.'

Once again the Nativity Playlet was ruined by having a live donkey in the church. It never behaves itself, and always causes a major disturbance, so why does the vicar inflict it on us? OK so his brother-in-law runs a donkey sanctuary, but so what?

To be fair, the effect of the Midnight Service was dead moving. Even to me who is a committed nihilistic existentialist.

Tuesday December 25th

CHRISTMAS DAY

Not a bad collection of presents considering my Dad's redundant. I got the grey zip-up cardigan I asked for. My mother said, 'If you want to look like a sixteen-year old Frank Bough then go ahead and wear the thing!'

The Oxford Dictionary will come in useful for increasing my word power. But the best present of all was the electric shaver. I have already had three shaves. My shin is as smooth as a billiard ball. Somebody should get one for Leon Brittain. It is not good for Britain's image for a cabinet minister to go around looking like a gangster who has been in the cells of a New York Police Station all night.

The lousy Sugdens, my mother's inbred Norfolk relations, turned up at 11.30am. So I got my parents out of bed and then retired to my room to read my Beano annual. Perhaps I am too worldly and literate nowadays, but I was quite disappointed at its childish level of humour.

I emerged from my room in time for Christmas dinner and was forced to engage the Sugdens in conversation. They told me in minute, mind-boggling detail, about the life-cycle of King Edward potatoes, from tuber to chip pan. They were not a bit interested in my conversation about the Norwegian Leather Industry. In fact they looked bored. Just my luck to have philistines for relations. Dinner was late as usual. My mother has never learnt the secret of co-ordinating the ingredients of a meal. Her gravy is always made before the roast potatoes have turned brown. I went into the kitchen to give her some advice, but she shouted, 'Bugger off out' through the steam. When it came the meal was quite nice but there was no witty repartee over the table; not a single hilarious anecdote was told. In fact I wish I'd had my Xmas dinner with Ned Sherrin. His relations are dead lucky to have him. I bet their sides ache from laughing.

The Sugdens don't approve of drink, so every time my parents even looked at a bottle of spirits they tightened their lips and sipped their tea. (And yes it is possible to do both, I've seen it with my own eyes.) In the evening we all had a desultory game of cards. Grandad Sugden won four thousand pounds off my father. There was a lot of joking about my father giving Grandad Sugden an IOU but father said to me in the kitchen, 'No way am I putting my name to paper, that mean old git would have me in court as fast as you could say King Edward!'

The Sugdens went to bed early on our rusty camp beds. They are leaving for Norfolk at dawn because they are worried about potato poachers. I now know why my mother turned out to be wilful and prone to alcohol abuse. It is a reaction against her lousy moronic upbringing in the middle of the potato fields of Norfolk.

Wednesday December 26th

BOXING DAY

I was woken at dawn by the sound of Grandad Sugden's rusty Ford Escort refusing to start. I know I should have gone down into the street and helped to push it but Grandma Sugden seemed to be doing all right on her own. It must be all those years of flinging sacks of potatoes about. My parents were wisely pretending to be asleep, but I know they were awake because I could hear coarse laughter coming from their bedroom, and when the Sugdens' engine came alive and the Escort finally turned the corner of our cul-de-sac I distinctly heard the sound of a champagne cork popping and the chink of glasses. Not to mention the loud 'Cheers'.

Went back to sleep but the dog licked me awake at 9.30, so I took it for a walk past Pandora's house. Her dad's Volvo wasn't in the drive so they must still be staying with their rich relations. On the way I passed Barry Kent, who was kicking a football up against the wall of the old people's home. He seemed full of seasonal good will for once and I stopped to talk with him. He asked what I'd had for Christmas; I told him and I asked him what he'd had. He looked embarrassed and said, 'I ain't 'ad much this year 'cos our dad's lost his job'. I asked him what happened, he said, 'I dunno. Our dad says Mrs Thatcher took it off him.' I said 'What, personally?' Barry shrugged and said, 'Well that's what our dad reckons.'

Barry asked me back to his house for a cup of tea so I went to show that I bore him no grudge from the days when he used to demand money with menaces from me. The outside of the Kents' council house looked very grim. (Barry told me that the council have been promising to mend the fences, doors and windows for years) but the inside looked magical. Paper chains were hung everywhere, almost completely hiding the cracks in the walls and ceilings. Mr Kent had been out into the community and found a large branch, painted it with white gloss paint and stuck it into the empty paint tin. This branch effectively took the place of a Christmas tree in my opinion, but Mrs Kent said, sadly, 'But it's not the same really, not if the only reason you've got it is because you can't afford to have a real, plastic one.' I was going to say that their improvised tree was modernistic and Hi Tech but I kept my mouth shut.

I asked the Kent children what they'd had for Christmas and they said, 'Shoes.' So I had to pretend to admire them. I had no choice because they kept sticking them under my nose. Mrs Kent laughed and said, 'And Mr Kent and me gave each other a packet of fags!' As you know, dear diary, I disapprove of smoking but I could understand their need to have a bit of pleasure at Christmas so I didn't give them my anti-smoking lecture.

I didn't like to ask any more questions and politely declined the mince pies they offered ... from where I was sitting I could see into their empty pantry.

Walking back home I wondered how my parents were able to buy decent Christmas presents for me. After all my father and Mr Kent were both innocent victims of the robot culture where machines are preferred to people.

As I came through our back door I found out. My father was saying, 'But how the hell am I going to pay the next Access bill, Pauline?' My mother said, 'We'll have to sell something George, whatever happens we've got to hang on to at least one credit card because it's impossible to live on the dole and social security!'

So my family's Christmas prosperity is a thin veneer. We've had it on credit.

In the afternoon we went round to Grandma's for Boxing Day tea. As she slurped out the trifle she complained bitterly about her Christmas Day spent at the Evergreen Club. She said, 'I knew I shouldn't have gone; that filthy communist Bert Baxter got disgustingly drunk on a box of liqueur chocolates and sang crude words at the Carol Service!'

My father said, 'You should have come to us, mum, I did ask you!'

Grandma said, 'You only asked me once and anyway the Sugdens were there.' This last remark offended my mother; she is always criticising her family but she hates anybody else to do the same. The tea ended in disaster when I broke a willow pattern plate that Grandma has had for years. I know Grandma loves me but I have to record that on this occasion she looked at me with murder in her eyes. She said, 'Nobody will ever know what that plate meant to me!' I offered to pick the pieces up but she pushed me away with the end of the hand brush. I went into the bathroom to cool down. After twenty minutes my mother banged on the door and said, 'C'mon, Adrian, we're going home. Grandma's just told your dad that it's his own fault he's been made redundant.' As I passed through the living room the silence between my father and my Grandma was as solid as a double-glazed window.

As we passed Pandora's house in the car, I saw that the fairy lights on the fir tree in her garden were switched on, so I asked my parents to drop me off. Pandora was ecstatic to see me at first. She raved about the present I bought her (a solid gold bracelet from Tesco's, £2.49) but after a while she cooled a bit and started going on about the Christmas house-party she'd been to. She made a lot of references to a boy called Crispin Wartog-Lowndes. Apparently he is an expert rower and he rowed Pandora across a lake on Christmas day. Whilst doing so he quoted from the works of Percy Bysshe Shelley. According to Pandora there was a mist on the lake. I got into a silent jealous rage and imagined pushing Crispin Wartog-Lowndes's aristocratic face under the lake until he'd forgotten about Pandora, Christmas and Shelley. I got into bed at 1am, worn out with all the emotion. In fact, as I lay in the dark, tears came to my eyes; especially when I remembered the Kents' empty pantry.

The Mole/Mancini Letters

January 1st 1985

From Hamish Mancini
Hi there Aidy!

How are you kid? ... How's the zits ... your face still look like the surface of the moon? Hey don't worry, I gotta cure. You rub the corpse of a dead frog into your face at night. Do you have frogs in England? ... Your mum gotta blender? ... OK, here's what you do:

1. You find a dead frog.

2. You put it in the blender. (Gory, but you don't have to look.)

3. You depress the button for 30 seconds. (Neither do you have to listen.)

4. You pour the resulting gunk into a jar.

5. You wash the blender, huh?

6. Last thing at night (clean your teeth first) you apply the gunk to your face. It works! I now gotta complexion like a baby's ass. Hey! It was great reading your diary, even the odd unflattering remark about me. Still, old buddy, I forgive you on account of how you were of unsound mind at the time you wrote the stuff. An' I got questions ...

1. What does RSPCA stand for?

2. Who's Malcolm Muggeridge?

3. For chrissake, what are PE shorts?

4. Is the Morning Star a commie newspaper?

5. Where's Skegness? ... What's Skegness rock?

6. 'V' sign? ... Like Churchill the war leader?

7. Toad in the Hole, is it food or what?

8. Woodbines? ... Bert Baxter smokes flowers?

9. Family Allowance ... is this a charity handout?

10. Kevin Keegan ... who is he?

11. Barclaycard ... what is it?

12. Yorkshire Puddings ... what are they?

13. Broadcasting House?

14. How much in dollars is 25 pence?

15. Is a Mars Bar candy?

16. Is Sainsbury's a hypermarket?

17. What's the PDSA, some kinda animal hospital?

18. GCEs, what are they?

19. Think I can guess what Big and Bouncy magazine is like ... but gimme some details, kid?

20. Bovril – sounds disgusting! ... Is it?

21. Evergreens? ... Explain please.

22. Social Services?

23. Spotted Dick ... jeezus! ... This some sexual disease?

24. Is a 'detention centre' jail?

25. You bought your mother 'Black Magic' – what is she, a witch or something?

26. Where's Sheffield?

27. What's Habitat?

28. Radio Four, is it some local station?

29. O' level what?

30. What is a copper's nark?

31. Noddy? That the goon in the little car?

32. Dole ... 'Social Security' ... is this like our Welfare?

33. Sir Edmund Hilary ... he a relation of yours?

34. Alma Cogan ... she a singer?

35. Lucozade ... did you get drunk?

36. What's a conker?

37. The dog is AWOL ... what is or was AWOL?

38. Who is or was Noel Coward?

39. What is BUPA?

40. What are 'wellingtons'?

41. Who is Tony Benn?

42. Petrol ... you mean gas?

43. Is The Archers a radio serial about Robin Hood?

44. Is the Co-op a commie-run store?

45. Is VAT a kinda tax?

46. Eating a chapati? ... Isn't chapati French for hat?

47. Rouge? ... Don't you mean blusher?

48. Is an Alsatian a German Shepherd?

49. What's a Rasta?

Send info back soonest,

Yours eagerly, your old buddy

Hamish

PS. Mum's in the Betty Ford Clinic. She's doin' OK, they've cured everything but the kleptomania.

Leicester

February 1st 1985

Dear Hamish,

Thanks for your long letter but please try to put postage stamps on the envelope next time you write. You are rich and I am poor, I cannot afford to subsidise your scribblings. You owe me twenty-six pence. Please send it immediately.

I am no so desperate about my complexion that I have to resort to covering my face with purée of frog. In fact, Hamish, I was repelled and disgusted by your advice, and anyway my mother hasn't got a blender. She has stopped cooking entirely. My father and I forage for ourselves as best we can. I'm pleased that you enjoyed reading my diary even though many of the references were unfamiliar to you. I am enclosing a glossary for your edification.

1. RSPCA stands for: the Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals.

2. Malcolm Muggeridge: is an old intellectual who is always on TV. A bit like Gore Vidal, only more wrinkles.

3. PE shorts: running shorts as worn in Physical Education.

4. Yes, the Morning Star is a communist newspaper.

5. Skegness is a proletarian sea-side resort. Skegness rock is tubular candy.

6. 'V' sign: it means ... get stuffed!

7. Toad in the hole: a batter pudding containing sausages.

8. Woodbines: small, lethally strong cigarettes.

9. Family Allowance: a small government payment made to parents of all children.

10. Kevin Keegan: a genius footballer now retired.

11. Barclaycard: plastic credit card.

12. Yorkshire Puddings: batter puddings minus sausages.

13. Broadcasting House: headquarters of the BBC.

14. Work it out for yourself.

15. Mars Bars: yes, it's candy, and very satisfying it is too.

16. Sainsbury's: is where teachers, vicars and suchlike do their food shopping.

17. PDSA: People's Dispensary for Sick Animals. A place where poor people take their ill animals.

18. GCEs are exams.

19. Big and Bouncy: a copy is on its way to you. Hide it from your mum.

20. Bovril: is a nourishing meat extract drink.

21. Evergreens: a club for wrinklies over 65 years.

22. Social Services: government agency to help the unfortunate, the unlucky, and the poor.

23. Spotted Dick: is a suet pudding containing sultanas. I find your sexual innuendos about my favourite pudding offensive in the extreme.

24. Detention Centre: jail for teenagers.

25. Black Magic: dark chocolates.

26. Sheffield: refer to map.

27. Habitat: store selling cheap, fashionable furniture.

28. Radio Four: BBC-run channel, bringing culture, news and art to Britain's listening masses.

29. O'level: see GCE's.

30. Copper's nark: rat fink who gives the police information about criminal activity.

(Continues…)

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