On another page I discovered that Brett achieved 14 GCSEs at A grade. His four A-levels were starred. He has published a volume of poetry, called Blow out the Candle. The reviews were ecstatic. I hate him already.
I emailed him the following message:
"Dear Brett, I thank you for your letter of the 10th. Sadly, I am almost never in Oxford.
Yours sincerely, Adrian (Mole)."
Disconcertingly, Brett emailed back almost at once.
"Hi Bro, Leaving soonest for train to Leicester. See you around 4pm today."
I emailed back that I had got the builders in, and that there was no water, heat, light or toilet facilities, and suggested that he postpone his visit for at least six months. I finished with, "Please confirm that you are not coming."
I waited by the machine for over half an hour, but no reply came. I am not ashamed of living in a council house on a sink estate. As for graffiti and abandoned cars, I hardly notice them. But Brett almost certainly will. I tidied up as best I could, and rearranged the bookcase so that he could not fail to see that I was conversant with Dostoevsky, Tolstoy and Chekhov. At 4.05pm, I heard the taxi pull up outside, then a confident voice boomed, "Where's my brother?"
The martial art of paper folding
Sunday, September 23. Ashby-de-la-Zouch
Brett is still here. He claims that the events of September 11 have traumatised him and have rendered him incapable of using transport of any kind. Over breakfast this morning, he said to me, "I could be here for ever, Adrian." He is formidably clever, and seems to have read every book printed in English, French and German since Caxton invented the printing press. Infuriatingly, he quotes from them constantly, and corrects my own attributions.
He has been helping out Glenn with his homework; consequently, the teachers at Neil Armstrong Community College are now talking excitedly about the boy being only the second pupil to get to Oxbridge (the first was Pandora). William is in love with "Uncle Brett", and follows him around the house like the Old Shep that Elvis sang about. Origami is only one of Brett's many skills. This morning he transformed the G2 section of the Guardian into Balliol College, complete with dons and undergraduates.
He is constantly on the phone to his many friends around the world. He assures me that he will stump up for his share of the phone bill. Then, a moment later, laughs about his state of penury.
He and my father get on like a house in flames, and talk endlessly about football players, cricketers and rugby oafs — people I have never heard of.
Monday, September 24
I heard with alarm today that, due to the coming «Crusade» or "Infinite Justice" or "The Conflict" or "World War Three", David Blunkett has warned that my civil liberties may be restricted in the future, and that I may have to carry an identity card with me at all times. Since I am constantly losing my Sainsbury's Reward Card, the future looks dim for me.
Tuesday, September 25
Brett is making a documentary about post-twin towers trauma using a Panasonic hand-held digital video camera. Channel 4 and BBC 2 are bidding for the rights. He interviewed me at length in the kitchen. When he played it back to me, I noticed that my Afghan coat was hanging on the back of the kitchen door. I asked Brett to re-shoot, but he refused, saying that he would not be censored.
Mistaken identity
Sunday, September 30, Ashby-de-la-Zouch
Brett has written a 1,500-word article for The Independent, headed “The Osama Bin Laden I Knew.” He claims to have first met Bin Laden in the breakfast room of a boarding house in Blackpool. "I was immediately suspicious of him," wrote Brett. "He claimed to have been in England for five years, yet he did not appear to know that pepper was shaken from the pot with the multi-holes. In the bar that night, he ordered a pint of snowball and a packet of pork trotters (sic). When I commented that snowballs were usually drunk by women, and in much daintier glasses, Bin Laden snarled, 'I am a British citizen, I hate slugs, and I visit a garden centre many times a year. Also, I watch the whores of western culture on EastEnders.
“When our landlady failed to bring him a packet of pork trotters, saying, 'It's scratchings you want, love, an' we're out of 'em due to swine fever', he went berserk and shouted, 'I am a legitimate citizen of this country — here is my passport and my HGV licence. " After I had finished reading the piece, Brett asked me for a critique. I said, "It is a tissue of lies from beginning to end. It is a well-known fact that Osama bin Laden does not speak English." Brett replied airily, "Our conversations were conducted in Arabic throughout." I scoffed, "Are you claiming that a Blackpool landlady is fluent in Arabic?" "Yes," said Brett. "Her name is Fatima Hardcastle — we do live in a multicultural society now, you know." I know Brett is lying, but how can I prove it? I can only pray that The Independent throws this piece of fiction back in his face before he brings shame on the Mole dynasty.
Monday, October 1
I have long suspected that my sister Rosie is not my father's child, and that she was sired by Mr Lucas, our next-door neighbour. My theory was confirmed today when my white-faced mother burst into my kitchen and sobbed, "If they bring in ID cards with DNA profiling, I'm done."
Tuesday, October 2
I phoned Pandora at the Grand Hotel in Brighton, and urged her to speak against the introduction of ID cards. She barked, "Clear this line! Don'tcha know there's a war on?" And then she cut me off.
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 cannot bear the way he seems to suck Rice Krispies down his throat. But I am a lone voice. He is loved and admired by everyone I know.
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 pinned a £10 note to a tree, together with a poem:
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.