A 50th Birthday Continued …

The next character in my tale is The Underage Boxer, a 17 year old, curly haired Lothario who decided to take a shot at the birthday boy. It already being a hard day for my step father, he decided this adolescent fit of dominance needed to be squashed by a fellow of mature standing. (I’m sure the 5 G& T’s and 4 glasses of Cava also egged on the guest of honour.) I, at this point have exited the bar and am sitting outside with my sister, a busty, ginger haired ball of dynamite.

‘You can’t hurt me, you’re merely an over indulged child. I am 50 years old. If you are not careful young man I will be forced to use my strength. The strength of Gods, dear man!’ My step father is 6ft tall and weighs about 16 stone. You may have read that I describe him as ‘an overactive Christmas tree.’ I have a feeling that he believed himself to resemble Russell Crowe in Robin Hood. Unfortunately, the breasts and pregnant stomach failed to accomplish the desired effect.

My sister now feels it is her place to intervene, to calm the tensions, relieve any stress, sedate those involved in the friction.

‘You f***ing what, touching my step dad. Who do you think you are?!’ Again I believe the desired effect was lost the minute her words hit the air. I decide to let this play out, for writing purposes I can’t always get involved. I see myself as the David Attenborough of the human world. I stand back, observe, take in all the information, walk away and then allow you to judge the questionable behaviour of such beasts.

Anyway back to the Underage Boxer, he at this point had decided to take on, how did my father put it, ‘the strength of Gods’ and was fiercely attacking my step father’s hair. The gallant men involved had no qualms in ruining a perfectly formed perm. The tussle lasted around 4 minutes, hair had been pulled, hand bags had been launched, glasses had been emptied, shirts had been crumpled and egos diminished. My mother was approaching the war zone with shrieks of ‘Oh darlings, darlings, my loves, please no more, that shirt took our cleaner hours to iron.’

Lesson to be learnt here, leave boxing to those who actually know how to fight.

The final character of my tale is The Abusive Scotsman. This one in particular happened to be 5 ft tall, which meant he not only hated foreigners, but he also disliked tall people. My step father became the perfect antagonist. As mentioned over 6ft tall, and very, very English, he uses words such as ‘tally- ho’, ‘polo’, and ‘afternoon tea.’ So the abuse bubbling under the 5ft surface was beginning to dissipate, when my father makes the fatal mistake of interacting with the Scotsman.

‘I am jolly glad you’re here my old boy, your wife seems to be enjoying herself, and I think it’s a damned shame that myself and Karen hardly ever see you! We must become friends, dear chap.’ Now yes, this is pretentious, overly friendly, and obviously the result of large quantities of ‘afternoon tea.’ But nonetheless, I do wonder whether it deserved this response.

‘Are you patronizing me?’ Slightly out there, but let’s see where it goes …

‘No, dear fellow, not at all. I was merely suggesting …’ My step father is cut off, the figure beneath him waving his hands, a motion I imagine meant silence, my step father obeyed.

‘Don’t you come over here and start telling me who I should be friends with. I don’t even know you! And I don’t like your pompous tone. You posh git.’ Now listening I had a few questions: 1) Why are you here if you don’t know or like the people hosting the party 2) What warranted such an abusive response and 3) Well done this was entirely amusing.

My step father turned a little pink, and apologized in true English form by stating ‘I may be a posh git, but at least I’m not the perfect height for giving blow jobs.’ It stopped the argument in its tracks. Both men were utterly insulted, one turned left, the other right, and they continued their evening.

Lesson learnt here, when an angry Scotsman and a posh Englishman walk into a bar … the gloves come off.

A 50th Birthday …

A philandering Gardner, an insulting hairdresser, an abusive Scotsman, an underage boxer and an English student all walk into a bar. Sounds like the beginning of a terrible joke, and I guess you could argue that it is! My step father’s 50th birthday resulted in one black eye, two broken ribs, 30 bottles of Cava, and the cast of Benidorm descending on my hometown. The blessed event took place on Sunday, the day of rest, and I can assure you God took a good long rest that day….

I will begin my tale with: The Philandering Gardner:

Imagine the ego of Kanye West, the looks of Colombo and Casanova’s obsession with women, and you have our gardener. Now I was sitting at the bar, glugging back the diet coke, hoping the disarray of middle aged housewives and business men would settle down, when I notice something quite extraordinary. Mr “I’ll trim you’re bush”, had his tongue in a close family friend’s mouth. Now considering they were both married, over the age of 50, in a public place, and surrounded by their friends, I don’t really know why I was so shocked, but call me innocent, I was! The next event caused the diet coke I had been so innocently drinking to stream out of my nose. The now drunk gardener had underestimated his prey, the small blonde he had attempted to devour, had in two smooth swoops slapped him across the face and taken her 4 inch heels and dug them into his unprotected feet. He lurched to the ground, two people came to his rescue, believing him to have fallen over in his drunken stupor. The blonde patted down her dress, and walked away. I think the lesson to be learnt here, is that unless you look like David Beckham with your shirt off then stick to the lawn mower and secateurs.

Next we shall venture into the world of Caroline, The Insulting Hairdresser: a woman with straight teeth, an even straighter face and punch lines that leave black eyes instead of laughs:

Turning back to the bar, I glanced to my right and saw Caroline, hair draped over her face, coffee in hand. Simultaneously two dog walkers, peacefully enjoying the Sunday sun walk past the bar (of unforgotten youth and English binge drinking), when ooops they are covered in hot black coffee. I’m sure the dash of sugar calmed the searing pain. Caroline looks up, with a sudden air of sobriety, and cuttingly tells the members of the party surrounding her ‘You all need to lose some weight, brush your teeth and buy a face like mine.’ That evening she managed to tell my sister ‘you have a featureless face’, my mother ‘your pigeon legs are awful’ and the very kind waiter ‘we all know you’re secretly gay, I can tell by the way you walk.’ She definitely says how she sees it, and I’m sure she will continue, for as long as the surgery can keep her eyelids from embracing her sight, and her cheeks descending around her mouth. I don’t know if there really is a lesson learnt here, just don’t let Caroline invade your personal space, unless you want to be told that your tash needs seriously bleaching.

The Abusive Scotsman and Underage Boxer soon to come …

The Airport

Airports, I spend a lot of my time in them, wandering round and round every now and then getting the urge to jump on to the baggage carousel. Let’s face it we’ve all wanted to. But from your first holiday you are warned that this seemingly fun piece of machinery is actually a death trap. Parents like to ruin everyone’s fun! I remember telling my mother that I thought it looked like a moving cat walk, she replied’ Oh darling that’s exactly why I don’t let you on there. No point inspiring false hope.’

Now it has been a while since I’ve been on a plane with my family, I try to not to enter into small, 20 thousand feet off the ground spaces with them. I feel panicked for some reason. So anyway, my step dad ‘kindly’ takes us all on holiday to Turkey. We arrive at the airport, mum’s arm has magically started to ache, she suffers from tennis elbow, ironically the only thing she can do with her arm, ‘suffering from tennis elbow’, is play tennis. No cleaning, hoovering? ‘God no’ Ironing? May I dare say it ’Oh terrible for my arm’, carrying her suitcase the five meters from the parked car to inside the airport? ‘Darlings, darlings, it’s my elbow again, it really does crop up at the most convenient times. Tennis elbow is such an affliction’ I take that as a mistake, but knowing my mother as well as I do… So I pick up her bag and we all go into the airport.

We line up at the check- in, my mother is beginning to turn that ashen grey colour after twenty minutes without a cigarette. Then the moaning begins and we are in the realm of the five stages of nicotine withdrawal

1: Denial: ‘I don’t really even like smoking, I only do it socially’

2: Anger: ‘It’s ridiculous. This is a violation of our human rights! If I want a bloody cigarette, I’ll bloody well have one!

3: Bargaining: ‘Now look, Darling no one’s around, just us, my family don’t mind. I’ll even give you one? No one needs to know’ (My mother is flirting with the female check-in assistant, smouldering eyes, that begin twitch every now and then, hair that’s slowly beginning to frizz.)

4: Depression: I just feel so, so, so … (she starts to tear up, my step dad is oblivious, I’m going bald and my sister is ready to bite my mum’s arm off)

5: Acceptance: ‘Oh Karen gave me an electronic cigarette I’ll just have to use that for now’

This is before we are out of the queue for the check-in and these stages are repeated on an hourly cycle.

Now my mother begins to recover, we are placing, or should I say Jem, Emma and I are placing the bags onto the belt when the check- in assistant begins to go through her safety questions. Now most people say

‘No, we haven’t got any of those things in our bags.’ As we all know my mother is not ‘most people.’ She replies ‘Well, of course I haven’t got a gun, or drugs, or any kind of illegal implement in my bag. But I cannot answer that question on the behalf of my family. Fenella? Do you have any of these items in your bag hmmmm?’ Her face is waiting for an answer, whilst inferring that I have indeed got some form of illegal substance in my luggage. I say ‘no, nothing like that in my bag at all’ and laugh in what I perceived to be nonchalant and sophisticated manner.

However, there and then my bag is searched. The last time we went on holiday my mother took 3lb weights in her hand luggage, so she could ‘do arm exercises on the plane’ and was most upset when security removed these from her. Of course, now it’s me being searched my mother states ‘Well darling, sometimes these things happen. I mean some may say it’s a breach of human rights, but I really don’t believe in all that rubbish.’

Aunt Antics…

Now this madness has been developed in my aunt, a woman of minimal breasts and a monumental love of exercise.

A clean freak, a tad neurotic, always screaming, typically middle class: ‘Not Fairy Liquid, we must use ECO’.

This madness is best encompassed into the relationships with her children:

I went to Henley- on-Thames, (‘never forget the ‘On –Thames’) We had decided to take the children to Tesco, Waitrose must have been closed, (as she says ’it’s good for the children to mix with all members of the community.’)

Harry is sitting quietly in the back of the car, when he proceeds to tell his mother, in a worried tone, that he is thirsty and has drunk some blue liquid in the back of the car. My aunt asks what the fluid is, Harry says ‘windscreen cleaner.’

Now I am oblivious to the impact this statement will have, so when my aunt does an emergency stop and flies the car to the side of the road I am a little shocked. She then proceeds to scream ‘How much did you have?’ (She takes after my mother, only dogs could hear this high pitched shriek without wincing.)

From the Supernanny I’ve watched, this type of behaviour from parents is frowned upon, but understandable. Now Harry explains to us that he put a little bit in his hand and licked it. I am content that everything will be fine. So I reassure Sophia ‘don’t worry, Harry is fine.’ Sophia seeks comfort in her mother and is rewarded with ‘Well I don’t know Sophia, Harry could DIE.’ I am leaving out the expletives because there were too many to be written down.

The episode of adult lunacy was ended when we reached Tesco, it was clear Harry hadn’t drunk much at all. In Tesco my little cousin states ‘Oh mum, my legs hurt’ to which my aunt replies, ‘Are they numb Harry, can you feel them? Oh God!’ Harry walks off to the sweet isle completely oblivious of the effect he has had on the three women staring after him. One shaking with anger, one crying with fear of her little brother’s iminent death and the third has lost the capability to hear.

A Modern Day Grandmother …

Now in this blog I feel like I have unfairly (a matter of opinion I am sure) flogged my mother. So I have decided to bring in the woman who made the subject of my recent blogs possible, my grandmother! And aunts beware, you are most definitely next.

My Grandmother is far from the tubby 80 year old, cake baking, lovable Grandma many of my friends claim they have. She never has been, and I highly doubt she ever will be. In fact last weekend I arrived in Margate to find she had dyed her hair, the soft colour of honey? Nope, pink highlights amongst the purple mop of hair. Very in, and makes me feel like the tubby 80 year old. Her eccentricities continue with the Hippy clothing and lifestyle. She is the kind of woman who to save time will put her clothes on over her pyjamas, the closest bush is always considered a bathroom, and any stray dog (both animal and man) is always welcome in her home.

However, amongst the youthful looks and free lifestyle is a madness that could have only developed with age. My Grandma has a passion for rocks, all rocks, any rock. In fact if I smashed up a brick, leaving the mess on the side of the road, within about ten minutes my grandma’s sixth sense would have kicked in, and she would be witnessed placing the shards delicately into her handbag. The next day I would arrive to find that smashed up brick artfully decorating a wall or mantelpiece.

You may also see my Grandmother searching through rubbish tips or stealing the furniture people leave outside their houses. All in the name of recycling!

A Birthday

My 22nd birthday was three months ago ….

Birthdays, now this is a day which is similar to the famous Marmite advertisement, you either love them or hate them!  At home birthdays consist of ALL my parent’s friends, who have decided that on this special day, the day I entered into this world, quite pink, with masses of dark hair (not much changed there), that they must come to our home and celebrate. And that is what they do, in fact it’s become so much of a tradition, they now do it without my presence, me being at University. So on 27^th January, I receive a phone call from my mother, usually around 3pm, she has already called the previous day to check that my birthday is tomorrow and that she hasn’t missed it, ‘well you know darling, I am terribly busy, those balls wont drink themselves, and that coffee won’t throw itself around the courts.’

So I receive this phone call, and like all birthday phone calls they start off with the best intentions. ‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU, HAPPY BIRTH, oh you know the rest Foo, (yes my mother called me Fenella, and then decided to really fuck me over with the nickname Foo.)

So the conversation goes along in that vein, how has your day been so far, do you have a boyfriend, are you sure you’re not a lesbian, it really is fine, I’ve tried it, not that bad really, what are you going to do with the rest of your life and where do you intend to live. After that begins the motherly disbelief that you can be twenty two years old; well it’s all passed by so quickly, drugs are such a lifesaver, really don’t know why the government worries so much! After this of course we all know what comes next; well darling I must go you fathers been following me around the garden, remember to thank him for the presents, not that he chose them, anyway darling, love you.

Driving Lessons

Red, Yellow, Green.

‘Okay so take your foot lightly off of the brake, whilst keeping your other foot on the clutch, press on the acceleration and move from neutral into first gear.’

Well isn’t that wonderful; about five words of that sentence I don’t understand. I am learning to drive, and like we all know, the more you practice the better you will get. I just have to stop texting my driving instructor telling her ‘I’m ill, my granddad’s gone into hospital, it’s snowing outside.’ I’m pretty sure she knew the last one was a lie, as she lives about 15 minutes up the road.

I decide to ask my mother for some wise words of encouragement and she tells me that driving is like ‘no not riding a bike, but like having sex.’ Yes this is the analogy she chose to use. ‘Darling, just like with a man, you have to know when to accelerate and when to brake, too early and you miss the end of the road and too late you stall.’ Again the sex – car analogy makes no sense to me whatsoever, but she continues… ‘Imagine you are coming to the end, you have made your signal, checked the mirrors so you know what’s coming up behind you’ Dear God! I am in severe physical pain,’ you move down from third gear, to second, then into a nice steady, but powerful nonetheless first’ My mother at this point winks, not to me, but to my step dad, the pain is becoming more excruciating, ‘and you press your foot lightly on to the brake, whilst simultaneously adding pressure to the clutch. If you do everything with plenty of time and in the right order, then, well you know!’

I am momentarily stunned into silence by the power of this mental image. Even laser surgery won’t be able to remove this moment from the inner layers of my mind. I now wonder whether I need more practice with sex or driving. I’m pretty rusty at both; the only difference is for £40 I get to drive a car for 2 hours, and If I’m not feeling it I can use the excuse ‘I have a headache’ and not feel guilty.

For those of you learning to drive good luck and I hope my mother’s knowledgeable words will stay with you forever… as they have done me

Meeting the Boyfriend

My mother, my step father, add in myself and a new boyfriend, what do you get? Well you can pick from, finding both your parents stoned dancing around the living room or walking in on them having sex in the front garden hammock, or a room full of post-its? Not expecting the last option? Well, why would you? You’re relatively normal. When your boyfriend or girlfriend comes over for the first time, your parents have probably laid out tea and biscuits, or gone out for a meal? Yeah, I wish. So Timothy (we’ll call him that to protect his identity) comes over, this is the latest edition in a very short line of men that I’ve decided to bring home. In fact, I don’t even think if they all stood back to back it could be defined as a ‘line’ more like an obstruction on a really narrow pavement that you would have to manoeuvre around. He’s nice, tall, dark haired, greenish eyes. So my parents, being on their best behaviour, after many occasions of not being, decide we should go out for a meal. A little restaurant by the sea. Idyllic some might say. Beautiful views, lovely food and the company previously mentioned. All you could ask for. But of course with all of those things comes conversation, and this is where I’m sure you’ve noticed most social occasions seem to go from good to horrendous. Maybe that’s just me.

‘Darling, you never told me how handsome Timothy was, and his arms are so big, his hands look like they know what to do.’ We aren’t in the ladies; we haven’t gone to the bar. We are at the table. My mother is saying this to Timothy. She is stroking his hand. He deals with it well, the usual, ‘Oh Mrs Bentley haha’ bit pink in the face. I no longer get embarrassed, I just sigh, and ask Dad to pour me some wine, I don’t even drink!  Dad doesn’t beat around the bush, he goes directly for the balls, literally, ‘So Timothy, you’re having sex with my daughter, I hope you’re using protection. What is it you young kids say.’ Don’t say it. ‘No protection. No fornication’ Well that was actually quite refreshing! I feel at this point that I should save Timothy ‘Yes Father. Thanks for bringing that up.’ I’m now drinking from the bottle. Mother continues to stroke Timothy’s hand, and if I just, yep she is also stoking his leg with her foot. Dad is oblivious. Can I be drunk already? Or maybe I’m about to faint?

‘So darling, how’s work? My work is wonderful, been working so hard, haven’t I sweetie?’ Dad nods. Oh, sorry I didn’t say, mum’s work consists of coffee, tennis, more coffee, picking up the dog poo, and running around the garden screaming the two words I fear more than anything ‘processional caterpillar.’ ‘Yeah mum works going well, you know it can be hard work but …’ I’m interrupted by a noise that only dogs can hear, my mother’s screech. Dad is still oblivious ‘Well darling, you can’t get anywhere without hard work. I mean look at me, how do you think I got here?’ Hmm ohh I have so much that I could say, but to save the world from WW3 I refrain. ‘Yeah mum, I know, just got to keep working hard.’ ‘Yes sweetheart, but don’t forget to play hard’ she winks at me, the kind people do when they can’t wink, one whole side of her face lifts towards the sky, her head tilts to the right, mouth wide open. She laughs, dogs are howling everywhere.

A Christmas display of merriment …

So Bloggers, I’ve decided to stick to what I know, and one this I know really well are my friends and family … and when do these people show themselves to us most clearly, well that has to be Christmas …..

Christmas at my house usually consists of 8 bottles of wine, 3 cases of beer, 2 bottle of vodka, 1 bottle of gin, a variety of soft drinks and a box of celebrations. The night ends when all of these drinks have been devoured … and then we bring out the shots. As the teetotal member of the family, with the occasional glass of wine (to get me through the evening), I witness all of the bad behaviour. The most potent memory I have is of Uncle Chrissy, (a loveable Irish rogue verging on the middle class and reaching it through his continual use of the word cunt) dancing, as what I can only describe as a steroid hooked chicken. His arms flailing, red face bouncing to the music, with the occasional kick in the air. An image I will always treasure. My mother has a glazed expression; eyes almost shut, with her mouth slightly open, reminding everyone, in a very slurred voice ‘I love you all so much.’ The hostage, we call our step father now begins his dance moves, a mixture of yoga and cage dancing, being 6ft 3 he tends to look like an over active Christmas tree. By now we are all displaying our favourite moves, my sister puts on the rave dance look with my aunt, I bob side to side, and occasionally copy those around me (I do a mean drugged up chicken). Basically it’s a festive time, not so much about the birth of Jesus, but we are definitely celebrating. There is always a drama, always someone wailing at the side hoping to be noticed. But the next year we do it all over again, so it can’t ever be that bad!

Merry Christmas,

Love from the mad house.

Why not? ….

Hey there!

I’ve decided to write about some of the people in my life, mainly focusing on family, but friends don’t think I won’t try my hand at drawing you!

I am going to write some stories down and I hope you enjoy them!
F x