“The trouble with trying to read passages from the Adrian Mole diaries aloud is that you find yourself laughing so hard you can’t go on” (Kansas City Star).  I wish that I could relate that I have found happiness and contentment . . . but, alas, I cannot—but that is another story . . .   “Probably the most successful comic literary creation of the past two decades” vents his justified rage in these journals once confiscated by authorities—only to be hijacked yet again by a fraudster named Sue Townsend (The Observer). Though Adrian has finally found the courage to confront her, the literary parasite refuses to put down her Stolichnaya and come to the door.   Now a professional turkey-plucker with his dreams of becoming a serious novelist more elusive than ever, and his teenage passions for Pandora all but faded, Adrian Mole has settled with his new wife in a rural pigsty that’s spitting distance from his appalling mother and her (fourth, is it?) husband. There are two consolations: He has a son who fears gym class (poor little bird legs!), and he’s readying his serial-killer comedy for production. But really, there’s little about the twenty-first century that makes Adrian feel secure.   Adrian Mole’s continuing chronicle of angst has sold more than twenty million copies worldwide, and been adapted for television and staged as a musical—truly “a phenomenon” (The Washington Post).