Friday, June 8, Ashby-de-la-Zouch

I am on the very horns of a dilemma. An insert fell out of my Daily Express today, a colourful shiny piece of A6 paper headed "Celebrity Star Match!" invited me to scratch off the panel on an illustration of a Mercedes convertible, to reveal a picture of a famous star. I did as instructed. Slowly, as a tiny pile of metallic grey dust collected, I began to see features of Cameron Diaz.

Mrs Wormington was looking over my shoulder. "Oos she when she's at 'ome?" she said (the last time she went to the cinema was to see Rock Hudson. I pray she never finds out that Rock had to steel himself to kiss Doris Day, the truth could easily kill her.) I carried on reading the instructions: "Now, one at a time, starting with panel one, scratch the four panels alongside." At this point, Glenn and William begged to be allowed to scratch two panels each. Glenn read further instructions aloud as William scratched. "If you reveal a matching picture — stop scratching — you're a winner!" Alas, his vigorous work with the two-pence piece revealed Tom Cruise and George Clooney. Mrs Wormington peered at these two mega heart-throbs and pronounced them "Nancy boys" who looked as if they "couldn't stuff a lavender bag".

William pronounced himself to be «devastated» at his failure. I must stop him watching so much television, it is having a deleterious effect on his vocabulary. He has no sense of proportion. He fell off his tricycle yesterday. When I asked him if he was all right he said, "I'm cool Dad, I just want to get on with the rest of my life."

The tension grew as Glenn picked up the coin. He took a deep breath and scratched away. The features of Samuel L Jackson gradually took shape. Mrs Wormington confused him with Michael Jackson and seemed to be under the impression that M Jackson had actually married his pet chimpanzee, Bubbles. I tried to explain to her that the ape had, in fact, been the best man at Elizabeth Taylor's last wedding, but I could see that the ways of the modern world were beyond her comprehension.

The atmosphere was now so tense that I could feel the word «palpable» vibrating in the air of the room. Glenn closed his eyes in silent prayer, then scratched at the fourth panel. Unbelievably, incredibly, the smiling face of Cameron Diaz appeared from among the grey filings. Our collective shout of delight brought Vince and Peggy Ludlow round from next door. "I've won a Mercedes, Dad!" shouted Glenn and we had a collective hug, though we didn't include Mrs Wormington, who has brittle bones. I read on feverishly.

"Winners can find out what they've won right now. Just call 0906 551 1020 and listen. Have a pen ready to write down your personal claims number which you will need if you claim a prize."

I turned the leaflet over. Glenn hadn't necessarily won a convertible Mercedes, though for at least 10 deliriously happy seconds, he thought he had. He told me later that he had fantasised in that short time about driving to school in the silver car with the hood down and gangsta rap playing on the in-car stereo. He'd parked next to the headmaster's clapped-out VW and had walked across the playground with the car keys swinging from his index finger. I had to break the news to him that he may have won other, lesser prizes, including: a weekend in Cannes with £500, a dishwasher, a set of hardwood garden furniture, or, even lesser prizes such as key cases, razor sets, kitchen scissors and mixed seed packs.

Peggy read further down the leaflet and pointed out that to discover what Glenn had actually won would cost me £1 a minute, and that the average call lasted longer than 3.5 minutes.

You see my dilemma, diary? Do I fork out more than three quid only to find that Glenn has won a packet of mixed seeds, or do I take a stand against exploitation and risk losing a convertible Mercedes?

Thursday, June 22, Ashby-de-la-Zouch, Leicestershire

There is great excitement in the street. Brandon Ludlow, 22-year-old soccer fan, is due home this afternoon from Charleroi, Belgium. A banner has been erected outside the Ludlows' house. It says Welcome Home Our Hero.

Brandon was arrested before the England Romania match. Apparently, he was having a quiet meal at a pavement cafe and was talking about Jane Austen with his friend, "Mad Dog" Jackson, when a brutal Belgian policeman in riot gear thrashed him unmercifully with a baton.

Mad Dog Jackson escaped, but Brandon was restrained with a cable tie and thrown into the back of a police van where he lay, face down, only inches from a pool of urine. When the van was full, it was driven to a police station. Brandon was pushed towards a holding cell, where he and 40 others stood until daybreak. Brandon was not allowed to phone the Ludlows, his family (and anyway, it would have been a futile exercise since the Ludlows' phone had been cut off by BT for non-payment).

Peggy Ludlow is threatening to sue the Belgian prime minister as soon as she finds out who he is. As she was preparing the party food, she said, "Adrian, our Brandon is the only one of my kids who ain't a hooligan. Our Brandon's always been a strange kid, you know, reading books for pleasure and talking about things that none of the rest of us are interested in."

She told me that Brandon only went to the match for research purposes. He is writing an essay about David Beckham, entitled “God or Idiot Savant?” He is hoping to see it published in the London Review of Books.

4pm

I can tell from the noise outside — car horns blaring, whistles blowing, Dobermans barking — that Brandon has arrived home. We have all been invited to the party. Glenn and William are very excited, as they have been watching the rioting in Charleroi avidly.

In fact, they have shown more interest in the fighting on the streets than they have shown in the football on the pitch. Mrs Wormington talked to me as I ironed one of her vast, full-skirted summer frocks. According to her, certain sections of young Englishmen have always behaved like Barbarians when they have travelled abroad as a group. She said, "How do you think we managed to capture all them foreign countries. It weren't the limp-wristed brigade what done it and coloured the map pink."

She insisted on wearing a hat to the Ludlows' party, seemingly under the impression that it was Ludlow Castle she was going to rather than the front room of a council house. I had a very interesting talk to Brandon, who is indeed a sensitive, intelligent, young man. He reminded me of my younger self, before I became trapped in single fatherhood and the endless round of domestic duties (which now includes caring for a nonagenarian). Over Mother's Pride and Kraft processed cheese sandwiches, we discussed his ordeal. Brandon said that his night in the cells was only made tolerable by the fact that a barrister had also been arrested and had happened to have a copy of last week's Spectator magazine on him. This same barrister kept trying to get his fellow hooligans to chant Boris Johnson's name, but few joined in and eventually he gave up and went to sleep, but only after confessing to Brandon a particularly lurid sexual fantasy that included Petronella Wyatt and Bruce Anderson.

After a heated discussion with Vince Ludlow about Mrs Worthington's habit of banging on the party wall with an orthopaedic shoe every time the Ludlows enjoyed sexual congress, I took my family home.

Sunday, June 25

Brandon came round as promised to read my manuscript of Sty! I dare not let it out of my sight. A lot of work has gone into the first three chapters. Brandon looked up after the first few pages and said that he thought it was a mistake to call my pig hero Lucifer, as it set up false Mephistophelean expectations in the reader. I could have done without such stinging criticism but I have to concede that Brandon has a point. While waiting for the washing machine to finish its cycle, I re-christened Lucifer and call him Peter. It is amazing what a difference this has made to the tone. It now reads like a children's book. I may subtitle it A Farm Yard Allegory. Watch out, Harry Potter. Peter Pig is on the way!