Nanna Robbo
My dad's dad died before I was born, but Nanna Robbo soldiered on. She appears to have been the inspiration for Mrs Brady Old Lady, as she was the spit.

An 18 St+ brummy in a crimpolene dress, screw-on hats in racing green, ulcerated legs like kebabs, orthopedic shoes, toe nails and feet I'm still in therapy about (her toes bent at 45° outwards from her feet, like flippers), false teeth, farts like a haunted house door, a miserable bully, racist and homophobe.

She once rang me up whilst I was tripping and was on for an hour, full of self loathing and resentment, attempting to extracting more than a pound of flesh from her guilt trip, 'It's horrible growing old, don't grow old alone, woe, is me'.

Thing was, she was just so unpleasant to be around. None of us were ever foolish enough to stay around for xmas, so we'd do a quick present drop just before. She'd open the presents in front of us and just say 'these are horrible, you can take them back' regardless of what they were.

Every year till she died, we'd get the same presents, a roll of 10x20p pieces, a small diary with a horse on from Woolies, a tangerine, a walnut and a cadbury's faux stocking with a twix, mars and milky way. Till I was at uni.

She thought that you got electricity out of coal by squeezing it, and every time we went abroad she'd say 'don't drink the water, watch out for the natives'.

In her last year, her grandson (my son) was born - I'd been together with his mum for ten years, but we weren't married. Her health was failing, frequent visits to hospital etc. We thought it might be nice for her to see the continuation of her genes, the next generation, before she shuffled off.
"Nah", she said, "I don't want to see him."
Why?
"Because he's a bastard."
(Countryslicker, Wed 11 Jul 2007, 11:08, Reply)