Original subtitles

Wednesday, August 6th, 1997.

Fame and fortune continue to elude me. While Pandora is summoned to Downing

Street in a cabinet appointment, I am stuck in the provinces, my genius

ignored. My serial killer comedy has been inexplicably rejected by the BBC.

My mother's lover moves in with us today.

But worst of all, the privacy I need in order to write has gone.

I'm sharing a bunk bed in a box room with a four-year-old boy who thinks he's

Scary Spice.

Turn it down, William.

Hello, AD.

Justine. I'm on my way home from the club, AD.

I'm dead sorry about what happened in the food cupboard in the restaurant.

Sorry you lost your job. Oh, I played a public health inspector. You must have

come across a lap dancer with a snake having sex with a naked man in Soho

before. You'll get another kooky job, won't you? I'm not looking for one.

I'm just about to finish the last sentence of my novel, Low the Flat Hills

of My Homeland.

I'm going to be a professional writer.

Are you and Zippo still an item?

Oh, yeah.

He's amazing at sex.

What a posh bloke.

See you, Aidy.

Bye.

Sex. Will I ever get to do it again?

Justine's had dozens of lovers.

I've had four, and one of them was my wife.

It's nearly packed.

Oh, sorry.

Thought you were downstairs.

So you're moving back into the master, are you?

The other bedroom won't be... Big enough for what you want to get up to with him.

You make us sound like Russian gymnasts.

We're just two people in love.

I'll miss that shed.

You hardly set foot in it, George.

It was a waste of creosote.

Ivan?

How did you get in?

With a key.

I do live here, though.

Check.

Will you take me to Tanya's, son?

You can't stop at Tanya's.

She's a non-smoker.

Isn't there a friend you can stay with?

Your mother was my best friend.

I didn't bother making another.

Don't be too long, Adrian.

From now on, it's you looking after William.

All day, every day.

Right. Can I get plugged in now, Pauline?

For God's sake, Ivan. You've only just arrived.

I was talking about my computer, you racy girl.

She'll get transport.

She looks like the back of a bloody lorry. It's gone. It's a fortune's

Prescott. And who, with her languages and doctorate and passion for

international affairs, deserves a little something at the Foreign Office?

Yes.

Adrian, get off the line. She's waiting to hear.

Yes, she got your messages.

Well, she's been very busy.

Yes, I will.

Adrian, on his move. He wishes you luck.

Apparently he's keeping a scrapbook of my career.

I can just see him with his pritt stick and safety scissors.

She's here next to me.

I didn't bring much with you, Dad.

Tell me about it.

31 years of marriage and all I've got to show for it is a few clothes.

A fishing rod.

I mean, Tchaikovsky types.

George has just arrived. I'll have to go.

Good luck today. I know you'll get the foreign office.

Pandora could easily sort out the Middle East.

She speaks not bad of Yiddish and fluent Arabic.

You don't want a word with Adrian, do you?

Bye, then.

How are you, Tan?

I'm plagued with incessant suicidal thoughts, but apart from that...

I'll show you the room.

I overwinter the geraniums in here.

Now you're overwintering me.

Dad, strictly non-smoking household.

Normally, but smoke, George.

We're both going through the same torment.

What does she see in him? Ivan is, was, a wonderful man.

We were terribly happy. Then how come he's left you, Tanya?

You could still be a fine-looking woman.

You did something about your clothes.

Touched your lipstick.

Would you make some coffee, George?

The beans are in the cupboard.

I'll find you an ashtray.

Beans?

You look fantastic.

You've got an IQ on a par with Stephen Hawkins.

The Foreign Office is yours.

Give it away.

How am I meant to launch my literary career with a BP garage for a study and

a four-year-old boy for a secretary?

Adrian, you've got to clear those papers out of the way. It's a fire hazard.

Quieten your tongue, Philistine. That fire hazard represents five years of

literary endeavour.

William, you've mixed the pages up.

Adrian Mole.

You were so kind as to give me a lift to the polls on election day. Mr Tate. Yes,

I remember.

How could I forget a man with double pneumonia but only one leg?

This is my son, William.

And, uh... What's this?

This is my novel.

Low the Flat Hills of My Homeland.

It's about a bloke called Jake Westmoreland who flees from his home in

the provinces to experience the world.

And, uh...

How does it end?

He goes back to the provinces.

I sincerely hope that the literary world will appreciate it.

Your Marxism today's in, Archie. Thank you.

Dad, I'm hungry.

So am I, William.

I'm hungry for publication. I'm hungry for fame.

I need a page seven.

Ag and fish.

Sorry?

Agriculture, fisheries and food. I'm the junior minister for fish.

They said that my Icelandic would be an invaluable asset in the concrete around.

Rachel!

It's like having a full-time stalker. Every time I turn around, he's there.

Faster! And he'll be there 24 hours a day, seven days and seven nights a week.

Until he's 18.

I'll never cope.

£22.50 a day, a uniform, an entrance exam.

No, you can't go to nursery.

Have you seen what

that punt has got in his wash bag?

An exfoliating mitt. That's why that punt.

Has got such lovely skin.

That's poor old toothbrush.

I learned to tie it on a Remington.

There's so much I don't know about you, my love.

Yeah, there is.

Seen her without her makeup on yet? Yes, I have.

And every line, bag and wrinkle on your mother's face is precious to me.

Check? Check?

Talk to the young, cos the face ain't listening.

How would Martin Amis cope with Ivan Braithwaite?

I don't know what I hate most about him.

His stupid shoes and his daft moustache. The way he says enjoy before every meal.

Yeah. Enjoy, will you? Look, I know you don't like him, but many people do.

But I love him, so please try at least to be courteous to him. Adrian hates him

and all.

He calls him Ivan the Terrible. You two!

Look, I'm enormously aware of the stress we're all suffering.

Why don't we pop down to the family trauma unit, sit in a circle and have a

chat with an expert, eh? An expert on what?

Stealing other men's wives? He didn't steal them! He's doing my head in, Mum!

For God's sake, does everybody in this bloody family have to shout?

Dad? What?

Where's my grandad? Is he dead?

They're buggering me back up. What's in him?

Rejection.

Perhaps I should put the punctuation back in.

How did Lord Archer of Western Supermare get published?

Still no luck with the experimental novel?

No.

Pandora would know. She strides down the corridors of power, whereas I limp down

the cul-de-sac of Wisteria Walk.

Since I took up office at the Ministry of Agriculture, Fisheries and Bloody

Food, I have had wide-ranging discussions on increasing the value of

UK aquaculture. Do you think it's possible to actually die of boredom?

Probably. I'm an intensive carer myself.

That bloody foe!

Publishers? Adrian, we're up to our neck in fish here.

The farming of fin fish produces 110,000 tonnes of salmon and 16,000 tonnes of

rainbow trout annually.

And trials on non-saminoid species such as turbot, halibut and cod are

encouraging. God, I need a drink. Come on, you can do it without a drink.

However, sustainability of mollusk and whelk breeding patterns continues to

cause concern.

Yours, blah, blah, blah.

Minister for fish.

Another eight hours before he goes to bed?

I've often wondered why D.H. Lawrence was childless.

Now I know. Hello?

Adrian, could you speak up? I'm in the middle of a field reading T.H. Lawrence.

Wow, an existentialist. Adrian, it's Zippo.

Justine's lover.

Listen, why don't I just cut to the chase?

Adrian, I'm going to make you rich and famous.

William, I'm filming a pilot for a new cookery program, and you, Adrian, are

our first choice for presenter.

I don't cook now, I'm a writer.

William, come back!

Awful. It hangs around my neck like the ancient mariner.

We'll be playing Megaspondulix, especially if it goes to series.

And then there's the spin-offs, the books, the tea towels with your face on

them. Who's your agent?

I haven't got an agent. I'll get you one. So what do you say?

Books! An agent!

Adrian? Yeah, OK, I'll do it. When is it?

Tomorrow.

I'll send you a car at seven. Oh, bring some offal.

Don't say anything.

I know, I know.

Even Ainsley Harriet turned us down.

We're desperate.

Get me that agent, chappy. Eagleburger.

Er, Mum, are you doing anything tomorrow?

Adrian, don't even ask, as refusal often offends.

You left your toothbrush.

Tanya's got me using dental floss.

I've cut my bloody gums to ribbons.

Adrian, has your novel found a publisher yet? No, but I'm filming a TV

pilot tomorrow.

How exciting!

So we'll both have kids on telly time.

Problem is, Mum won't look after William.

Rosie's always out, so I was wondering if you two... Sorry, I'm digging a koi

carp pond out tomorrow.

And anyway...

We're not insured for small children.

Right.

You're all four-year-olds, Matt.

Will he end up being one of those men who wear balaclava helmets in summer?

And where are the free nursery places Tony promised?

Right! Count ten again, and this time, don't forget the seven.

Your mum wants to see you. Urgent.

Who's your mum?

Sharon Bott.

Sharon Bott?

My first lover.

The very name sets my loins on fire.

One, two, three, four, five, six...

Seven. Seven, eight, nine, ten.

Hmm. And can you tie your own shoelaces, William?

No, he's a Velcro boy.

What are these?

Doggy, pussy, horsey. I had hoped to hear dog, cat

and horse.

His language is quite infantile. He is an infant.

Say Lamborghini, William.

Lamborghini. Has he passed or not? I need him to start tomorrow.

It's a competitive world out there, Mr Mole.

Kiddies Play Limited take only the very cream of toddlers.

If he is successful in his application, then I'll need a month's deposit in

advance.

£550?

Oh, come on, William.

Sharon Bot.

She took my virginity in that house.

I didn't struggle much.

She was so very beautiful.

She's obviously heard I'm back and wants to reawaken our sexual affair.

Sharon Bott.

Some of my best poetry was written in praise of her beauty.

Hello, Adrian.

Christ! It's Moby Dick with a perm!

Foreign Secretary Robin Cook tonight confirmed reports that he's leaving his

wife Margaret. I can't decide if she's a beast due to a diet of saturated fats or

pregnant again.

Fag. No, I don't. You always was refined.

Even in bed you'd say please and thank you and would you mind putting your hand

on my... It was urgent, your lad said.

That we're our Glen.

The thing is, Aidy, he's doing DNA at school.

Well, the others are, he can't read.

Anyhow, he came home one day and he said he was fed up not knowing who his dad

is. So I had to tell him, didn't I?

Did you?

It's like this, Glenn.

Once upon a time, I went out with a clever kind of bloke called Adrian Mole.

He were very nice, but all he could talk about were Russians and other people I'd

never heard of.

So when Barry Kent asked me out, I said yes.

You were a great laugh with Barry.

So you were two-timing me with... Barry Kent?

So I said to Glenn, on the one hand, your dad could be the millionaire Barry

Kent who's got a swimming pool, or on the other hand, Adrian Mole, who's got

nothing, really.

He can't be mine.

It's obvious that boy doesn't have a single strand of intellectual DNA

anywhere in his entire body. Glenn's not as stupid as he looks.

I've still got that poem you wrote me, Aidy.

I learnt it off my heart.

Oh, Sharon Bott, I love thee a lot.

Like a bee does to clover, let me feel you all over.

For once, I am grateful for William's presence.

Who knows what could happen?

Sharon's a brute when she's aroused.

Your blood test appointment's in the post.

I pray that Barry's test proves positive.

Another son is surplus to requirements.

I can't think or breathe with a son I've got.

Oh, God!

Oh, for God's sake!

Nobody over 40 should be allowed to have sex.

Apart from the revulsion factor, it costs British industry a fortune in back

injuries. Oh, I'm sorry, Ivan, but I just can't concentrate with the Reverend

Ian Paisley listening through the wall.

He's 30.

He's losing his hair and he's still here, interfering with my sex life.

I'm sick of treading on Lego and locking up my knickers because Rosie's too idle

to wash her own.

Tired of domesticity.

And I should be de la zoosh.

What do you want?

I'll give you anything.

I want the world.

Is that too much to ask?

Thursday, the 14th of August, 1997.

Today, I enter the world of celebrity.

Should I allow OK Magazine to photograph my son?

Dad, look at that car!

Or worse... Pandora should see me now

as I embark on a journey that will end with my face on a tea towel.

Ready to go, sir?

Yes.

Isn't this gorgeous?

Better than our house. What's going on?

Oh, God, you need the support of your family.

Ivan's got an announcement to make.

Tell them, Ivy.

You're not having a baby, are you? The condition my tubes are in, hardly.

Last night, I asked your mother to help you to fulfill a lifetime's dream.

So, we're going to cycle round the world.

She can't ride a bike.

Not without stabilisers.

As the limousine swept me towards the glittering prizes ahead, I should

have... As it was, I feared that mine and Pandora's paternal swap would sweep

us to our doom.

Why have we stopped here?

That's it. High cross productions.

I was expecting a proper studio.

With a commissioner on the door.

There's a distinct tingling in my left arm.

Am I having a heart attack?

How am I supposed to manage on my own?

You can reach the taps. Girls in Afghanistan are on their second marriage

by the age of 16.

I can't risk being rushed to casualty. Not with three pigs' heads in a bag.

I've had a hell of a job covering these acne scars.

His skin used to erupt now and again, like Vesuvius.

He looks better with make-up.

You should wear it permanent.

Are you in Adrian's show?

No. My show's Topless Darts with Justine and Max.

I'm doing it after. Who's Max?

Oh, Max is the love of my life. I've had him since he wore an egg. An egg?

Lips together?

Oh, I love that top.

Versace, isn't it? What's this?

No, um, British home stores.

Oh, BHS.

Clever new.

I envy you, Adrian.

I never see my family. Dad's the British ambassador in Peru.

No, I envy you, Zippo. I wish my family were in Peru right now.

Okay. We're going for a take.

Good evening, viewers.

Good evening, viewers.

Hello. Welcome to Awfully Good. Hello.

Tonight, I'll be cooking.

Dostoevsky was very fond of offal. You take a pig's head, Belgian faggots.

There should be a nice healthy scum. Pig's brain soup is mentioned three

times in Crime and Punishment. Mix the mixture until your hands just start to

ache slightly.

Any flaky bits can be removed. The consistency of lukewarm Play-Doh.

You insensitive sod!

You know his favourite story's The Three Little Pigs. So I'm late! So can I help

the goddamn traffic?

You're the guy that needs an agent?

You talk money yet, kid? OK, so we do nothing till we get a ballpark figure.

Brick, we're on a tight schedule here. Schedule, schmaddle.

A Winnebago, a limousine, this boy don't walk nowhere.

At last, an agent.

And American to boot.

Let's reset, quickly.

Oh, please, I'm a grown man of 13. Hey, hey, hey, don't disrespect your mother.

She's a wonderful mother. So why is she leaving us to go round the world?

Always done my best for both my children.

I'm only 16.

And do they appreciate you, Pauline? No, they don't. Don't listen to him, Mum.

He's poisoned your mind.

against your own king? I've always been there for them. You weren't there when I

had my tonsils out.

I came to see you. A day late with a bag of salt and vinegar crisps.

Do you want a clean one?

A snake?

Please, these microphones are very, very sensitive.

If you'd agreed to babysit like any normal grandmother... You don't get it,

do you, Adrian?

I'm through with childcare.

Right, we'll go again.

Oh, and how about putting something of your personality into it this time?

He'll be lucky. He has got one.

Reset.

Justine, have you and Max got a minute?

Excuse me.

you, Rosie.

She just had enough of being a parent.

I want you to promise me that you'll keep the secret I'm about to tell you.

I promise.

I'm two months pregnant.

Oh, my God!

I did all the traditional things.

Clapped a hand to my forehead.

Said, oh my God.

Paced up and down.

How did it happen?

The usual way.

The angel didn't come or nothing.

I've only done it twice.

Minus contraception, I presume.

A hell's angel did come.

A hell's angel.

How can my little sister be having a baby when she's still a baby herself?

I wonder how old Sharon Bott was when she had Glenn.

September the 12th, 1997.

Dear diary, today William embarks on a journey that I hope will eventually take

him to Oxford or Cambridge.

Whereas my poor deluded mother is going nowhere fast.

She'll never manage the Pyrenees.

Rosie's baby is also travelling.

Towards the birth canal, worse luck.

My television series, Awfully Good, with Justine and Max, will soon be broadcast

to an eager nation.

And Glenn Bott... No, I can't bear to think about Glenn Bott.

He looks so little in his uniform.

It's two sizes too big. He'll grow into it. I still think he's too young to go.

He's looking forward to it, aren't you, William?

He'll have to get used to it.

I need the time to myself.

Bye, Petal.

Doesn't he look sweet?

Yeah, we can't stop. Sorry.

Come here.

Have a good day at school, will you?

I can, Dad.

George.

Can you hear the blackbird?

Yes.

It's jumping.

But why did I have to leave my lovely office, Marcus?

It's like being in the middle of a bloody aquarium.

It's all going wrong, Nigel.

I hate to break it to you, Minister, but you are only a human being.

I'm still a goddess to Adrian.

Pandora made a speech on her first day at school.

I cried for my mother all day.

Hard to believe, but I did.

Ah, William Moe.

This is your identity badge.

You are a warthog.

Haven't you got something a little more cuddly?

It's all right, Dad.

Be a good boy, eh?

Bye, William.

See you soon.

Hello, Dad.

Oh, a lad on television.

Welcome to Awfully Goods. What else is up?

He's got a baby!

Should I call you Adrian or Dad?

Dad. Every gay organisation in Belgium wants your ass on a plate. We've got

permission to cross the Gobi Desert!

You reckon you've had more men inside you than Cardiff Arms Park?

Bastard! Who was the father?

Jesus, an extraterrestrial.

I'll bloody kill him! I knew she loved me!

Come to Big Daddy, honey child!

My God!