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Comedy
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| Happy Birthday Dad | |
| By Talisker | ||||||||||||
| 31 October 2006 | ||||||||||||
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Oor Faither whae bides in Pumpherston, Halloween be thy birthday. Well, not quite actually. It’s tomorrow, all saints day. How inappropriate you old bastard! Born a day late. I won’t be sending you a birthday card. So you can take this in lieu – though I know you’ll never read it. What can I tell you of the man? Let me see… He sprang from what nowadays is euphemistically termed a “dysfunctional family”. I would have said a non-functional family, really. His father, my late “papa”, didn’t react with his three sons, other than to lift welts on their arses with his thick pit belt. A Dour, sullen, surly, resigned, broken, silently self-piteous shell of a man. His son, our dad, came out of the same clay mould. Not a great start in life really. Nor great training for fatherhood. Dad is an angular wiry little fellow. I say little, as at five foot nine inches, he’s at least three inches shorter than any of his sons. In his underwear he looks like the proverbial streak of piss. A bit like Spike Milligan in his latter years, or Wilfred Bramble as Steptoe senior. He has a birthmark on his left shin in the form of a pipe Major in full regalia. I have a birthmark in exactly the same place, though mine is a simple oval. This is the only thing I have in common with him, I hope. Dad has some disgusting habits. He sits in the living room, gnarled and stinking feet de-socked, with a sharp razor, shaving dry, yellowed, dead skin from his aged corn. The shavings gather in a pile on the coffee table, looking and smelling like so much shaved parmesan. He also bites his finger nails and spits the shards across the lounge. They fly like shrapnel, catching unsuspecting visitors. This causes him to laugh his wicked laugh. He farts, with relish and with all the sensory effect of opening a long sealed grave. Then he makes a scene of blaming the innocent dog. Yes, dad is a thoroughly unpleasant individual. But surely no human being is irredeemable, I hear you protest. I beg to differ. The case for the defence: (a) He is a music lover. (b) He loves animals. (c) He is generous to a fault. (d) He likes to cook. Music lover indeed? He only listens to music when drunk, and then he is a psychopathic musical tyrant. It has to be his choice. Then he sits with a ludicrously drunken countenance, and tears well up in his eyes as Roy Orbison, Fats Domino or Buddy Holly transport him back to “better” times. He bought three records when we were young – Mussorgsky’s Greatest Hits(?), A Tribute To Gilbert O’Sullivan (by someone cheaper) and a Johnny Mathis LP for mum. He has boasted often of this thorough musical education being at the root of our musical abilities. I remember the music teacher at primary school asking the class if they knew of any classical music. No response. Then my hand shot up; “Mussorgsky Miss!” She seemed greatly impressed. “Super, Oli. And which works by Mussorgsky are you familiar with?” “Oh just Mussorgsky’s Greatest Hits Miss!”. Laughter. Bastard. Loves animals does he? No, he loves tormenting animals. Puling the dogs’ ears, until he reaches the end of his tether. But he’s such a gentle, big mongrel, he still goes to dad to be tortured, abused and detrained. Generous? He wouldn’t part with a penny. He’s so reluctant to part with anything that he cries when he flushes the toilet. He bought mum a present, once, when he’d had a rare win on the gee-gees. Then he asked for it back when he was on his uppers again. Cook? He can cook about three things; Toasted cheese, potato fritters and a version of scrambled eggs which he mistakenly calls welsh rarebit. Yes, my dad is an old bastard. I won’t think of him tomorrow if I can help it. Oli (31/10/06)
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