I MUST NOT TALK BACK TO MY FATHER.
I MU ST NOT TALK BACK TO MY FATHER.
I MUST NOT XXXX TALK BACK TO MY FATHER.
I MUST NOT TALK BACK TO M Y FATHER.
I’m sitting alone in my bedroom with the typewriter that I got for Christmas. It’s not a real typewriter – it’s one of those things with a cylinder at the top that you turn around by hand until you find the letter you want to type. The typewriter is made of tin and, as if to give the user a glimpse of how much more straightforward things are in the grown-up world, has a false QWERTY keyboard painted on the front. I’m getting quite adept at this: If I concentrate so that my tongue sticks out of the corner of my mouth I can probably manage about four letters a minute. Maybe there’s a future in this.
My father’s gone now and my Spiderman annuals and Airfix models have been returned to their rightful place on the shelf. It must be a Saturday or a Sunday: I don’t know how I know this, I just do. From the wall Noddy Holder smiles out at me like a madman: he is wearing his ridiculous mirrored top hat; squatting beside him is Dave Hill with his stupid fliddy basin cut. I’ve been doing this for some time: if I count up all the letters I have typed and divide them by four, almost three hours.
Suddenly my bedroom door is opening and my father is entering the room. He’s young again: his hair is jet black and held in place by thick grease; he’s wearing a donkey jacket and corduroy trousers. He’s smells of booze… yes, that’s how I know it’s Saturday or Sunday: my father has been out for his customary lunchtime drink today. He’s staggering slightly and his voice is overly loud. “Well…” he demands. “Have you finished?”
“Almost,” I reply, gesturing towards my tin typewriter, suddenly frightened.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he asks.
“I’m… erm… typing it…” I reply in a voice that is yet to break.
“No! No! No! No! No!” he exclaims angrily. “Listen to me, Sonny-boy: I told you to write it… not type it.”
“But… but…” I blubber, starting to cry.
“You’ll have to do it again – and this time you can write it five hundred times!” he says, swinging an open hand through the air and smacking me hard on the side of the head. “You’re not leaving this room until you do!”
Now he’s pulling the sheet of paper from my tin typewriter and tearing it into pieces and I’m crying so much that my vision becomes blurred.
The mists clear and my father is gone. Now my mother is standing beside me, no longer a little old lady with white hair but my mother once more. She’s reaching towards me, holding my sobbing frame in her arms. “It’s alright, love,” she is saying softly. “It’s all right.” Now she is kissing me on the cheek, cuddling me, nuzzling me, kissing me on the mouth, whispering words of comfort to me…
My eyes are closed and I’m kissing her back. Her arms are wrapped around me and mine are wrapped around her. Our bodies are interlocked, our tongues are touching, our saliva mixing and leaking down on to my chin. She’s moaning softly and I have an erection which is pushed against her belly. To the other side of me, Ralph is sniffing idly at my ear.
According to focus group protocol it is at this point in the proceedings that I’m supposed to go all Black Lace on you. It is, after all, a pretty sorry state of affairs for all concerned if I don’t get to nibble at the heroine’s milky breasts at least once. A bit of heavy groin action is called for if I’m to get those bums on seats, if I’m to meet those readership targets. So I remove Carol’s coat and pull off her T-shirt and fumble with her bra catch and then give up and drag it over her shoulders. Then I gently caress her breasts and lick her nipples until they are erect and move my tongue over her belly and stroke her silky thighs; and she lets out a short squeal of pleasure and moves her hand down to my trousers, etc. etc.
Of course, none of this happens. What actually occurs is that I wake up with a real jolt, gasping for air and horrified – absolutely appalled – that I’m apparently snogging my mother who, despite what you are thinking, I do not – I most certainly do not – and have never had or never will have an Oedipus-type of thing for. While I am busy waking with a jolt, Carol is lying beside me also busy waking up with a jolt, no doubt horrified too that she has just awoken to find herself snogging a man who to all intents and purposes could be her father. We’re both horrified.
Our senses now restored, we’re separating our tangled bodies and quickly putting as much distance between ourselves as is possible within the cramped confines of the caravan. Carol heads off towards the toilet, where she remains for about ten minutes. I fiddle about with the kettle which, I discover, no longer contains any stagnant water for me to boil up, then I open the door to the caravan and step outside into the weak morning light. Ralph follows me, wagging his tail happily.