The Confessions Collection. Timothy Lea
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old berk, isn’t he? When you spend some time with him you can understand what an uphill struggle people like Ken Loser have to bring culture to the masses. And where is Ken? It is surprising that he is not here for the première of his masterpiece.
No sooner has the thought bundled into my nut than the swing doors at the back of the theatre burst open and a white horse gallops down the aisle throwing its rider through the screen. The lights go up immediately and as the horse disappears through the exit marked gents, we see our Ken staggering back into the auditorium. He is wearing a fur hat, scarlet tunic and leather boots.
‘He thinks he’s a hassock, does he?’ says Dad.
‘A cossack, Dad,’ I tell him. ‘For Gawd’s sake, don’t you know anything?’
‘Some kind of circus act before the film, is it?’
‘Something like that, Dad.’
Loser makes a big thing of embracing two birds and a bloke, and slumps down dramatically in a seat which collapses.
‘It’s not his lucky day, is it?’ says Dad.
‘Ssh. The film is starting.’
‘I want to go to the toilet again,’ says Dad.
I know I should go with the miserable old twit but I want to see what the audience’s reaction is to the film. Justin has said that you can tell after the first ten minutes whether you have got a hit on your hands.
For five minutes I squint sideways into the gloom and the bloke on my left begins to nod off. This can’t be good. I am looking around for a more favourable reaction when it occurs to me that Dad should be back by now. What has happened to the silly old bugger? I push past the irritated whispers and go out into the foyer. Dad is standing by the pay box draining a glass.
‘Just helping clear up the empties,’ he says guiltily.
‘Helping yourself,’ I accuse. ‘You’ve been polishing off the left-overs, haven’t you?’
‘It didn’t take me long,’ says Dad, belching loudly. ‘Didn’t think it would, with your precious brother-in-law laying on the booze. That’s just what he does. He lays on it so nobody else can get any.’
‘Don’t be bleeding ungrateful, Dad. You’ve never risked rupturing yourself when it came to lashing out on entertainment. I remember you trying to raffle the cake at Rosie’s wedding.’
‘I was only thinking of raising a few bob for their honeymoon. They weren’t going to eat it all, were they?’
‘Whatever happened to the money, then?’
‘Well. They left in such a rush, didn’t they? I never got a chance to give it to them. Then, your Uncle Raymond came along and suggested we had a few. You know what he’s like.’
‘Yeah, I remember, Dad. Mum didn’t see you for three days, did she? They reckoned you’d gone on the honeymoon.’
‘Don’t bring that up now,’ whines Dad. ‘How much longer is there? I get chlorophyll in that place.’
‘We should be so lucky, Dad. You mean claustrophobia. Blimey, it’s a good job I know what you’re on about, isn’t it? Hey, what have you got there?’ Dad is trying to slip a bottle under the jacket of his morning suit.
‘I found it lying in the pay box. I thought someone might nick it.’ The thieving old git is only trying to stash away a bottle of scotch.
‘Very commendable, Dad. Now, hand it over.’
‘Let’s just have a little drink first, eh?’ Dad gives a nudge and a giggle and I can see the signs that he is on the way. I should be firm but, on the other hand, maybe he will drop off if he has enough booze inside him. He has been known to pass out with his face in an ashtray on more than one occasion.
‘All right, Dad, but make it a quick one.’
Well, it is quick all right. Like emptying a bucket of water down his throat. The morning suit soaks up more scotch than he does. They should like that when he takes it back.
‘Dad, are you sure you want to go back in there? Maybe –’
‘No, son. I want to see what your precious Sid has been up to. Anyway, I like the royal family.’
‘Their bit has finished,’ I humour him. ‘Now, give me that –’ But Dad twists away and takes another swig of scotch before we get through the swing doors.
‘It’s dark, isn’t it?’ he says loudly and resentfully. ‘They don’t make it easy for you, do they?’
‘Quiet, Dad! People are trying to watch the film.’
On the screen Glint Thrust is slapping Dawn round the kisser with obvious relish and the sight is not lost on Dad.
‘Hey, look at that!’ he bawls. ‘That’s not nice, is it? Clobbering a woman. I don’t hold with that.’
‘Well, piss off then!’ hisses a voice from the darkness. Dad does not warm to the suggestion.
‘You want to watch your language, mate. You’ll find yourself picking your teeth out of your hooter.’
‘Shut up, Dad. Get a grip on yourself.’
‘They want to get a grip on themselves!’ Dad points towards the screen and lurches into a row of seats. ‘Look at it! Look at it! It’s disgusting!’
‘Oh! Keep your hands to yourself!’ screams a female voice.
‘You want to dress up then,’ says Dad. ‘A bloke can’t move around here without bumping into your flesh. You trying to inflame people, are you?’
‘It’s the second time he’s done it, Siggy. You’ve got to do something.’
‘You looking for a bunch of fives, are you?’
‘Sit down!’
‘How dare you touch my wife.’
‘I know. It does take a bit of courage, doesn’t it?’
‘Oh!’
‘Sit down!’
‘Shut your trap!’
‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ I burble. ‘He’s a bit overtired. He’s not himself.’ This, of course, is a complete load of cobblers. Dad is behaving exactly like himself. Why the hell did we ever invite the miserable old sod? I try to drag him towards some empty seats but he waves his scotch bottle expansively and succeeds in sprinkling everybody within three rows.
‘Shut up and watch the film, Dad,’ I hiss tearing the bottle away from him. ‘You’re not having any more of this ’til it’s finished.’
‘How can I have some when it’s finished?’ moans Dad, all heartbroken. ‘That’s not possible. You’re not playing the white man with me.’
‘When the film is finished,’ I hiss through gritted teeth. ‘Now belt up!’
But there is still a lot of life left in Dad. On the screen Glint is now tucking into Dawn like she is a flaky meringue and I can see Dad’s evil little eyes gleaming in the darkness.
‘Cor,’ he grunts. ‘That’s not nice, is it? And on the kitchen table too.’
‘It’s not the kitchen table. It’s a tavern.’
‘I don’t care what it is. It’s disgusting.’ And before I can stop him, Dad leaps to his feet and starts chanting, ‘What a load of rubbish! What a load of rubbish!’ I should have guessed that all those evenings curled up in front of Match of the Day would have an effect on him. The violence of the terraces has seeped into his miserable old ratbag body and has at last found an outlet. ‘Off! Off! Off!’ he bellows and hurls his empty scotch-bottle at the screen.
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