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The secret diary of this spotty schoolboy has been a bestselling book and a top TV program now it's a game. Will it be really Fabbo or a simpering wet? Jayne Goin does the homework.

It's been bad enough coming to terms with this acned shell which I call Adrian, but my growing pains are nothing compared to the agonies which I had to bear with the publication of my diaries, the TV series and now this!

I've just seen Brain Box Henderson bragging that he became a suburban prodigy the first time he played the game and that he's got a laser printout to prove it. Added to this, the more impressionable third-formers are wearing stick-on acne spots and those with real acne have started an Adrian Mole lookalike competition.

I suppose I shouldn't complain, even though I'd rather be renowned for my poetical prowess, because Pandora is looking at me with adoring eyes like the dog has when he catches me eating a Mars bar.

The game is laid out like my diary and at several points the player is invited to make a decision on my behalf. The aim is to make me as popular as possible with all of the other characters in the story (except creep Lucas, my mother's lover!) without appearing to be a simpering wet. Fabbo, I'm all for being popular.

There are four sections on the tape which, together, take you through the traumatic year when I was 13 and three quarters to 14 and three quarters. All the high points and low points are there: the red sock caper and my ill-fated foray into the publishing world with the Voice of Youth. I've penned a letter to Pete Austin, the programmer, complaining that my date with Sharon Bott at the roller disco actually occurred a year after the date he puts on it. I suppose that, as a poet myself, I should be more understanding about poetic licence.

I have just been playing the game at Nigel's house. It's very unnerving being able to relive your formative years over and over again, a bit like when Mr. Dock, our English teacher, made me stay behind after school to redo my homework until I got it right. After playing for hours I still can't achieve a higher rating than spotty schoolboy and I feel sure that this will make me apathetic in adult life.

Each section covers three months of that momentous year, starting with my New Year's Resolutions and, after a bit of a preamble, the cmputer informs the world that I, Adrian Mole, scored 40%, which makes me a lowly schoolboy. This rating is a matter of opinion because in my eyes I've always been exceptional.

Once again I experience my first meeting with Pandora, the girl who will one day be Mrs Mole (though she's always played hard to get), and how I lost her to Nigel, my so-called best friend. Why Pandora, why?

I also meet Bert Baxter through my involvement with the Good Samaritan group at school. He is a pensioner who lives on beetroot sandwiches in a ramshackle house, guarded by his less-than-friendly alsatian, Sabre.

Should I go to Nigel's black clothes party, join Brother Ludovic's Purple People religious sect and will my red sock revolution unite the proletariat of pupils against the regime of headmaster Scruton? All these decisions are yours to influence, and welcome to them is what I say.

Really, this game does my life an injustice. I see it as an adventure, but Level 9 seem to see it as a multiple choice examination, like a CSE or something (yuk!). Most of the story reveals itself regardless of my feelings and occasionally the endless scroll which is my life is interrupted by a decision to be made. Always there are three options and, depending upon the course of action, the next part of the tale is influenced and the score updated. As I said, at the start I am a lowly schoolboy but I can rise through several good decisions to being a worthy poet or descend to moronic depths.

Even my parents' separation is laid bare for all to see. The trauma of spending holidays in Sheffield with my mother and Mr Lucas (the creep), estranged husband of our next door neighbour. Meanwhile, I'm still trying to come to terms with my father's affair with the Stick Insect, Doreen Slater, a local undeveloped area if ever I saw one. And as for her squalling brat of a son Maxwell (House)...

In some ways the game is totally different from my life as I remember it. Often the correct decision is not the one which I originally made but an option I never dreamt of at the time and, in a realistic way, the options do not necessarily work out the way anyone would imagine.

At least my poems get another airing. One day Mr Tydeman of the BBC will appreciate me for the genius I possess. I'm especially pleased to see that my English essay "Despair" gets a special mention again. Despite the publicity received by this poignant story about a hamster with an incurable disease I'm still waiting to hear if Radio 4 wish to use it.

Unfortunately, Barry Kent, our school bully, puts in an appearance or two (too many). His protection money threats remind me that Creep Lucas is an insurance man. I bet he was a bully at school too. Perhaps Baz will become a creep when (if) he grows up. (Ha! Ha! Ha!)

Since these dim and distant times I've joined, and eft, Baz's gang, but at the time of the story I was just another of his financial resources which he used to duff up when times were hard. When he suffered, everyone suffered. Normally I'd say this was a truly Socialist approach but I don't think Neil Kinnock would agree.

One saving grace of the game is the attempt to intellectualise its appeal by adding pictures. Fairly abstract, impressionist they are too and they almost seem to lead a separate existence from the text, like mother and father. The crumblies live together (some of the time); they share certain things and that's about it.

Brain Box Henderson has Red Moon and the Dungeon adventures. I wish my adventure was like that. I see myself as a wizard, with sword in hand lopping off Lucas Creep's head and burning the Stick Insect at the stake (after all, she's burnt plenty of steaks in her time!). Then I see myself casting a spell over my parents with a self-penned spell which turns their marital blitz into bliss and makes the dog do what I want it to do.

Then I'd rescue Pandora from the castle of the evil Lord Nigel and have her swoon in my arms like a submissive faun (I got that one of one of Grandma's Mills and Boon's). Everything would end up fine and I'd be made Poet Laureate and accept the crown which is rightfully mine.

I haven't heard a thing about royalties. I bet that Sue Townsend woman is claiming most of the credit; after all, she is the one who stole my diaries in the first place and sent me, metaphorically naked, into the world. Pandora still brings up some of the incidents when she gets into one of her moods.

Most of the words and experiences are mine and it isn't fair; they could at least invest some money in Clearasil chares or a medical institute which does research into ache, its causes and eradication.

Sorry, Level 9, but I think that you have over-simplified my life and that there was a better game bursting to get out, instead of an examination sheet. Amusing it may be but enduring it isn't.

As a reflection of my existence, it is fairly true to life, exciting at times but pretty average overall. You do at least get a diary of your own with the special gift set, and one day your life may too be laid out for all to see.