Original subtitles

Tuesday, 14th October, 1997.

To date, three episodes of my cookery programme, Awfully Good, have been

broadcast. According to the Daily Mirror, I am a celebrity chef.

However, a sheepdog in Emmerdale gets paid more than me.

I'm haunted by money worries, and despite my public profile, Pandora

Braithwaite, the love of my life, still fails to show me the respect I deserve,

or the love I crave.

I've seen you cooking on the telly. Yes.

Can I have your autograph?

Of course.

Have you, er... Yeah.

Do you, er, live round here?

No, no, I live up there.

I'm the king of the moon.

Will you send me your toenail clippings from me collection?

Oh, Pandora.

I shouldn't be in here buying Coco Pops. I'm a man.

I should be out there killing things and dragging Pandora back to my cave.

How much longer must I dwell in the slough of despond?

Morning, Adrian.

You heard about Archie? Archie?

Your friend, the bloke with one leg.

Oh, aren't you?

He's dead.

Dead? They found him on his bed.

Been reading his London review of books.

At least he died an intellectual's death.

The council are going to cremate him in a cardboard coffin.

No flowers, nothing.

It's no way to go, is it? Sad.

Unless, er... ..one of his friends... It won't be me. I hardly knew the

bloke.

The Archie Tate are new.

This must be costing you a packet. Mr Tate was always polite, even when his

marksman today was late.

He never complained about his artificial leg, even when the forecourt was ice

air.

In accordance with the wishes of Mr Tate, we'll now take a collection for Mr

Arthur Scargill.

How come I'm the principal mourner to a bloke I hardly knew?

A bloke who didn't believe in funeral insurance.

It's a terrible thing to be at a funeral where nobody cries.

When I'm buried, I hope somebody has the courtesy to throw themselves into my

grave.

Pandora, for preference.

Dad? Hmm?

Is that his cat dead?

No. Who gives it breakfast now?

First his funeral, now I'm responsible for his stinking cat.

How much is a tin of whiskers?

I've got you a deeper sympathy card, Dad.

Oh, thanks, Glenn.

Nice handwriting.

It's not mine.

I haven't got any handwriting.

Mum wrote it.

Sympathy to you at this difficult time.

Invoice to arrears of child maintenance for Glen Bott.

My God, £15,000?

Sorry, Dad.

It's got nothing to do with me.

Correction, Glen. It's got everything to do with you.

Come on, then.

I think he knows me, Tanya.

Koi carp are very intelligent fish, George.

Oh, they bloody well ought to be at 600 quid a throw.

That's more than Adrian paid for his car.

Where do you want his Japanese gravel?

We'll have to consult the books.

Come on, then.

I need an up-to-date balance on my account.

I've got a financial emergency.

I can't remember the password.

It's a seaside town on the east coast.

Near Hunstanton.

Cromer. Cayster.

Since I took up office in the Ministry of Agriculture, Fisheries and Food...

She's wearing that suit she bought in Paris.

Chanel.

I bet that costs a refugio car.

This clearly cannot be allowed to continue.

No.

Ivan wants the Argo.

Andy wants the Pagoda.

He wants the very clothes off your back, George.

Well, they are his clothes, Tanya.

I need to speak to Mr Eagleburger, my agent. I'll just put you through.

Adrian who?

Oh, the awful guy.

Tell him I'm out.

Okay, put him through.

Huh? Adrian!

How's it going?

Mr. Eagleburger, I was wondering if you've managed to sell the rewrite of my

book. What?

Low the Flat Hills of Monte Carlo.

It's still a pile of shit.

Well, what about the radio series, The Queen of Ambridge?

Adrian, you have got a talent for awful.

Maximize it. But I'm desperate for money, Mr. Eagleburger.

You're desperate? I got a kid at Eaton. I got a wife who shops.

But look...

I've been looking for you 24-7, Adrian.

I got a guy here, Stoat, wants to do a TV tie-in.

Awfully good, the book.

45,000 words by November 12th. What do you say?

That's only three weeks.

You can do it, kid. Book into a hotel like Delia.

Look, I gotta go. I got L.A. on hold. I'll fax you the contract.

A recipe book?

Would Tolstoy's agent have asked him to stop writing War and Peace and knock off

a quickie for Christmas?

Oh, my Pandora.

£500 for a top.

You inhabit a different universe.

The minimum wage for Trollerman will be £3.60, which is clearly a tremendous

step forward. Pandora, can you confirm that Tony Blair is having to return a

large donation to Bernie Eccleston? Pandora! Pandora! Pandora, is it also

true that you spend 20 grand a year on your wardrobe?

Is that true, Pandora? 20 grand?

Is that true, Pandora?

That's enough questions. Thank you, gentlemen.

Thank you, Pandora.

She didn't know that, did she?

I'm expecting an important fax.

It's from my agent.

I'm trying to get a website up and running here. I need this line

exclusively. But the line does belong to my mother, who is my blood relation.

Your mother is my life partner, and I pay the bloody phone bills. And I've

fitted the last four fax rolls. I pay £40 a week to live in this house. We

subsidise you heavily, Adrian.

And William, who's always leaving the lights on and wasting food. You don't

like it?

Why don't you go back and live with your wife?

Because I happen to be in love with your mother, and she happens to be in love

with me. Check!

If it wasn't for Rosie's garnet troubles, Ivan and me would be... Where

are they?

Cycling alongside the Nile. The Nile?

Instead of which, we're stuck in a house no bigger than a butter dish with a 30

-year-old cuckoo whose son leaves Lego in our bed?

As you know, I have been looking for a detached house with a garden where

William can play.

Is it my fault there are none to be had for under £40,000?

However, I am writing a Christmas bestseller and I expect to be

moving into my own house.

When I receive the advance.

Which, according to this, is 250 quid.

Right.

Throughout the world, especially

from France, gourmets flock to partake of offal.

Can one partake of offal? That's not... Quite right.

Oh, come on.

I owe £15,000 plus the cost of a funeral.

Gourmet's flock.

Too awful in France.

If I don't work, I don't earn.

Bon appétit, Andrew.

You ungrateful bastard.

What the hell have you done to it?

It's to be a replica of the garden of the Emperor Hirohito in Osaka.

Only skile down a bit.

We've come to dismantle the Tyrolean chalet. I'm taking it to Wisteria Wall.

You'll have to kill me first.

It's my pagoda now. It's Ivan's office.

You can't deprive a man of his work.

What the hell are you doing?

It's taken me years to get the lawn in such immaculate condition.

It's going to be graveled. It denotes harmony.

Isn't that your coat, Ivy?

It bloody well is. Take it off. I paid for that coat. Keep it on, George. For

God's sake, take it off, man.

You're a working-class man, George, and this is a middle-class coat.

Take it off.

George is a prince among men. You've held him back all these years. Keep it

on. You're all as bad as each other.

Now, do something.

Bloody press.

Why should I be crucified for wearing my lovely French clothes? I was elected in

Chanel. The Daily Mail loved it then.

You're in government now, Pat. You've got to back British fashion. Bloody

Milbank. What am I supposed to wear, a deerstalker and tweeds?

Can I help?

Yes, I'm looking for something utterly dull in a size 10.

Hello, Adrian.

Yes, I am busy. I'm in the middle of a reverse makeover.

What?

Oh, Jesus, no, I can't. I've got dinner with Gordon Brown. You deal with it.

Look, Adrian, I really don't need you right now.

Bloody baby boomers have been breaching the peace.

Oh, Jesus, no.

You can forget Osaka.

I've been selling the house. The lawns is my life. I will never be parted from

this garden. If you paid as much attention to me, we might still be

together. The garden needed me. So did he.

He'd be lying in bed waiting for you. You'd be out here gardening in the dark

with a head torch on. There were slugs to kill.

How could you live with a woman in this garden?

Covered in bindweed, Ivan. I love every nettle, every thistle, every dandelion

in Pauline's garden. Don't worry, Tan.

I'm here now.

I'll murder those busted slugs. Forget awful.

What I should be writing is a self-help book for dysfunctional families.

God knows I'm qualified.

Pandora could write the preface.

Are your parents happy together, Nigel?

Oh, yeah.

Mum's lost her hair.

Dad's got a steel plate in his head.

They need each other.

Sweet. Junior Minister Pandora Braithwaite denied charges in the

Commons today of gross overspending on her wardrobe.

In an emotional speech, she stated that from now on, she would only appear in

public in British-made clothes.

Don't take it personally, Pam.

They've built you up, and now they've got to knock you down.

It's what Britain manufactures these days.

Fallen idols.

There,

flocking worldwide from France.

France, a magnet for offal worldwide.

Man has lived on offal since time began.

Petrified offal has been found in ancient caves in France.

over a fortnight writing is not easy it's a question of tone and

Adrian mole I'm sorry

you can't disconnect me what do you mean my payment

has been delayed because I'm temporarily out of funds Joyce

Look, it's essential I'm contactable at all times. I'm a freelance celebrity.

This last sentence is terrible.

Well, thank you.

Hello?

A robot called Joyce has just cut my phone off.

Cormays today still flock from their homes to partake of the legacy, which is

awful. What's wrong with it?

The grand... Remember the syntax and the punctuation.

Since when did you know about the nuts and bolts of the English language?

Since I was eight years old.

If we got it wrong, we were smacked over the head with a ruler. I'd love to

listen to your childhood reminiscences, but I do have a very urgent deadline.

You can do it, Adrian.

Noel Coward wrote Private Lives over a long weekend.

And had cocktails with Princess Margaret.

It's your son.

Oh, not now, Glenn.

Hello.

Why aren't you at school?

They sent me home.

To throw my shoes up a tree.

Why'd you do that?

I was ashamed of them, Dad.

They're from Woolies.

They want my parent or guardian to go up to the school.

Where's your mum?

She's having a baby in hospital.

Another one?

Will you come, Dad?

I can't possibly, Glenn. I've got a crisis of my own here.

I've got six hours to deliver 40,000 words to my publisher.

40,000?

All different.

Mostly.

Sorry, Glenn.

Facts to Arthur Stoat of Stoat Books.

I regret to inform you that due to multifarious family problems beyond my

control, I will not be able to reach today's deadline for my manuscript,

Awfully Good, the book.

I will, of course, return the £250 advance as soon as I can withdraw the

funds from my building society without incurring loss of interest.

Yours, etc.

A Mole.

Those equal respect, man.

They look like those vehicles that pick up minerals from the surface of the

moon.

And I can't afford them, Glenn.

I've just missed my deadline.

If they don't extend it, I could be bankrupt in a week.

IvanBraithwaite.com, hello.

I'm sorry, this line is for the exclusive use of my website clients.

I can no longer act as a message service for Adrian Moe. Please do not call this

number...

And you're also a son of a bitch, Mr. Eagleburger.

There's no freaking phone, there's no fags, there's no mobile.

What am I supposed to do, send a suck and carry a pigeon?

So where's this zooch place anyway?

I'm Adrian Mole, Glenn Bott's father.

This can't take long.

Ofsted are here again.

I'm suspending Glenbott for three days.

How many days are Ofsted here?

He's a very difficult boy.

Only yesterday he was thrown out of comparative religion for calling God.

A bit of a wanker for allowing wars and that to happen.

Why is it that Glen can't read and write after eight years compulsory education?

It's the catchment area.

Well, shouldn't there be extra classes?

They're all full.

It is possible to make a private arrangement through Remedial Services

Limited.

Does Mr Blair know about this?

Hello, could you tell me your name and year?

Glenn Bott, year seven.

And could you name me three successful British manufacturing industries?

Successful?

No, miss.

Sharon Bott's estate, where the toddlers shout obscenities and the grandmas are

tattooed. If fate doesn't smile on me soon, I could end up here.

You'll be having private reading and writing lessons from Mrs Eleanor Flood.

How come, Dad?

I'm paying for them.

Oh, thanks.

Do you reckon I'll learn to read in time for the World Cup, Dad?

You two, in here now!

In there!

I am, Dad.

And he's mean with his spuds.

Do you want to stay with me tonight?

Can I, Dad?

Won't Grandma mind?

No.

She'd love it.

Adrian's always been late for everything.

He was in nappies till he was four.

Adrian!

We've got to talk.

I'll catch you later, Pauline. So, if I write my memoirs? Call me. We'll do

lunch. Um, I've asked Glenn to stay.

All right.

Jesus, how do you people live in that place?

I could hardly breathe in there.

Do you want to play with my dinosaur farm?

Yeah, all right.

Jesus Christ!

I once was in a jacuzzi with Sammy Davis Jr.

How'd I get here?

Okay, give it to me straight, Adrian.

I'm your agent, for Christ's sake. I lie for a suckin' livin'. How many pages of

this goddamn book have you written?

Two.

The forward and the index of the forward.

Okay.

We're in a tank of shit, and we don't got scooper.

Stokes lawyers fax me as of an hour ago. You're breach a contract kid.

What does that mean?

I mean, they're gonna sue you ask for 85k.

Sorry Then

I'll have to kill myself let

me try something So a good news Adrienne's out of the coma

you didn't know Oh break it Listen, uh, can you just give him two more weeks on

the book?

So so am your bastard I gotta go so goddamn freaky here in the province

Find yourself a lawyer You

should

have told me I'm your mother I thought you'd resigned from that post you never

stopped being a parent

I expect Hitler's mother thought he was a lovely boy.

Just a bit impetuous.

Mum, I'm being sued.

There's Glenn's maintenance, the funeral bill, my mobile phone. It all adds up to

£101,518.

Well, you can still write the book. It's only a few recipes.

I can't. I've tried.

I need to put my soul into my work and I can't put my soul into writing about

offal. It's all right. Don't go on.

I might be able to help.

You haven't got any money.

No, but Ivan has.

He's got a joint account with Tanya.

And she's just spent 600 quid on a bloody fish.

This is not how I expected my life to pan out.

How can I be responsible for the upkeep of two sons?

I can't play football.

I've never read a Terry Pratchett Discworld novel. I can't even control a

Black & Decker drill.

They're lovely boys when they're asleep.

May I remind you that my room is directly above this.

I can hear every click of the keys.

My every waking hour is a nightmare.

I need sleep.

So selfish!

Friday the 14th of November, 1997.

I decided to exercise my democratic right and visit my MP at her weekly

surgery. She may not love me, but she is required by law to grant me an audience.

Oh, sorry.

Hello. Have you come to see a pet?

Don't say a word.

No.

You look nice.

Nice? The Queen Mother looks nice.

I hope you're the last.

I am. I am sick of whining constituents. I've had it all day.

Streetlights that won't go off, swearing on Channel 4.

Gays swamping the leisure centre.

Sometimes I think democracy's wasted on the electorate.

At least you stalk the corridors of power.

Yes, all the way to ag and fish.

I should be taking my place on the world stage.

Anyway, what do you want?

I'm being sued.

By two people.

I need legal aid, debt counselling, a council house, remedial teaching and a

single parent shoe allowance.

Oh, and is there a service that looks after dead people's cats?

Oh, Adrian, your life is a situation comedy.

You're over 30.

You still live with your mother.

You're a Ronnie Corbett for the 90s.

Sorry to have taken up your time, Minister.

Oh, Adrianne.

He's such a fool. I know.

But actually, it was rather nice to see him.

Monday, November 17th, 1997.

Black Monday.

I am summoned at 10.30am to face Mr Holden, solicitor.

Which of my debts is he pursuing?

I have no idea.

All I know for certain is that I am ruined, and that Pandora seems to find

it amusing.

I'd like to read to you from this document, Mr Mole.

Whatever it is, I can't pay.

This is the last will and testament of Archibald Erasmus Tate.

Well, I'll read it to you in full, of course, but in short, Mr Mole, he has

left you his house.

Why?

Mr Tate writes...

I first made the acquaintance of Adrian Mole when he gave me a lift to the

polling station.

I am a difficult man, I've never had the gift of friendship, and I sense that he

too was troubled by the complications of what we now call relationships.

I leave my house to Adrian Mole, with the proviso that he resides in the house

until such time as my beloved cat, Andrew, dies.

Do you have any questions, Mr Mull?

Yes.

How old is the cat?

More potatoes, Glenn?

No, thanks, Dad.

Ah, that'll be Miss Flodge, your teacher. Clear the things away, Glenn.

And you, you help him, will you?

Mr Mull?

I'm Eleanor Flood.

Hello.

Oh, that delicate wrist.

Her fingers feel like the quivering wing of a dying bird.

This was on your doorstep.

Oh.

Please, come in.

You must be Glen.

Yes, I am.

We'll work at the table, shall we?

All right.

The real fire.

How lovely.

What is it, Dad?

It's the proof.

Fawfully good, the book.

It's got my name on the front.

Tuesday, December 2nd, 1997.

I blush with shame when I re-read these diaries.

There is hardly a positive entry about that truly kind and self-sacrificing

woman, Pauline Mole.

My mother has written awfully good the book.

And apart from rather too many references to Germaine Greer, it's not

bad. She does want 50% of the royalties, plus merchandising, foreign rights sales

and residuals, but it bears my name.

And I'm in no position to argue.

Dad?

Why don't you go to work like all the other dads do?

I'm a published author, son.

And a TV celebrity.

People out there love me.

There's no one out there, Dad.

It's an emergency!

Cast them into the flames. You took nothing... People criticise me lately.

I thought I had it then, but it's gone.

Oh, we have a caller.

Is he Delia Smith, Dave? Here I am, surrounded by a load of Norfolk inbreds.

Your mother was never the same after reading the fame of Bleeding You. No, I

just cleaned that. Commander Tony Blair, I have Sandroid tomorrow.

Do you want us to be lovers?

I don't know why I'm here.

It's Christmas Day.

Not in Koala Loompa.