Bastarding Dad
This is extremely cathartic.

When I first learned how to drive, I immediately became a taxi service for my parents. I suppose it is only fair as they had ferried me around for the previous 17 years.

Every year prior to my taxi-able status, for my father’s Christmas work’s do, my mum had to pick him up, often bringing me and my sisters as we couldn’t be left alone. I will never forget being the first to see my dad wandering along a bridge at one in the morning slurping a bottle of wine and dressed as a Christmas tree complete with blinking fairy lights and the star of Bethlehem on his balding head.

So as soon as possible, my mother delegated me to pick him up. Fine. So one Christmas, I went to the hotel where the work’s do is being held, parked the car outside, and went in to winkle him out. He was predictably slewed as newt, with some of his fellow employees holding him upright. He saw me and his drunken distorted face lit up.

“My son has come to pick me up! Son, Son! I remember when he was this thigh!”

I would like to take this moment to explain that it was an NHS party with roughly a thousand people present, in a gigantic room, in the city’s biggest hotel.

My dad broke free from his supporting captors and lurched over to me, with his arm around me, and breathed winy fumes in my face.

“OK, dad, tell everyone goodbye, we are going now.”

“Wait, wait, I need to finish my drink-wine.”

“Alright dad, quickly drink it and then let’s go”.

I let him go and he ambled off. I turned to have a look around, and then suddenly I find he is on the stage with a microphone, having taken it from the compere (who had given it to him - there’s nothing like a drunken twat to entertain).

I froze.

“That’s my shon there, look at him, drove all he way here. I love him.”

A 1000 faces turned to look at me.

“Come here shon, shon, come here, sho’ them what you can doo.”

Oh fuck I thought. As I started to walk over to him in front of the stage, “come here dad”.

“My shon is a genius at the piano.”

What? Eh? What the hell are you talking about? “Come on dad.”

“He’s amazing, like a young Mozhoven”.

Cries from the audience of “give us a song”.

I jumped up on stage, to grab my dad, and the compere took my hand, and led me over to and fucking sat me down at the grand piano on stage.

I am not musical. I have never played a musical instrument. I am musically challenged. When I die, the average per capita musical ability of the world will increase slightly.

I had a thousand faces looking at me, and the best I could do is to take a deep breath, and plink, plonk as if in some sort of harmony. I stop. There is a deep, chasm-like silence. People look at me and my dad in a drunken pity. I get up, drag my bastarding father outside, stuff him in the car, and drive home.

Unbelievably, my dad doesn’t remember any of the events that occurred and when I told him the story, he claimed that it sounded like I had embarrassed him.

Jesus wept.
(powervator and NONE SHALL PASS, Fri 28 Nov 2008, 12:58, 2 replies)

Ahaha!
I'll be like this with my kiddo in ten years. You mark my words!
( Noeli overtheshoulderboulderholderthingstraplatchboobs, Fri 28 Nov 2008, 13:58, closed)

GENIUS
I absolutely LOVE this week's Q.

Fabulous entertainment
( Monty Boyce, My cheese game is strong, Fri 28 Nov 2008, 14:08, closed)