Monday, October 29
The headline in the Leicester Mercury screamed EARTHQUAKE! DID YOU FEEL THE TREMOR? Apparently, Pamela and I were at the very epicentre of a 3.8 on the Richter scale, which caused terrified residents of Melton Mowbray and North Leicestershire to flee their homes in terror. A box on the front page of the Mercury asked its readers, "What were you doing when the earthquake struck? Let our news desk know." I hope to God Pamela does not comply with this request.
Gunpowder, treason and burnt sausages
Monday, November 5, Ashby-de-la-Zouch
My Independent was not delivered this morning. I went to the newsagent to complain and collect it in person. A youth of about 14 was sitting on the pavement outside the shop, next to a balloon wrapped in a bundle of rags. The balloon was sporting a crudely felt-tipped beard and round glasses.
As I passed by, the youth muttered, "Penny for the guy?" I searched through the small change in my wallet and gave him a penny. He dashed it angrily to the ground and said, "Tight bastard." I said I had rarely seen such a poor representation of Guy Fawkes. He adjusted the rags on top of the balloon's head and said, "That's because it ain't Guy Fawkes, it's Osmar bin Laden, ain't it? We're burnin' 'im on the reccy tonight."
11pm
That's the last back garden bonfire party I will ever throw. The sausages burst inside the oven, the potatoes burned to cinders, and my economy box of fireworks lasted less than 10 minutes. Neither of the Catherine wheels spun. My guests were continually turning their heads eastwards, where rockets from the community bonfire were filling the sky with spectacular patterns and colour.
The recreation ground was thronged with my fellow council tenants and their social workers and probation officers. The community police team was in charge of the fireworks and, in a daring social experiment, Wayne Drabble, the arsonist who burned down the scout hut last year, was in charge of the bonfire. I bumped into Mohamed at the halal barbecue, and he told me that his youngest brother, Imran, is talking hot-headedly of flying to Afghanistan to fight alongside his Islamic brothers.
Mohamed said that Imran had tried to persuade his girlfriend, Kylie Dodge, to cover herself up with a burka, and walk 10 paces behind him. But she said she had a good pair of legs and she weren't going to cover them up for nobody. Mohamed went on to say that he doubted that Imran could find his way to Heathrow, let alone Afghanistan. He said, "And he'd have to buy a beard from a joke shop, coz he ain't never needed to shave, not once in his whole life."
She will remember
Sunday, November 11, Ashby-de-la-Zouch
As I was making my way to B&Q this morning with William, to buy spare bulbs for our Christmas tree lights, I passed a group of ancient men and women marching towards the war memorial. Some were carrying wreaths of poppies, others had medals pinned to their anoraks.
One old bloke, a double amputee, was being pushed in a wheelchair by his wizened wife. William asked in too loud a voice, "Where's that man's legs gone, dad?" I answered, "He left them in some corner of a foreign field, so that we English could be free men and women, son."
A Boys' Brigade band full of spotty youths began to play “Pack Up Your Troubles In Your Old Kitbag”. The old people tried to march in time to the music, but some of them were too slow to keep up. Tears pricked my eyes. I dashed them away as we entered the superstore. As we made our way through to the Christmas department, William asked me if I would have to go to war, to fight «Osmar» bin Laden. I told him that I was a pacifist and did not believe in war. William said, "But what if Mr Bin Laden came into my bedroom and was going to kill me. Would you let him, Dad?"
It was a tricky moral dilemma, which was not helped when my mother appeared from behind an artificial conifer, saying, "Yes, what would you do, Mr bleedin' pacifist?"
I stammered out that in the unlikely circumstance of the world's most wanted terrorist appearing in William's bedroom, then of course I would arm wrestle Bin Laden to the floor and keep him there until help arrived in the form of a Panda car from Ashby-de-la-Zouch police headquarters.
William seemed reassured and went off to watch a mechanical Santa ringing a bell. But my mother gave a nasty laugh and said, "The last time you were in an arm wrestling competition was in 1982, at the youth club table-top sports day. You were beaten 10 times out of 10 by Pandora Braithwaite. You were wearing that brown jumper that grandma knitted you for your birthday."
My mother's memory is phenomenal. She could go on stage as Pauline Mole, The Memory Woman.
Infinite injustice
Wednesday, November 21, Ashby-de-la-Zouch
Mohammed has been arrested! His brother Imran told me that Mohammed had been stacking bags of Real-Wood logs on the forecourt when he was surrounded by police marksmen, who ordered him to take off his clothes and walk towards them with his hands up. Before he got into the back of the van, Mohammed shouted (according to a witness, Wayne Worthington, who had gone to the garage to pick up the wrestling magazine, Raw), "I was only parked on that double yellow for two minutes!" I think it's disgusting that precious police resources are being squandered on minor parking offences.
My allegorical novel, Jack and John Towers, is proving difficult to write. Mainly because I have never been to New York. Yet I must press on. Any writer worth his salt has to pen a post-Twin Towers book. I expect Will Self is writing along similar lines. Note to self (myself). Remember to ring the multiplex and book tickets for Harry Potter. William has said he will kill himself if he isn't taken to see the film soon.
Thursday, November 22
Imran came round this morning. I offered him a cup of tea and a slice of toast. He shook his head and said, irritably, "It's Ramadan, Moley. I'm fasting, ain't I?" He came to tell me that his brother has been detained on "suspicion of terrorism". Apparently, an anonymous caller had informed the security forces that Mohammed had taken a flying lesson at Leicester airport. Imran said, "It's all my fault: I brought him a flying lesson gift voucher last Christmas." I sent a text message to Pandora: "Our mutual school friend, Mohammed, is a victim of state repression. Ring soonest."
Friday, November 23
Spent all day on the phone, organising a Free Mohammed rally in the town hall square. An alliance is forming, which includes BP customers, Nigel's Gays Against Daisy Cutters Group and Alan Clarke has promised to attend with his Morris Men. No word from Pandora.
The following was found on scrap of Bronco toilet paper in Adrian’s house:
Saturday, November 24
4am. A dawn raid! Diaries, computer, mobile phone impounded. Am being arrested under Blunkett's anti-terrorist bill. Please inform Liberty. Where will they take me? And for how long? I'm finished.