Hello everybody. Sorry I haven't blogged for a while. It's not easy to fit it in when you're trying to respond to so many
Anyway, as a special treat, I am publishing an extract from a story I'm writing. I am not in violation of any kind of contractual arrangement because I can't imagine anyone in their right mind wanting to publish this. It is the stupidest thing I have ever written. Which is probably why I'm enjoying it so much. It's working title is 'El Presidente.'
Freddie sat at the dinner table with his parents and Tadge.
They were having chippy tea. Normally, Freddie would be delighted by this, but this
time, he hadn’t even touched his jumbo saveloy.
‘Freddie,’
said Mum through a mouthful of doner meat. ‘I wish you wouldn’t keep secrets
from us.’
‘What
are you talking about?’ said Freddie as casually as he could, fully aware that
she could have been talking about one of about three hundred things.
She
swallowed and pulled a crumpled piece of paper out of her pocket. Straight
away, Freddie knew what it was.
‘Ohhhhhh,’
he dropped his head into his hands.
‘What’s
the matter with you? This is something to be proud of!’ she said.
‘What
you talking about?’ said Dad, mopping up curry sauce with a slice of bread and
butter.
‘How
did you find that, anyway?’ said Freddie. ‘I hid it under my bed! What were you
doing looking under my bed?’
‘For
what?’ said Dad. ‘What is it?’
‘Well,
I saw a thing on the telly about these new drugs kids are taking and I wanted
to make sure you weren’t stashing any,’ she said.
‘Drugs?
What drugs?’
‘Nothing
wrong with drugs,’ said Tadge. ‘I did a bit of the herb when I was your age and
it didn’t do me any harm.’
Everyone
turned and looked at him. He had mushy peas in his beard and his t-shirt said
‘I Shot Mr Burns.’
‘I
haven’t got any drugs!’ I said. ‘You wouldn’t even let me have a Vicks inhaler
when I had a cold!’
‘Will
someone tell me what’s going on?’ said Dad.
‘I am
so proud of you, my boy,’ said Mum. ‘Shortlisted to paint a picture of the
Prime Minister!’
Tadge
threw his scallop down in disgust. ‘No way, my man. Don’t do it. Don’t shill
for the Illuminati.’
‘Nonsense,’
said Dad. ‘You’re proud to be British, and you should be proud to paint our
nation’s leader.’
‘Yeah,
you should paint him,’ said Tadge. ‘With red paint . . . like the . . . blood
on his, you know, hands.’
‘Go to
your room, Tadge,’ said Mum.
Tadge
stomped off upstairs and slammed his bedroom door. He was forty-two.
‘He
just needs a moment to calm down,’ said Mum. ‘And when he does, you should talk
to him. Tadge is a very talented artist.’
‘I
don’t know about that,’ said Dad. ‘It’s that modern art rubbish. I’m not into
it. Remember when we visited that snooty place and they kicked me out just for
speaking the truth? I said ‘that’s not art, it’s a bed. That’s not art, it’s a
wardrobe.’
‘We
were in Ikea,’ said Freddie. ‘You were making a scene.’
‘Aaaaah,’
Dad waved him off. ‘I know good art when I see it, and what Tadge does ain’t
good art.’
‘Well,
what is good art, dear?’ said Mum.
‘You
know . . .’ he reached across and speared Freddie’s saveloy with his fork.
‘That painting of the dogs playing cards, the little boy having a wee,
Blackpool tower, that kind of thing.’
Freddie
wondered how the hell he could have been named as one of the top Art students
in his year with the genes he inherited. Trouble was, now his parents knew,
there was no escaping it.
He had
to think of something.
