If Trump Had Been Raised by Virginia Woolf
Bloody hell, the Yanks elected me prez and now everyone’s saying things have gone pear-shaped. Some blokes are convinced I’m mad and I’m having a laugh watching them try to get me out on a barmy charge. If Mum were still here she’d tell them straight off I’m a dim bulb but I’m not mad — she used to say it was bloody weird I was so thick but that being the case, I must remember to always let people know, so I won’t look a prat. But it isn’t working and I wish Leonard (aka me Dad) had weighed in now and then. Mum was great, don’t get me wrong, but bloody hell, I needed some better strategies, given she was this mad genius and I inherited some other strain of the family noggin. Leonard said I was a waste of space but he could be a right twat, if I’m being honest. He could have tried harder to get me a leg-up into his numbers lark — those ledgers he was always faffing about with. But he just left me to Mum and I ended up going into London with her all the bloody time, listening to twits talk shite about Christ knows what, except they liked the word “buggery” which Mum said was slang for anal sex but I know it means insects. Mum truly thought I had next to no brains.
Sometimes I’d try to understand Leonard’s accounts, with an eye to the future — I knew I’d have to leave the jolly homestead sometime. (And I’m being a sarky bastard saying “jolly.”) “Oy Pop,” I’d say, “What’s it all about, then? There are a lot of numbers all in straight lines, is that it?” and he’d say “Go be with your mother, lad — I don’t have the strength today, so help me.” It was back out to the garden for me where Mum would be entertaining another lady in drapey clothes, age approximately 110. So I’d ask if I could go out with my mates. Nothing I liked better than going round the pub with the lads and having a nice strong cup of tea. After that we’d go looking for a bit of skirt — usually down in the town, in some pretty dodgy places if I’m being honest. But anything will do when you need to dip the wick, am I right? I know you agree and my Mum did too. She never minded anything I got up to, in fact I think she thought I was a bit of a Stay-at-Home Sam at times. “Go out, Chubsy,” she’d say (Chubsy was her nickname for me — a bit naff but what’s a chap to do?). “Go have an adventure!”
Mum told me not to be afraid of the world and if I got into a tricky situation I was to say, “I’m not the sharpest knife in the drawer” or “I’m a few cards short of a full deck” or other phrases she gave me so people wouldn’t think I was taking the piss. Leonard said no one would believe anyone could be as slow as I was and I was sure to come to harm — another example of the way he slagged me off all the time. “Stop taking the piss, you bloody poofter,” I said to him once, but Mum said that was a cheap expression and way off — she said he wouldn’t stop bothering her if she was being honest. I asked what she meant but she shook her head and her face looked sad, as if she was thinking of something sad. Between the pair of them you’d have thought someone had died on a regular basis — there were no laughs in my house, not like my mate Mikey Barstow’s. His dad used to biff us on the head with these foam bats, oh it was such a good time. I would laugh and laugh and wonder why Leonard never had a laugh or hit me with foam bats. Mum sometimes played bowls with me but she was crap. It was better playing alone.
My parents talked a load of bollocks sometimes. They talked so much about Orlando you’d have thought we lived in bloody Florida. I couldn’t keep track of all of Mum’s dreary friends — all I knew was none of them had tits to speak of, or looked like they liked a bit of fun, if you know what I mean. And when I grabbed the younger ones by the fanny they were really cheesed off, and pushed me away like I was Jack the bloody Ripper. Mum would apologize like mad and say over and over, “He can’t help himself — he doesn’t know right from wrong, in fact he’s as thick as two planks. We can’t get anything to stick to him and Leonard’s saying he ought to go in a –” but she’d always break off there.
I’m not saying it was a completely rum deal growing up with Mum and Dad. They did right by me — they got together the dosh for me to set sail for America when I was 16. Mum gave me a new list of phrases, like “I can’t be trusted with simple tasks” and “Whatever you do don’t put me in a position of power.” “Goodbye, Chubsy,” she said to me at the docks, her voice all wavery. “I’m sorry about everything. Do the best you can,” and then she turned away, pulling her scarf up over her face. Leonard gave me a little shove toward the plank. “Go on, lad,” he said. “You’ve worn her out. She can’t cope anymore. But the Yanks ought to take to you. You might do quite well over there.” “Right,” I said. “Thanks for all the great life lessons because I’m so well prepped, I am.” I was still a sarky bastard. Leonard coughed a little or maybe it was a sneeze. “Hard to believe, but we did our best,” he said. I laughed and put my duffel bag over my shoulder. “Pull the other one,” I said, walking away up the ramp. I turned around to yell “Ask Mum to send my lad’s mags!” but Leonard had already disappeared into the crowd.
