Friday, 25 February 2011

Wales, Boy Friends, Metallurgy, Whales and Always Judge a Book by its Cover (Final part)

To continue…

Dessert was sherry trifle.

When it comes to cooking, my wife is firmly lodged in the sixties and seventies and, though she drinks very little herself, she is convinced that a dessert is not worth serving unless it is flammable. For me this is no problem. For those that are driving it can present problems.

One of my cohorts was once pulled over by the ‘law’ as he drove home from a soirée at my gaff and was asked to blow into a ‘have you had a drink?’ bag. My mate told the officer that he was wasting taxpayers’ money because nothing had been drunk all night.

Being a law enforcer of the nicer variety the officer enquired as to where my dear buddy had spent such a fine evening. Like a fool my idiot friend said eez’s place and told the officer how much he’d enjoyed his three helpings of rum baba. The copper forgot about the breathalyser and just nicked him on the spot.

Anyway, I suffered Myra Hindley looks from both the wife and daughter for several awkward minutes as I sat at the table. Then, my charming daughter said, “Dad, I assume you’re still having the Belgian breakfasts.”

Moby looked up from his fourth dish of sherry trifle and asked what a Belgian breakfast was.

The apple of my eye replied, “well, for my father, it’s normally about four cans of Stella as soon as he wakes up.”

The wife stepped in, “now, now, there’s no need to be like that.”

Hurrah for the missus! Good on ya woman! Give it to the disrespectful little cow! Give it to her good and proper!

“At least he’s not putting vodka on his cornflakes anymore.”


Everyone else seemed to be devouring abnormal quantities of trifle, so I thought I’d go for a second serving myself. As I ate, the Hindley girls continued to glare at me and it was obvious that the youngest was preparing for another offensive.

“Mum, are you and dad going anywhere nice for your holiday this year?”

That really was too much. I know I’m male and just her father, but it doesn’t mean I have to take a verbal arse shafting.

The wife and I have not been on holiday together since she had me arrested in the departure lounge at Heathrow Airport in 1988 (she continued with the holiday and her flight seat was upgraded to first class as compensation for the ordeal she’d suffered whilst waiting to board. I spent 36 hours in the slammer).

I was about to say something when the wife said, “I doubt it, but I’m off to Japan with my sister in a month’s time.”

This was news to me. “You’re going to Japan with your sister?”

“Yes, dear.”

“That’s fine, darling. Whereabouts in Japan?”

At this point, my daughter looked at me; sensing that her mother was on dodgy ground.

“I’m not too sure, but it’s on the coast and the hotel is only fifty yards from the shore. Sis’ loves her morning swims. As you know, she often swims a mile or more before breakfast,” she beamingly answered.

I must explain that in my wife’s eyes her older sister is nothing short of a goddess. Had her sister been around in ancient Egypt the slave masses would have built pyramids of such grandeur for her sister that oxygen masks would have been issued half way up the bloody things.

“The hotel is only fifty yards from the shore? Your sister will swim every morning? Does your sister not consider that to be somewhat risky?” I gently enquired.

“Er, mum…”

“Not now darling. Mummy’s talking.”

I saw the cold look that my girl gave her mum. She’s definitely my wife’s daughter. There was an “okay, you’re on your own now.” look in her eyes.

The moment that was about to occur has and will always be a rare event in my life.

The missus, in an equally gentle and reserved fashion, replied, “Why would my sister think that to be risky? I fear you have taken too much whisky, sir.” (God, how I wish she’d stop watching period dramas on BBC1)

I calmly suggested, “Because, my sweetness, I believe Japan still operates a whaling fleet.”

Moby found it very amusing. He swallowed a tongue stud and farted.

I could give you two guesses as to where the final portion of sherry trifle came to rest, but you’d only need one.

I’m not going to say too much about the ‘Always Judge a Book by its Cover’ part of this post’s title.

My beautiful daughter from Wales spent two months in a rehabilitation centre and more than five months living back at home with her mother and me after leaving Moby. She eventually got her life back.

I was never prosecuted for what I did to Moby.

When everything came to light, I could do no wrong in my wife’s eyes for at least a week. I was the husband of all husbands.

When my daughter was getting over this regrettable, but in many ways inevitable, episode of her life, I was the greatest dad on the planet. I was the dad of all dads.

Not long after, they both returned to being the money grabbing, life-sucking females I’ve always known them to be.

I wouldn’t have it any other way, to be honest.

For those of you reading that live in England, Express Food stores have bottles of ‘Teachers’ whisky on offer at £9.99. Avail yourselves. I have.

God, I love this world.

P.s. Apologies for the 'yesterday' bit on the previous post. I was going to tie these events into something else, but when I got to the last bit it became difficult. Forgive me. If, for whatever reason, you can't forgive me, you are more than welcome to simply piss off.

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