News at Ten... and three quarters by Martin Edwards

Hightown Writers respond to October's challenge to write inspired by 

'The secret diary of Adrian Mole aged 13 ¾'

  Big Ben: ‘BONG!’...

The announcer: “NEWS AT TEN... and three quarters… with Reginald Bosanquet.”

 Reggie: “Good evening...

 The main news headline to tonight.

 It has been alleged that Adrian Mole… is a fraud.

 An anonymous source who used to go to the same school as Mole claims that Mole pinched his idea of a keeping a diary.

 He said he’s not bitter at the loss of fame and fortune.

 He just wants to tell the real story... 

 This is his exclusive statement...”

Anonymous:

It’s fifty years since I turned this page 

Created, when I was ten

I wrote a diary of my life

With a scratchy fountain pen 

As Reggie Bosanquet read the news 

I journaled the day’s events 

Like when I nicked Ma’s bedroom sheets 

And made some garden tents 

I imagined a frozen Arctic quest 

With huskies and all the gear 

But all I got for bravery 

Was a clip around the ear.

Some days were boring, and just a blank 

Some captured every caper 

So much ink splodged on the page 

I needed blotting paper 

A year of scribbling led me to 

My birthday at eleven 

Then grammar school and flirty girls 

I thought I’d gone to heaven 

In my diary I put a note 

‘I love Wendy Jones! 

But she’s in love with a bloke called Mick 

He’s in the Rolling Stones’

I always sat at the desk behind 

And admired her from afar 

I dreamt of whisking her away 

In Ferris Bueller’s car

‘Dear diary, what do I do? 

Can’t talk, I’m far too shy 

She makes me tingle to my toes 

It’s strange, I’m not sure why’.

Then football filled the pages mainly 

Until I got past twelve 

‘Wendy Jones?... tricky subject 

One in which best not to delve’

By thirteen and three quarters 

I was definitely on a roll 

I’d already filled three books or more 

Way ahead of Adrian Mole

“What are you doing?”, he nerdly sniffed 

As I finished off a page 

“Bog off, Spotty”, I replied 

So he stomped off in a rage.

And then it happened, my voice grew deeper 

I grew hairs in awkward places 

Me and the lads, not just Mole 

Grew acne on our faces

Wendy Jones was long forgotten 

I’d fallen for my mate’s mum 

She winked at me, when she caught me 

Gawping at her bum

I went bright red, but she laughed 

And told me not to worry 

“I’m very flattered”, she reassured. 

I scarpered in a hurry

My diary was... too embarrassed 

To accept further teenage thoughts 

Of Danny’s mum, biology lessons 

And our fear of genital warts 

So, I have to rely on memory 

To recall the wonder years 

Of getting drunk at Danny’s house 

And laughing beery tears

I lay awake in their spare room 

It was just ‘bout half past two 

Mrs Robinson knocked my door 

She’d just been to the loo

“You alright?”, she smiled and said 

“I thought I heard a noise 

You’ve been drinking, haven’t you? 

You naughty teenage boys”

“Oh, my God, this is it! 

My fantasy come true 

Me and Danny’s mum, alone 

She’ll teach me a thing or two”

And then a whisper... 

“Here you are”, said my goddess vision in silk 

A silhouette of loveliness 

With... a tall, cold glass of milk?

“You’d better drink this down right now 

It’ll stop you feeling ill 

Or you’ll wake up with a banging head 

And reaching for a pill”

In my heart I think I knew 

She’d never make that leap 

From the moonlight doorway to my bed 

That hill was far too steep 

So, there we have it, adolescence 

From a growing boy’s perspective 

Moley was a late developer 

No drink, or sex objective

He may have copied my idea 

But his diary was such a bore 

I read it once, fell asleep 

And dropped it on the floor

I picked it up and on its cover 

I saw his spotty grin 

No doubt a virgin to this day 

So… I threw it in the bin