It was a bit of a shock.
But I discovered, aged five, that my dad was the High Priest of a weird West Midlands-based cult with a total membership of one person; my dad...

He pulled me away from my glorious game of drowning worms in the garden, sat me down in the living room, and tried his hardest to ingratiate me into his weird sect. And I was having none of it.

“Well, whaddya think?” my dad asked after what seemed like an eternity to my worm-obsessed young mind.

“Ummm.... can I go back outside now?” I replied. And my dad, going into one of his famous moods, shrugged his shoulders and muttered something in Italian. And I was free to go.

Score: Me: One. High Priest: Nil.

And from that moment on if my mum dragged me out of bed early on a weekend, chucked me in the bath, then dressed me in my ‘best’ cloths, I knew I’d be subjected to...

... it.

The car journeys visiting relatives were a nightmare until I reached an age when all I’d tend to do was ogle my cousin Gemma’s magnificent budding rack and my presence at family get togethers was deemed surplus to requirements. I’d sit in the backseat of my dad’s battered old Opel Cadet and he’d put one of his tapes on.

And I’d be forced to listen as we trundled down the motorway in the slow lane. If I could’ve poured molten mercury in my ears, I would’ve. If I could’ve ripped my own ears off and lobbed them out the window, I would’ve. If I could’ve laid my hands on a cyanide capsule I’d have gladly ended my suffering there and then in a frothy backseat orgy of spit, piss, and puke – all the time accompanied by one of my dad’s God-awful fucking tapes.

And near the start of this period, 1980 I think, I was woken one morning by my mum telling me my dad was very upset. Someone near to him had died... Keeerrrr-CHING!!! I thought. INHERITENCE PAYOUT TIME!!! I raced downstairs, found my dad sobbing over the paper.

“He’s dead!” he whimpered. “Somebody’s only gone and shot him!”
Deflated, I felt like saying: “Well, thank fuck for that! It’s the eighties, dad. The golden age of music.” But instead I sulked off to see what free gift they had in the new box of Corn Flakes instead.

And the dead bastard haunted me for years. His voice... Jesus, his voice... And then my dad started playing his solo stuff ad infinitum. God, this stuff was even worse! It was smug, self serving, and above all absolutely bloody awful. Who the fuck did this bloke think he was? I swear, if this short sighted living demon was still alive, I’d have gladly flown over to his gaff and beat the bastard to death with the blunt end of one of his guitars after I’d stuffed the lyrics to some of his middle-of-the-road pretentious crap up his arse for good measure.

Then, when I was about fourteen, I started having mates round on a regular basis. My dad – doing his High Priest duties – started putting some music on in the background. And he actually managed to get a few of my mates to question: “Wassthis? It’s good!”
And my dad would make them mix tapes to take home with them, complete with linear notes and interesting little ‘tit-bits’ of info.

Score: Me: One. High Priest: One.

A little while after this I started bringing girlfriends back for an aimless fumble in my bedroom. One time I had my hand down Amy Johnson’s knickers (the front this time, not the back, fuck knows what I was planning to do there), and Amy whispered to me: “Go on... flick it... flick my clit...”

Perplexed and incredibly turned on, not really understanding what a clit was and absolutely fucked if I knew where to find it, I wound up my index finger and did a general carpet bombing flickage of the entire vag area with all the skill and subtlety someone would use when flicking a Subuteo player. Amy screamed, slapped me and stalked off home in a huff.

Lying on my bed, staring down at the aching bulge in my pants and wondering who the fuck was I going to get to suck it now, I hear a knock on my door. My dad. He was out in the garden when he saw Amy leave in a hurry. “Women troubles?” he said. “Do you know who wrote a good song about women? “ And then he scuttled off to find the record, put it on, and shouted up from the living room: “THIS IS GREAT, EHHHH?”

It was a living HELL...

Score: Me: One. High Priest: Two.

Fast-forward a couple of months. It’s my sisters Holy Communion (for those non-Catholics, it’s a time a girl gets to put on a nice white dress and walk round aimlessly being all holy-like). The extended family has gathered in our small semi, aunts, uncles, cousins (including Gemma who’s knockers have definitely come on a storm since I last saw her), are fighting for space on the sofa, sitting on the floor, picking at the cocktail sausages and cubes of cheese like a band of hungry jackals.

Part way through my dad – knowing a captive audience when he sees one – goes over to the stero. Picks up an album, puts it on. And it starts... The dirge. The complete and utter aural garbage. I’ve had enough. I crack. I race over to the stereo, lift the arm of the record player abruptly, turn to my dad and say: “JOHN LENNON IS SHIT!!! WHY CAN’T YOU GET IT INTO YOUR THICK HEAD??? HE’S ABSOLUTELY SHIT!!!”

Stunned silence.

I start crying and leg it upstairs.

As I'm sat at the top of the stairs, sobbing and rocking, I hear my Auntie Maria say to my mum: “You really should take that boy to the doctors, you know... Doesn’t take a lot to set him off, does it?”

Score: Me: One. High Priest: Three.

Fuck.
( SpankyHanky, Tue 9 Feb 2010, 13:30, 13 replies)

had my hand down Amy Johnson’s knickers
There's a statue of Amy Johnson in Hull

www.panoramio.com/photo/22281558

Is this her?
( sandettie light vessel automatic New Twitter - @bollocksreally, Tue 9 Feb 2010, 13:57, closed)

Stuffs eyes back in head
WHOOTY WHOO SHE IS NEEICE
( whenanimalsattackhumans clad in global hypercolour, Tue 9 Feb 2010, 14:03, closed)

No no love,
Keep the hat on...



Oh yes, good as ever Spanky, keep it up wherever you keep it.
( Blind Meach Cautiously optimistic, Tue 9 Feb 2010, 14:23, closed)

I don't understand you

( whenanimalsattackhumans clad in global hypercolour, Tue 9 Feb 2010, 15:07, closed)

like as...
keep yer boots on pet
( Blind Meach Cautiously optimistic, Tue 9 Feb 2010, 15:46, closed)

She's a looker, she is...
The Amy Johnson from my teenage years looked like Dave, the guitarist from Slade. Same haircut too.
( SpankyHanky, Tue 9 Feb 2010, 14:26, closed)

and white jump suit
with small mirrors hanging off it
( sandettie light vessel automatic New Twitter - @bollocksreally, Tue 9 Feb 2010, 15:10, closed)

"general carpet bombing flickage of the entire vag area"
Click for this! Office lols
( SigmaX0 Dear Die Hard. You rock!, Tue 9 Feb 2010, 14:29, closed)

Be careful.
Instant karma's gonna get you.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Tue 9 Feb 2010, 14:50, closed)

AAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH !!!!
and breathe
( SpankyHanky, Tue 9 Feb 2010, 15:06, closed)

You don't like John Lennon?
All he ever wanted to do was imagine all the people...
( jim_bob can herd cats., Tue 9 Feb 2010, 16:13, closed)

But Spanky...
Imagine all the peepol, with hands down Amy's clout, ho hoooooo ho ho ho...

I was the same with me parents watching FAME over and over again; further amplifying my horror was my mother singing along with the theme tune every time someone ever mentioned the fucking word.

I share your pain brother.
( Jeccius Steam Borderlands 2 junkie, Tue 9 Feb 2010, 16:36, closed)

my dad
played chuck berry tapes in the car, which was cool until that unfortunate business. Still, have a click for sharing (and using the word "vag")
(danceswithferrets is leaking sanity, Tue 9 Feb 2010, 18:43, closed)