Adrian Mole, now age thirty-four and three quarters, needs proof that Saddam Hussein had weapons of mass destruction so he can get a refund from a travel agency of the deposit he paid on a trip to Cyprus. Naturally, he writes to Tony Blair for some evidence. He’s engaged to Marigold, but obsessed with her voluptuous sister. And he is so deeply in debt to banks and credit card companies that it would take more than twice his monthly salary to ever repay them. He needs a guest speaker for his creative writing group’s dinner in Leicestershire and wonders if the prime minister’s wife is available. In short, Adrian is back in true form, unable - like so many people we know, but of course, not us - to admit that the world does not revolve around him. But recognising the universal core of Adrian’s dilemmas is what makes them so agonizingly funny.