UNCLE BILL
Granddad, I love you even though you’re not a nice man. I’m embarrassed that fisticuffs still impress you at seventy years of age, but I look at your balding crown and see your spectacles and feel I could learn from you. You beat up my angelic Mum and I pity your conformity and your fashionable misogyny but I think you adore her. You are a boring drunken cunt but that’s what the world has taught you to be. You smell well tended and you look fastidious and regal. I love your scarf and your cockney confidence. It is a confidence which sings out it’s expletives in kind of affection that rises above anything academia could afford and knows it. I have to confess that if I had been a youth and were present when you engaged in combat with Dad I would have been exhausted of alternative choices than to have fucked you up so as to make you labour in walking and ashamed to show your face for quite a spell. But I still love you because I can see you are unquestioning and pond skimming market trader and I approve of your general disapproval of all things in life seemingly revered by the masses without foundation. I miss you and I miss your kind. You stank of booze and fags as you persevered each night to insert your key into the Lyndale lock through your balance hindered handicap. I’m told you were a womaniser and that you broke your second wife’s heart. But I want to believe that to have been ego and mindlessness rather than snarl and sadism. Mind you, your last girlfriend was a beehive hairdo powered by a dynamo wasn’t she Bill? She might have been a bit of karma for you mate, translated into your vernacular Bill that’s “Wot goes rand cums rand” mate! She was as warm and as humane as Himmler and that was if she was having a good day, but I suppose that we should love our enemies. I loved your son too, he was a lot like me, quite mad, quite confused and not a beneficiary of the grape and the grain. I don’t blame him for protecting you (His Dad) for as I have said, I would have done the very same. Your daughter loved you and she admired you bravery in facing death. Anyone who thinks you were a cunt I understand, but for all that I’m sorry we can’t chat anymore as is the case with most of the dead. I doubt you had many secrets or even much depth, you were probably very young when you realised what a load of rubbish the latter was hey Bill?
Well Uncle Bill, I may see you soon in another dimension but if that’s not how it works and it’s just lights out only, thanks for that World War One gun layer and special thanks for joining Emily in creating the enigma that was my mother. For kicking her in the head I’m afraid I have to inflict upon you the most severe punishment I can think of and that is as follows, spend a good many moons thinking about it, then when your soul is finally destroyed with the attrition of remorse and regret, see if you can’t spruce yourself up, get on your best garb and have a walk down the Steyne. The Steyne known only to the Saints and to the Father himself and make a few changes to your outlook. Whetere or not you do, I promise I myself shall.
Your Grandson Tim
TIM SANSOM EARLY 2000
Granddad, I love you even though you’re not a nice man. I’m embarrassed that fisticuffs still impress you at seventy years of age, but I look at your balding crown and see your spectacles and feel I could learn from you. You beat up my angelic Mum and I pity your conformity and your fashionable misogyny but I think you adore her. You are a boring drunken cunt but that’s what the world has taught you to be. You smell well tended and you look fastidious and regal. I love your scarf and your cockney confidence. It is a confidence which sings out it’s expletives in kind of affection that rises above anything academia could afford and knows it. I have to confess that if I had been a youth and were present when you engaged in combat with Dad I would have been exhausted of alternative choices than to have fucked you up so as to make you labour in walking and ashamed to show your face for quite a spell. But I still love you because I can see you are unquestioning and pond skimming market trader and I approve of your general disapproval of all things in life seemingly revered by the masses without foundation. I miss you and I miss your kind. You stank of booze and fags as you persevered each night to insert your key into the Lyndale lock through your balance hindered handicap. I’m told you were a womaniser and that you broke your second wife’s heart. But I want to believe that to have been ego and mindlessness rather than snarl and sadism. Mind you, your last girlfriend was a beehive hairdo powered by a dynamo wasn’t she Bill? She might have been a bit of karma for you mate, translated into your vernacular Bill that’s “Wot goes rand cums rand” mate! She was as warm and as humane as Himmler and that was if she was having a good day, but I suppose that we should love our enemies. I loved your son too, he was a lot like me, quite mad, quite confused and not a beneficiary of the grape and the grain. I don’t blame him for protecting you (His Dad) for as I have said, I would have done the very same. Your daughter loved you and she admired you bravery in facing death. Anyone who thinks you were a cunt I understand, but for all that I’m sorry we can’t chat anymore as is the case with most of the dead. I doubt you had many secrets or even much depth, you were probably very young when you realised what a load of rubbish the latter was hey Bill?
Well Uncle Bill, I may see you soon in another dimension but if that’s not how it works and it’s just lights out only, thanks for that World War One gun layer and special thanks for joining Emily in creating the enigma that was my mother. For kicking her in the head I’m afraid I have to inflict upon you the most severe punishment I can think of and that is as follows, spend a good many moons thinking about it, then when your soul is finally destroyed with the attrition of remorse and regret, see if you can’t spruce yourself up, get on your best garb and have a walk down the Steyne. The Steyne known only to the Saints and to the Father himself and make a few changes to your outlook. Whetere or not you do, I promise I myself shall.
Your Grandson Tim
TIM SANSOM EARLY 2000
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