Well, I suppose I’d better start with myself, eez:
Early childhood was an all too familiar story of bullying and hunger, but I soon saw the error of my ways, stopped beating up other kids, stopped stealing their school lunches and turned to the Bible.
Things were good for a while, but demand dwindled and it soon became apparent that there are only so many different designs of Bibles that you can sell to ageing widows.
In the ensuing years I spent time behind bars, but, again, a change of direction soon saw me drinking rather than serving.
And now I find myself at the age of 66, totally grumpy, invariably drunk, smoking a truly horrific quantity of any duty free cigarettes I can get, looking more like Winston Churchill than Winston Churchill ever did, married for over forty years (I’ll come to her next) and solving everyone else’s problems, but mine.
All my life I have been a victim of circumstances and things have an inevitable way of going wrong for me. Examples of this are many and over the coming weeks, if anyone reads these ramblings, you will no doubt find yourself crying tears of sympathy for this walking magnet to misfortune.
On to the wife:
The darling little lady has many qualities. She’s good with her fists, above average at wrestling, and good at throwing things, though her aim isn’t what it used to be, as my neighbour would confirm when the hammer went through his window instead of my head.
She has many skills and talents that often come in handy. A recent example of her natural ability occurred when, while travelling to a relative’s sixth wedding (he’ll probably stop there because his name’s Henry), I was stupid enough to drive over a small piece of metal lying in the middle of a rain slicked road which resulted in a puncture.
It soon became apparent that the wheel nuts, which had probably been put on by some gorilla with a power wrench, were not for moving. Despite my best testicle-popping efforts, they were going nowhere. The wife intervened and had the wheel changed in three minutes dead.
I will gradually introduce you to her family and friends. This will prove to be a harrowing experience for me, so I ask that you be patient and forgive me for spreading the trauma over a period of time.
She is something of an enigma. When my kids look at her they see a smiling, loving and caring woman. When I look at her I see Godzilla with tits.
Overall, though, she has been a good mother and wife, albeit with an always-present air of malignancy.
I have two daughters and three sons. I consider them all to be somewhat imbalanced.
I won’t go into too much detail because I don’t know much about them.
My Oldest son runs a business. I’m not too sure what the business is, but he seems to earn a fair bit, as he is the one that has ‘borrowed’ the least amount of money from me.
To digress a little, I confess to having failed all my children. At no stage have I ever been able to successfully explain to any of the five of them what the word borrow means.
My second son works abroad and does something with screwed up people.
I don’t have a clue what the youngest boy does. He lives in his own little annexe to the house in which, I’m sure, several as yet unknown varieties of mushrooms exist. I suspect that however he makes money, it is not within the law.
The oldest daughter paints nails whenever she has the inclination to do so and appears to be happy surviving on state and parental handouts.
My youngest daughter (youngest of the lot) lives in Wales. I can’t really tell you much about her, but I think I’d recognise her if I saw her.
And now it’s beer o’clock.