Dinner tonight in the house of the Working-Class Heroes.
On the way, there was a-hootin' and a-hollerin' from a window; I looked up, and was delighted to discover it was Magnum the younger, (recently moved into the area and already lowering the tone). I stopped for a chat'n'a cuppa, and was paid many compliments, the greatest of which was the compliment of rational opposition ( poor deluded youth thinks after-show discussions are valid; see 'Hidin in the jacks' ).
But you can only exclusively feed your head for so long, and I was already late when hunger tore me away and I was soon off on my velocipide, happily and hungrily pedalling myself closer to the delicious repast.
I was not to be dissappointed. Curry. From the Saturday market, and mucho deliscioso. Afterwards, like the wild young things we are, we sat around and watched television.
Plenty of chat too, and as 'the heroes' have the interweb on tap in their house, it was not only a lively debate but one of the participants was an all-knowing oracle. Yes! The time was when you could pass off any old bull, with just a modicum of eloquence and an authoritative air about you,- not anymore. On the other hand, it's always there to back you up on the 'unbelievable but true'; tonight we checked out catswholooklikehitler.com and the last scene in 'Teen Wolf' (unbelievable? Yes, but it's true, you can see it).
The Working-Class Heroes, it should be said, aren't really all that working class; they definitely are heroic and no doubt about that; but working class? As far as I'm concerned, anybody who had it even slightly better than me as a kid, isn't really working class, as I rarely miss an opportunity to remind everyone.
Doesn't work with people who were even slightly worse off though. No, they'd tell you I was 'livin' in luxury and didn't know meself' and the whole situation descends into a Monty Python sketch very quickly. So; I have found it prudent in my life to surround myself only with those who have had the slightly-better-off childhoods, that way, I can complain at length about my own in true Pythonesque fashion. Nobody's one-upping my street credibility oh no.
Unfortunately, on account of something 'like as what I wrote'; my days of complaining about my childhood are numbered. I'm gonna have to come clean. It was good while it lasted, and I have enjoyed the sympathy folks, but it's time to 'out' myself and 'out' myself as a complete phoney. Here goes:
Okay, I come from a 'bad' area, which means I have a great address for working-class credibility. It's probably enough to tell you that it's only a stone's throw (and there were plenty) away from where Damian Dempsey grew up, but his lot were all livin' in the nice big posh houses like the snobby 'Donna-meat Conts' they were! That's the address, but lets face it, estate agents are liars: your quality of life is not dictated by other people's prejudiced perception of the street you live on. Your quality of life, is mostly what you make it, or if you are a child, what your parents make it; and behind our front door was a palace. If the truth be told, in terms of what children really need: food, clothes, attention, discipline and values. I was actually spoilt rotten, and I was the youngest! (well at least until I was seven). Other kids knew it: in the same place a lot of them were growing up 'wild like weeds' , but not us. Our folks, and especially our Ma, had control of us and expected us to control ourselves. We had what kids require: strict-ish parents, regular chores, regular bed-times,(with bed-time stories) and cool Christmas presents no matter what the family budget. I always thought we were posh. We were posh. We just weren't snobs. Posh-without-notions I call it.
I say all of this because reading reviews of something like as-what-I- wrote, I got the impression, that the people writing the reviews got the impression,- that my growing up stuff was genuinely, indescribably bleak or hard or tough and I can see how the thing 'like-as-what-I-wrote' portrays that, but it really wasn't. It wasn't perfect, but show me a family that have attained familial perfection and complete harmony and I show you a bunch of phonies who howl at each other like monkeys when there's nobody watching them.
Glad I got this confession out. Not really a confession though because I know that none of my millions of readers (Morning Dave), will bother reading this far.
They'll all be checking out 'cats who look like hitler' and the last scene in Teen Wolf.