Thirty-five. Family matters.

Let me tell you about my father? The guy was a shouter: voice raised so he could fixate on the TV at all times, smoking Golden Virginia all the day long, stirring several sugars into Carnation condensed milk sweetened tea all day long, laughing at innuendo after innuendo all day long, listening to Rod Stewart at his Baby Jane blandest and forgetting to wear underwear constantly so he could sit "au naturale" willy out like some gigolo, telling lies about the possessions he pilfered to make him seem like he had real substance, playing on the one eyed trouser snake like he was waving a wand against my very being and his index finger shoved so far up his nostril he was definitely scratching the very demon inside who had ate him all up.

Oh dad the only thing left of yours, which no one recalls you owning, is the Aussie Bushman's hat which hangs so greasy pegged above the bar in the place where you drank and smoked and swore and never once saw your son as anything but a challenge to some Oedipal complex you had hanging over you like an axe ready to kill me for being your only son? What must your father have been like for this to be your constant response to me? It beggars belief!

OK I was furious, but now I'm kind of curious what James Harry Sherburn was really like?