the old man come home with his rag out Fersday. We was all watching Telly but to me it was yesterday’s dinner: yeah, the sooner that lot pull the water up over them the sooner we’ll all be less miserable. I was only giving the family the benefit of my company until the time come round to jump on my trusty Beezer and whine down the caff with the boys.
Then the old man comes in. He’s only kicked the dog before he’s got his coat off, even, and clipped my sister on the earhole so her ribbon’s fallen out of her hairdo. So we don’t need to be Einstein to know he’s his usual horrible self. The kids all scatter like they was in the street with the boys belting up towards them on their Super-Doops and Beezers, and he drops on the sofa like the milkie’s horse dying in harness. Then he roars to his feet like the old horse always has to, because it’s got through to that genius brain of his that Telly’s on and he wants to speak hisself. He reaches out to give it the dead knob.
“Stack!” he yells at me. As soon as I look at him I know he’s meaning to walk down my throat with his boots on.
“What’s got to you, Dad?” I says, “if it’s gardening hints for people with concrete yards save it till I leave home, will you? There’s Wagon Train coming up in a minute.”
So of course he steps up and kills the show, with one flick of his wrist. Very big, the Television Aufority would of screamed for mercy if they could of saw it.
“Stack”, he bawls, so loud the castor-oil plants begin jiving, “what’s this I bin hearing?”
“Dunno,” I says, “but I bet the Noise Abatement Society’s worried.”