O is for Oh What Joy

With the untimely passing of Sue Townsend on April 10th, I’ve spent my free time over the last week re-reading The Secret diary of Adrian Mole and The Growing Pains of Adrian Mole and both books are sheer delight.

I’m blessed with an excellent memory, and some of young Mole’s attitudes and conclusions strike a resounding chord with me. I cringe when I recall those same attitudes, those same naïve assumptions in my younger self. And yet, Ms Townsend imbued them with a wit that was neither demonising, patronising nor cringeworthy.

I write humour (sometimes). My comedy is observational: the world viewed through the sour and absurd eye of a grumpy third-ager, but I can’t compete with the likes of “I’ve never seen a dead body or a real female nipple. This is what comes of living in a cul-de-sac.”

On her passing last week my old mate Trevor Belshaw, who produced the gloriously funny Tracy’s Hot Mail, said without Mole there would have been no Bridget Jones and no Tracy.

Your work, Ms Townsend was a positive joy to read, and wherever you are, I hope you still have them rolling in the aisles with laughter.