I had almost forgotten about the incident on Friday. I rang Martin and explained the whole chauffeur situation, with my dad embarrassingly taking us to and from school like a couple of five-year-old twats.
“No worries,” said Martin. “Saves walking and being beaten up.”
A good point.
Monday, March 6th
Day one of operation ‘School Run’. I’m not sure I can take much more of the sniggering and finger pointing from the overly judgmental general school population. The drive to school was actually fine. In fact, I would happily be driven to school every day, especially on freezing cold mornings like today’s was. But to be picked up at the end of the day is just hideously embarrassing. To make matters worse, my dad has decided that he would not only park as close as possible to the school gates, but would also stand next to the car, leaning on it in some kind of homage to a 70s catalogue model, thankfully minus the driving gloves. I didn’t fancy Sasha having to walk home on her own, so offered her a lift too, I was certain that Dad wouldn’t mind.
It was a good job that he was there however as Todd and his gang of assholes had again decided to show up. Had he not been there I am certain that I would have received an almighty kicking, there were at least six of them including the ginger tosser’s brother. Todd obviously couldn’t resist shouting something, and said. “Need Daddy to come and pick you up do you? You fucking faggot!” I smiled, waved and got in the car with Martin and Sasha. My dad turned the car and pulled up right next to where Todd and the assholes were, wound down his window and said, “Daddy will be picking Matt up. And Daddy will take a fucking bat to your thick skull if you come anywhere near my boy again!” Fair play, Dad. I really didn’t know that you had that in you! He sounded so much like a rough East End gangster (even if he was wearing brown cords and a yellow check shirt), that Todd and his merry men were left speechless. They certainly didn’t expect that. My dad apologised to us all for his bad language as we drove off.
I brought up the topic of my friends and me going camping next weekend, it went down with mixed feelings from the olds. Mum was happy with it and actually thought it was a good idea (pretty sure she just wants me out of the house for a couple of days). But my dad was dead against it. He seems to think that we are going to go away on some kind of sordid camping orgy, where everyone will get stabbed, hooked on heroin and return home pregnant.
It’s not a clear yes as yet, but that didn’t stop Sasha, Martin and me from planning it online. The plan so far:
Friday: As soon as the school bell goes we leg it down to Worthing station and get the train to Hassocks. Once we arrive at Hassocks (about 20 minutes on the train) we need to walk about two to three miles (to save money) to the campsite. We have chosen to go to the ‘Happy Jack’ campsite which is just outside of Ditchling. We have chosen this campsite for two main reasons:
1) It’s cheap (£6 per tent per night – bargain!).
2) They provide you with sectioned off community areas with a fire pit and logs (at a small extra cost).
Once we have pitched our tents, we will then source an off-licence naive enough to supply us with copious amounts of cheap yet strong alcohol. The last part of the plan is pretty straight forward. Return to the campsite, light a fire and slip into alcohol induced comas.
Saturday: Wake up late (probably around 12pm); take some painkillers for the very likely hangover I predict. Attempt to have sex with Sasha and then get up and sort out a communal breakfast.
For Saturday after lunch we have decided that we are all going to go fishing at Brighton Marina, Martin knows a man that hires out fishing kit at a reasonable price at the marina. He goes fishing a lot with his dad and claims to know what he is doing. The idea is that we catch a bunch of fish and cook them on the campfire Saturday evening when we return, but I am pretty certain that we will catch bugger all and have to buy some sausages and burgers on the way back. Should be fun though.
I imagine that we will be drinking a lot less alcohol on the Saturday evening and I am hoping that Sasha and I can have an early night and spend a little ‘quality’ time together. Neither of us has proved particularly vocal during our love making so far, so I am certain that the privacy that a thin sheet of nylon allows will be sufficient for our very basic needs.
Sunday: After breakfast we are going to pretty much pack up and head off home, getting the train from Hassocks back to Worthing.
The number of people coming on our camping trip has now increased, confirmed attendees are:
Me – (Although my dad has technically not said yes as yet.)
Sasha – Love of my life.
Martin – Best chum.
Dawn Frost – Sasha’s best friend, who we hope will fall in love with Martin over the weekend.
Jack Simons – Nice kid from my year group who is quite friendly with Martin and in a number of his classes. His dad has also split from his mum and the two of them with lonely dads in tow often catch up to go fishing and bowling etc.
Karen James – Karen is Dawn’s friend and is incredibly pretty, she is currently trying to find work as a model. Not a patch on Sasha however.
Bobby Larkin – A friend of Jack’s who, to be fair to him, is a bit of an annoying sod. He has ADHD and just cannot sit still for two minutes. Much as I sympathise with his condition, he really is a mighty pain in the arse and I wish he wasn’t coming.
Nicola Parry – Another of Sasha’s friends who I literally know nothing about other than the fact that she is in my year group, very quiet and has the biggest set of tits I have ever seen offline. In fact they are so big that we have affectionately named her Nicola Melons.
Marie Richards – Yet another of Sasha’s crew, who is in a number of my classes in school and is lovely. Best way to describe her is ‘bubbly’. Needless to say she is a larger girl who is quite funny. I know she will be staying in a tent with Nicola and only hope that they have one large enough that will be able to contain the large volume of boobs and arse on offer.
So that’s the camping party. Sasha and me in my tent. Martin, Jack and Bobby in Martin’s tent. Dawn and Karen together, and Nicola and Marie with all their wobbly bits in theirs. Four tents in total, it should be really fun.
Note to self: must buy condoms and check my dad’s old tent and sleeping bag.
Tuesday, March 7th
Quite surprised to see that Todd and gang were not at the gates today, perhaps my dad’s threats have gotten to them and they have decided that attacking me is not such a wise move anymore, given that my dad is the reincarnation of both Krays and would take a ‘bat to their skulls’.
It would have been my granddad’s birthday today, so we went straight from school, dropped off Sasha and Martin and picked up my mum, brother and nan and headed off to the cemetery. It was a bit of a squash in the car, especially as I had to sit in the back with my mum and brother while my nan had the front seat. Given that I am the biggest, surely that should mean I have automatic rights to the front seat. My nan is quite literally the size of a hobbit, and a malnourished one at that.
I hate cemeteries, I think it’s because they force you to face your inevitable demise. Although I am still young I do think about this quite a lot and it does really bother me. In many ways I wish I had a faith, at least it would provide my mind with some kind of focus and stop me from stewing on the issue. I really do respect people who have a faith, to be able to throw yourself completely at something you believe 100% must not only be comforting, but fulfilling. My family are what I would term ‘faith ignorers’. Religion is not a topic of conversation in our house, ever. Neither my mum nor dad were brought up with any religious input in exactly the same way as myself. Conversations in my house which deal with death tend to be focused around age and ‘fairness’. The too common statements that are spoken are:
• For an old person dying: “Well, they had a good innings.”
• For a young person dying: “Tragic, that’s no age.”
So, I guess I have grown up spiritual
ly ignorant and that is why death scares me.
At the graveyard, Nan arranged some flowers she had brought along with her and we all stood around and exchanged funny stories about my granddad. My dad (the son of my granddad, by the way), told the following story:
“I remember one summer, when my dad was a young man, around 27 or 28 and I was a six-year-old, I remember him taking Mum and me to the seaside. We lived in Hampshire at the time, just south of Reading and travelled down to Bournemouth for the day. We set off early in my dad’s old Ford and arrived at around 10am. We had a great day on the beach, building sandcastles and burying Dad. At lunchtime we popped up into the town and had something to eat, I have no idea what Mum and I had, but he certainly had a bowl of mussels. To say that the mussels disagreed with him is an understatement. We headed back home at around five o’clock and had what I can only describe as one of the most eventful journeys I have ever been on. About 30 minutes into the journey home, it began. My dad started to complain that he was feeling unwell and started sweating quite profusely. He then demanded that we open all of the windows in the car to cool him down. Then he threw up. I have never seen projectile vomiting of that calibre before or since. The vomit left his mouth, travelled straight over the steering wheel and crashed like a wave all across the