» Have you ever seen a dead body?

Just the one...
...I was 11. It's a long story, bear with me, for this is my first post.

Growing up I was treated to the regular sight of my mum being slapped, kicked, punched, pushed, throttled, humiliated and just generally treated like shite.

That's unfortunate, you're probably thinking, and the general b3tan level of cynicism leads me to believe that the general consensus is that this isn't particularly uncommon. Sad, but true.

Bit of teh background information...my father (when I say that, it's only in the sense of the man responsible for half my genetic makeup, parenting's been a bit thin on the ground) was (still is, technically at least) a minister in the Church of Scotland. He's also a good six inches shorter than me (mother was 4 foot 9 or thereabouts).

Fuck, where am I going with this...catharsis I guess.

From growing up in a Baptist, middle class Edinburgh family, my mum had the misfortune to meet my dad at uni in the 60s. I don't know how they met, or what they were like as 20somethings, but she had every right to think she'd graduate, get married, and enjoy a similar lifestyle to the one she'd had growing up (isn't that why the middle class remain successful though- that they expect financial success, so it come naturally? but I digress).
My dad was a minister for a good 15 years- probably keeping a lid on his real self for a good portion of that. Fast forward to the early 80s (the time at which my memories start, being 28 now) and the violence, addiction to porn and general beastliness is in full swing. He had to resign from the church in '86 (don't know why, though I've heard rumours and can imagine reasons- anyone who knows why, please tell me) and we ended up in the north east of Scotland- my dad permanently unemployed for the next twenty years and my mum unable to hold down a teaching job- black eyes don't look good in the classroom.

Cut to 89/90. I'm in primary 6. My mum's been collapsing in agony and unable to move during these attacks for a while. The doctors, God love 'em, diagnosed 'stress headaches'. Fuck knows what kind of euphemism that is, but that is what they said. Again and again. Eventually, a brain scain at ARI was booked. Brain tumour. She was 42.

Chemo and radiotherapy followed. Hair gone. Tracheotomy at some point. Using a zimmer frame to walk. Lost a lot of weight that she didn't have. All through this, the beatings continued. My dad, behind the back of his gravely ill wife, thinks it'll be a good idea to sign up with some dating agencies (apparently this was nothing new, just more socially acceptable than the prostitutes he'd reputedly used in the early years of their marriage) to meet some new meat. My mum was dying, her children were watching this. Living in squalor, unable to do a single thing about it, she got worse. Much worse.

It all reached a head in summer 1991- I think that it must have been clear to all that she was dying, so me and my little brother were packed off to our aunt & uncle's house to visit for the summer- my sisters remained in Scotland.

One night, I was in the top bunk in my cousin's room where Colin and I were sleeping (I can still picture that room) and I knew. Something hit me, and I knew. I told my brother our mother was dead. He was 9 and I was 11. I knew. I know that sounds cheesy and you'll mock, I don't know how it happened, but I knew. He cried for a bit and told me to shut up.

We went to sleep.

In the morning, our aunt Pauline told us to come for a chat and sit down. She told us our mum had died the previous night. Colin wept as only a nine year old can. I was numb. She asked us how we felt. I couldn't answer. Colin was bawling.

She's a good woman and shouldn't have been put in that situation.

We went back home for the funeral. We went to the chapel of rest (my dad came out with some pish about saying goodbye- when had he said his? in the letters to women he wrote when my mum was dying? when he punched her in the face when she couldn't stand up, let alone try to dodge the blows?) and she lay there in the coffin- waxy, pale and still looked ill. No respite, even in death.

I just looked until I couldn't any more and turned away. Colin, 9 years old, jovially said 'Bye mum' and that was that. My first dead body.

The funeral was a couple of days later. We'd been an unpopular family (due to my dad), but one of my strongest recollections of that day was looking round and seeing the graveyard full of people. It's quite a big graveyard (Kemnay, if you know it) and the back part was full.

I didn't cry.

I stood there, a little boy, with my gran, my grandpa, my brother, my sisters, two uncles (including my mum's brother) and watched my mum's coffin go into the ground.

My dad, I think, led some kind of prayers. The hypocrite.

After that is a different story. My jaw's hurting now, I'm keeping back the tears I didn't cry then, and I'm almost done with my story.

I think about my mum and the horrible death she endured (in some ways, it took 20 odd years for her to die) every day of my life and in many ways I'm still just the numb little boy I was that summer day. A part of me died that day, a part that I'll never regain.

I don't see my family much, but if you're reading this:

I love and respect:

Uncles Kevin and Alasdair
My sisters and brother
My aunt Pauline
My gran & grandpa (both dearly, dearly missed)
Everyone who made an effort that day.

Thanks for reading.
(Wed 5th Mar 2008, 22:47, More)

» I'm your biggest Fan

Aphex Twin
“Pass me my squeezebox”.

“You what Richard? Your squeezebox?”

The Twin looked at me like I’d just done a poo on his best curtains and told me that yes, he wanted his squeezebox. Something to do with a tune.

The man’s a nutter- he’s my milkman and lives in a run down house near the ring road. This one time down the pub he’d been on the Gold Label, got drunk and puked in an ashtray- we’d never seen such chunky vom. The landlord got him to his feet and promptly barred him.

Later that day, during a hurried game of Dynamite Dan on my beloved Spectrum Plus 2 128k, I got a phone call.

It was the police.

They’d found him naked and painted blue, wandering near the woods. He was in the car, they were on their way round here.

They arrived at the door. Richard was blue and had a copper’s helmet covering ‘Stephen and the Twins’. He shivered, looked down the length of his nose, winked at me and continued squinting at me through his left eye.

I signed the paperwork and sent the policemen on their way.

“Such nice fellows!” I thought to myself.

Richard farted and told me he could read my thoughts. Nerds would never be reintroduced in sweetshops- Jawbreakers may have made a long overdue return, but Nerds, well, Nerds was a no fly zone for sweets fans.

I’d been thinking about crisps- Discos in fact, and the strangely named Frisps. He was close with sweets so I let the mistake pass.

I shed a tear and put the kettle on.

I returned and he was mumbling. Cheesesocks? Jeyecloths? What was it? I leaned in closer. Squeezebox!

I passed it to him, gave him my housekeys and turned my back on him.

I never saw my milkman again.
(Wed 22nd Apr 2009, 19:28, More)

» Celebrities part II

TV's Paul Ross's Favourite Pearoast
I was in the pub the other day and a minor TV celebrity walked in, clutching his Big Black Book of Horror.

"Look!" I said to my uncomprehending chums, "It's TV's Paul Ross! The man with the magic voice! When he holds hands with himself marvellous happenings occur!".

They looked at me and gave a half shake of the head before looking at the floor and resuming their previous activity of ignoring me. Ignoredom, I like to call it, when boredom causes one to ignore a companion and stare at the floor. Beer was sipped and a trip outside to the smoking area was discussed.

They departed to partake in the simultaneous noxious and fragrant activity of smoke inhalation. Tubes of dried leaves had never been so appealing.

I approached the tubby yet radiant familiar stranger at the bar. The Big Black Book of Horror was hanging at his side, clutched in a sweaty forepaw as if it was yesterday's newspaper rather than the key to abject terror. My soul quivered at the sight.

"Excuse me sir" my voice was shaky and I could feel patches of salty sweat begin to seep out from my armpits. "You're TV's Paul Ross, aren't you?". My stomach was doing the hurdles as I spoke to the great man.
Surely he would ignore me, or, hopefully, give me a curt backhanded slap across the face?

"Yes, yes I am" he replied. "Do you like my Big Black Book of Horror?" I lied and told him I did.

The thing strikes abject fear into my soul, as if stiletto darts of obsidian quartz were fired from a nailgun into my immortal self.

We shook hands and sipped our pints. Our eyes met and, for a fleeting moment, I detected an animal warmth in the Ross man's heart.

I was chilled to the bone.

He indulged in an impromptu round of either/ or- "Guinness or Beamish Red?" was what he asked me.

I didn't know what to do. I took a stab in the dark and told him Beamish. I don't know why- Guinness is my pint of choice.

A chill descended in the room as he told me it was the wrong answer. He handed me the Big Black Book of Horror and told me the role was now mine.

I stepped outside and knew what I had to do. I looked down the road and hailed a taxi. I left.

I never saw my friends again.
(Sat 10th Oct 2009, 13:47, More)

» The Dark

It was dark once.
So I had a comfort wank.
(Tue 28th Jul 2009, 22:50, More)

» Stuff I've found

I found
... a wallet in El Segundo. Turns out it belongs to Q-Tip.
(Sat 8th Nov 2008, 21:44, More)