True Confessions of Adrian Albert Mole Read Free Page B

first general shouted, “Look on the list under Mole will you…?” The second general replied (in cultivated tones, so it must have been the Director General), “Yes I’ve got a Mole on the list…Studio B 198.” Before I knew it, a wizened-up old guide appeared at my elbow and showed me into a palatial lift. Then, once out of the lift – which was twice as big as my bedroom by the way – he took me down tortured, turning corridors. It was like George Orwell’s Ministry of Truth in that book called 1984 . No wonder DJs are always late turning up for work.
    Eventually, exhausted and panting, we arrived outside the door of studio B 198. I was a bit worried about the old guide. To tell you the truth I thought he’d force me to give him mouth to mouth, such was his feeble condition. I really think that the BBC ought to provide oxygen on each floor for their older employees; and a trained nurse wouldn’t be a bad idea either. It would save them money in the long run; they wouldn’t have to keep replacing staff all the time and collecting for wreaths and things. Anyway, just thought I’d tell you that I got here all right. Oh, you know the BBC bloke I’ve been writing to, that producer John Tydeman. Well he’s dead scruffy. He looks like he writes . You know, with a beard and heavy horn-rimmed glasses. Need I say more? I’d better stop talking to you now Mum and Dad, because he’s making crude signs at me through the glass – so much for the standard of education at the BBC!
    Oh, before I forget, did you send that excuse to Pop-Eye Scruton telling him that I’ve gone down with an ‘as yet unnamed’ virus? If not, can you take one to school immediately after my broadcast?…Thanks, only, as you know, he refused me permission to come here today. How mean can you get? Fancy denying one of the foremost intellectuals in school the opportunity to talk about art and culture on the BBC. You’ll be sure to mark the envelope ‘for the attention of the Headmaster’ won’t you Dad? Don’t forget and put ‘Pop-Eye Scruton’ on, like you did last time.
    Well I’d better start properly now…I’ve got my notes somewhere…( pause…rustling …) Oh dear…I’ve left them in the taxi. Oh well, it’s quite lucky that I’m good at doing ‘ad hoc’ spontaneous talking isn’t it?…So, Art and Culture. Are they important?
    Well, I think Art and Culture are important. Dead important. Without Art and Culture we would descend to the level of animals who aimlessly fill their time by hanging around dustbins and getting into fights. The people who don’t allow Art and Culture into their lives can always be spotted. They are pale from watching too much television, and also their conversation lacks a certain je ne sais quoi ; unless they are French of course. Cultureless people talk about the price of turnips and why bread always falls on the buttered side, and other such inane things. You never hear them mention Van Gogh or Rembrandt or Bacon (by Bacon, I’m talking about Francis Bacon the infamous artist, I don’t mean streaky bacon or Danish bacon…the sort you eat). No, such names mean nothing to cultureless people, they will never pilgrimage to the Louvre Museum to see Michaelangelo’s Mona Lisa. Nor will they thrill to a Brahms Opera. They will fill their empty days with frivolous frivolity, and eventually die never having tasted the sweet ambrosia of culture.
    I therefore feel it incumbent upon me to promote artisticness wherever I tread. If I meet a low-browed person I force them into a philosophical conversation. I ask them, “Why are we here?” Often their answers are facetious. For instance last week I asked a humble market trader that very question. He answered, “I dunno why you’re ‘ere mate but I’m ‘ere to flog carrots.”
    Such people are to be pitied. We of superior intellect must not judge them too harshly, but gently nudge them into the direction of the theatre rather than the betting