Since being introduced to WWF (World Wrestling Federation) at my mother's house, he is now addicted — and I use the word carefully. He lives only for Fridays when Sky Sports One broadcasts two hours of this so-called "Sports Entertainment". His heroes are The Rock and The Undertaker, and his antiheroes are Stone Cold Steve Austin and DDP (Diamond Dallas Page). All of the above are hideous looking, over-muscled brutes who do not look as if they have ever read world literature, and probably think that Nabokov is an illegal steroid.
Last night I found William six inches from the TV watching an action replay of The Rock's finishing manoeuvre. His victim was Booker T. The Rock was smashing Booker T's head through a table. When I made an objection, William said, "Quiet, Dad. The Rock's going for the one-two-three count. If he gets it, he'll leave the Astrodome with the WWF championship belt."
I pointed out to William that wrestling was merely a sublimation of sub-erotic activity. The hulks refuse to accept the truth — that they have more in common with Oscar Wilde than they can possibly know. William shouted, "For God's sake, stop talkin'!" I took the remote from him and flipped through the channels looking for a David Jason drama. William screamed, then held his breath until his lips turned blue. He only resumed breathing when I flicked back to Sky Sports One.
Sunday, August 26
Pandora claims that she has been approached by the News Of The World to visit Jeffrey Archer in prison and acquire, by whatever means, his DNA — £10,000 was mentioned. After some thought, she turned it down.
It has taken away the little bit of sense he had
Saturday, September 1, Ashby-de-la-Zouch, Leicestershire
I am powerless to make my boys either happy or unhappy. External forces dictate their mood. Namely, sport. As Glenn settled down in front of the television with a bag of nachos and a cheese dip to watch Leicestershire play Somerset, in the final of the Cheltenham and Gloucester Trophy at Lord's, he said, "Don't do no Hooverin' in 'ere, Dad, I gotta concentrate on the match."
I pleaded with him to turn down the sound on the TV and listen to the commentary on Radio 4. I said, "At least that way you will hear some erudite conversation." I brought in the Sony portable and switched it on to hear Henry Blofeld and Jonathan Agnew discussing a chocolate cake sent in by a listener, a Mrs Daphne Calf, from Wolverhampton. Then Blofeld said, "Aggers, my dear old thing, you're looking frightfully smart today."
Glenn rolled his eyes at William, who grabbed the TV remote and turned up the sound. I took the radio into the kitchen and fiddled the knob until I found Classic FM. I washed up to the sound of Gershwin's “Rhapsody In Blue,” which always reminds me of Skegness. It was playing when my father confessed to my mother that he had sired a child by another woman.
As I dried up, I wondered where my half-brother Brett was, and what he was doing. I worked out that he'd be about 19 by now. William came out of the living room during the advert breaks to snatch bits of food and to go to the toilet. But Glenn stayed glued to the TV, groaning and occasionally shouting ferociously at the screen. I heard his cry of despair when Leicestershire lost. I went in to see him and William in tears.
My parents came round later to watch the England-Germany match. When, after six minutes, Germany scored, my father shouted, "I blame Posh Spice for this. It's her fault Beckham strained his groin. She should be put in purdah before a big match!"
At half-time, in the kitchen, I asked my father about my brother, Brett Mole. He said, "Not now, Adrian, England are 2–1 up." At full time, I tried again. But my father was incoherent with xenophobic joy.
Hari-kari and kowtow
Wednesday, September 5, Ashby-de-la-Zouch
It comes as no surprise to me to learn of Iain Duncan Smith's Japanese ancestry. There is the look of the orient about him. And, when quizzed by John Humphrys, some of his answers were somewhat inscrutable. Perhaps he should fall on his sword, and give old Clarkie a chance. Speaking metaphorically, of course.
I have been preoccupied lately with thoughts about my half-brother, Brett. Where is he? Does he still live with his mother, Doreen Slater, aka Stick Insect? How tall is he? I wish I'd been called Brett, rather than Adrian. Bretts climb mountains, play lead guitar at Wembley Stadium and take beautiful women to bed, etc.
My newly wed parents seem less in love than they did last week. My mother was prescribed new spectacles yesterday, and was able to see my father clearly for the first time in many years. She confessed to me that she was «gobsmacked» at "how old your dad looks. What's happened to his face?" She said that he looks like some "sort of reptile". I explained to her that during the time he was married to Tania Braithwaite, she had insisted he attend a tanning parlour once a week. My mother snorted contemptuously, and said, "That's not all she insisted on. He's learned a few tricks in bed that I'm not happy with."
Thursday, September 6
I have decided to make contact with Brett. So I asked my father to come for afternoon tea. Over cucumber sandwiches and a pot of Earl Grey, I asked him bluntly if he has any contact with his other son. My father avoided the question by complaining about the sandwiches, calling them «poncy», and the tea, saying it was "as weak as a sailor's arsehole". Eventually, he confided to me that he had been sending Doreen Slater £20 a week since Brett's birth. He was glad that Brett had won a scholarship to Balliol College, Oxford to read English, because it meant him being 20 quid a week better off.
Balliol College, Oxford! How did he do it? His mother was a slag who was so thick she thought a semi-colon was a partial colostomy. I have written to Brett, care of Balliol College. The formality of a letter is needed, in the circumstances.
Big brother
Monday September 10, Ashby-de-la-Zouch
A letter from Oxford! A vellum envelope, addressed to me in exquisite copperplate handwriting. Inside, a matching piece of personalised notepaper, headed Brett Mole, Balliol College, Oxford. Website: www.brettmole.com.
Dear Adrian,
What a lark. We must meet and swap goss about our mutual father. When are you next in Oxford?
Yours fraternally,
Brett
I logged on immediately to www.brettmole and learned more about my half-brother than I needed to know. There were photographs of Brett mountaineering, white-water kayaking, playing tennis, limboing on a Caribbean beach, modelling on a catwalk and shaking hands with Prince Charles. His website informed me that Brett is 6ft 2in tall, takes a 16-inch collar and size 11 shoes.