It's been nearly 10 years
since I last saw my mother. The abuse started early, temper tantrums if we didn't put the tins of tuna in the cupboard the right way round, make any kind of noise and you were bawled at. I'm one of three, part of a set of twins with a younger half sister (who still sees Fiona, nothing abusive ever happened to her, not that I'd wish it on anyone).

My mother would go through men like some people go through cheap shoes; one after another, using them for all their worth and moving onto the next one, then decided we needed a 'fresh start' in North-East Scotland. We moved up there in October 1998, very confusing for a couple of 10 year olds (half-sis didn't move with us, she was living with her dad by this point), and even with this fresh start the abuse didn't stop... locked in cellars, left to fend for ourselves for days on end... beatings, mental abuse... I'm still in therapy now.

Then, in April 2001, my Great Grandad died. We'd gone back down to Nottinghamshire for the Easter Holidays and didn't even know he'd been in hospital since November of the previous year. Fiona had been told but she didn't bother telling my twin or myself. He was a wonderful man, and something about his passing made my sister and I realise we finally had to tell someone what was happening.

Three months later, after a long custody battle and a stint in Foster Care, we were living with our Nan and nobody's seen or heard from Fiona much since. She went to see my Great Nana a few times, sent her a wedding photo when she married someone old enough to be her father, but that's it. I never want to see her again.

Now I live on the other side of the country because her sisters are utter mentalists too, I think there must've been some kind of radiation in the area they grew up in that's completely fucked with their heads... my Aunts moan at me, say they never see me enough... but I'm happy to cut myself off and live on the other side of the country. I see my twin and my Nan, my Great Nana whenever I can, but I've got to the point where I don't want to be around damaging people.

Sorry for lack of funnies, bit of a heart-pouring moment this morning...
(Lucoire tutted and shook her head in disbelief on, Fri 13 Nov 2009, 6:38, 5 replies)

Do I ever have a story.
I have 6 aunts on my mum's side, and they are a group of the bitchiest, nastiest, craziest hags you've ever seen in your life. Now, when I say crazy, I don't mean just eccentric. I mean attempting-to-stab-your-mother-with-a-kitchen-knife-and-getting-committed type crazy. When my gran, their mother, was still alive but rather gaga with Alzheimer's and living in a nursing home, there was a daily battle to prevent them from doing something illegal/insane/cruel to her for no reason.
One of the more sane sisters was given power over her afairs, but the Hags kept trying to subvert it. There was even an (extremely illegal and pointless)attempt to spirit her away, stuff her into a plane, and hide her in one of the Hag's homes.
This, of course, didn't work, because poor gran couldn't walk on her own, became frightened and confused every time she left her nursing home room, and was very incontinent.
Their excuse when they were caught? "The nursing home is abusive--they let her sit around in her urine all day."
Actually, my gran would panic, get angry, and start hitting and screaming at the poor staff when they tried to change her clothes. That didn't stop the brave souls, and they had her washed and changed every hour on the hour, even when she bit them. Her pants were always wet on the (extremely rare!) occasions the Hags came to visit her because, guess what? She's incontinent! She gets wet immediately after they change her!
One of the staff who really didn't deserve it lost her job because of them.
When my poor gran was dying and in pain, the worst Hag of all decided she'd take the opportunity to scream at my mum and tell her all about how she ruined her childhood. With my gran dying in the room. Needless to say, half the family disowned the other half as soon as my gran died and never spoke to them again. Ever. And good riddance.

Sorry for lack of funnies, but my family is dysfunctional and sick, and it sucks.

I miss you lots gran, but the end of the road was living hell. Alzheimer's disease is a bitch.
(TheWonderfulWombat It came to me in a dream., Fri 13 Nov 2009, 6:18, Reply)

Caused a feud, didn't know, was quite proud of it when I found out.
OK so I went out with this girl for a few years and got along famously with her dad.
He was a bloke of the old school, smoked a pipe, sailed a boat, drank beers, had a beard, swore a lot but held the door for ladies etc etc.
He was also born in Germany, one of the ones whose family had the foresight to get the hell out of Dodge City when the Nazis came into power and started to turn the place into something they wanted no part of.
I, for various reasons, speak German (mate of my dad's taught me the swear words, then a few more phrases, then high school, then a few trips there) so we go along like a house on fire.
We would drink, take the boat out and nearly wreck it, burn the house down at barbecues, shout obscenities at each other and anyone else in German and generally have a ball.
When the relationship with his daughter ended (In Germany, funnily enough), I bade him farewell, shook his hand and absented myself from the family.
Fast forward about ten years and he died.
I didn't know until I ran into the ex and she let me know.
"You know he never forgave me for breaking up with you," she said.
"In fact he didn't speak to me for years. Only got back in touch when he knew he was dying and still wasn't happy."
What a fucking champion!
( difficultchild, Fri 13 Nov 2009, 4:56, 3 replies)

I get on fine with my family.
Those durn McCoys on the other hand...
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Fri 13 Nov 2009, 1:50, 1 reply)

My son
won't speak to me and ignores me most of the time. Not last night though, oh no, after drinking his fill he decided that he would give me his full attention. After waking me (and the neighbors) up and roaring for a few minutes, he proceeds to headbutt me, punch me and gouge my right eye. Then he pukes all over me ,shits his pants and laughs in my face.

Looking forward to our first Christmas though.
(knackerz is skinning up, Fri 13 Nov 2009, 1:41, 9 replies)

Apparently, I don't matter.
I have a fairly large extended family, 30 or so people I see very often.

My assorted Aunts think the best way to make even the smallest get together memorable is by taking as many photos as they can, thus ruining any chances of chatting, as your stopped every few seconds to pose with an uncle, or stand with a sibling for a photo.

I never saw the point in this, but finaly one came! At my Gran's 80th party 2 years ago, the whole family were dragged into the living room to watch a DVD, made by the most camera happy of the aunt's first born cunt spawn. It truly was a great DVD, chronicaling all the important times and people in my grans life. Except for me. Imagine the slow realisation that not one, of litteraly hundreds of photos of you has made it onto a DVD, when every outher family member appeared around 5-10 times. Imagine the frustration of having 21 years of your life not getting a foot note, yet an 8 month old baby getting a whole section to himself.

As the film ended and I sat feeling pretty gutted, my father's voice breaks across the silence. "Were there any pictures of you there Chris? I didn't see one!" Gotta love him some times.

A few days later was a family wedding. I was sat away from my cousins that I get on with and was sat bang in the middle of the young couples with kids and houses, who all chatted about being a parent with I quietly contemplated what it was I had done to become an outcast.
(Mong goose, Fri 13 Nov 2009, 1:24, Reply)

Flat
My cousin, lets call him Phil, won't talk to his sister, lets call her Cath, as my uncle and aunt bought her a flat to live in. He thought this massively unfair and threw a massive hissy fit. He has refused all contact with her for 3 years now.

Why did my uncle and aunt buy Cath a flat? Because she was going through chemotherapy for leukaemia and needed somewhere to stay that wouldn't cost rent whilst she recovered. Oh and now that she has recovered she's paying off the mortgage AND has put half of the flat in her name, and half in Phil's, as she wants to be fair regarding future inheritance.

I think my cousin Phil may be a prick.
(Zapiola zip-zap-zop, Fri 13 Nov 2009, 1:19, 2 replies)

Ho hum
My grandmother is 93, my great aunt is 96.

In 1930 (or so) my great-aunt had a rather shotgun marriage to a young gentleman. My grandmother didn't really disapprove of her pregnancy, but rather of the feckless fellow she got hitched too. Granny and great-aunt had a falling out at the reception, tempers rose, things were said and when my great-grandfather committed suicide a few years later my grandma sort of blamed it on the stress of having to deal with a layabout son-in-law. They haven't spoken for 79 years. Its only because my dad keeps in contact that we have ever met my great-aunt. Oh and we can't tell my grandma that we see her now and then. She still goes on about it - "ruddy cheek" et.c.

79 years over an argument at a wedding? Seems a little excessive to me...
(Zapiola zip-zap-zop, Fri 13 Nov 2009, 1:01, Reply)

Yeah........ Family and all that...... Yeah.........
Long and short. My old man was a drunkard. An alcoholic, and violently abusive to boot.
Cue my mom trying to jump out of a Morris Marina one day. Or trying to stop her from downing a shit load of tablets.

Ah, ce la vie.

Until, I had decided I'd had enough of his abusive, violent ways - I mean, why THE FUCK kick a dog because it wouldn't lay on your feet you stinking fuck ass?
13 years old, or thereabouts. About 1990 or so. Into CB radios and the like, and having come home one evening (through the back door, never the front) hearing him giving the dog a kicking for some drunken reason.
Now, bollocks. Had enough. Mom in the kitchen knitting away, watching telly on the portable. Me goes in the living room, and tells him to stop it. Cue him starting the big drunken talk on me - "come on then big man lets go outside". For fucks sake - his own flesh and blood!
So, mom comes in shouts at me to go get washed up and to bed, so I scuttle off quickly to the bathroom. Quickly followed by my mom, then him. He raises his fist, and I grab the CB aerial base that I'd got in my back pocket.
Anyone familiar with mobile aerials is that you will have a thick steel spring like base, with a black rod with the copper wire making part of the aerial, then a little japs eye for the whip to be slotted into. No whip on this one though, just the base bit.
I twatted it round his head a few times, and yep, some claret, he crumples. Moms screaming like a banshee, and I bugger off, quick, like a fucking whippet.
Next thing I know, he's banging on neighbours door with a hammer, "i'm gonna have him, etc etc". Fair play to neighbour though, with comment of you will have to get through me first.
Old bill, as he calls police and wants charges pressed. Fuck off they say, and quietly tell me well done (he's known for being a fucking drunk nobber to them).
Mom goes for full divorce, and the time goes by. Decree Nisi comes and goes, and then one day - ONE FUCKING DAY.. Decree absolute. She has him back, divorce is no happening, and she comes in my room and tells me that it was all my fault and I should be apologetic.

He's dead, I'm glad, and the rest of my family bar one sister who fucked off a long time ago are a bunch of wankers.

I'm the tallest of the lot, got more qualifications than them all put together, and would like to hope that I'm the offspring of a dirty shag from the milkman.

Family? I shit em.
( Tesco Quality 60.825659, -0.788337, Fri 13 Nov 2009, 0:37, 1 reply)

I come from a perfect family.
We never fight.
(WooSkadoo, Fri 13 Nov 2009, 0:24, 2 replies)

Oh alright then, I'll share.
As a rule my mum's side of the family get on well. We argue a lot, but it's the very specific kind of arguing you get in large Irish-Catholic families...everyone bickers, but nobody takes it to heart. It's very entertaining, My dad's side of the family (English, C of E) are a bit different - it all gets a bit like an episode of Shameless whenever they are put together in one room. Still, everything muddles along as best as it can (bar me trying to punch my Uncle, which is another story).

A couple of years ago, my cousin K--- (from the Irish Catholic side) got married. Nobody was particularly fond of her intended husband, but as she seemed happy. everyone was determined to make sure she enjoyed her day and that everything went without a hitch. Until he announced (with three weeks notice) that they were going to get married on a Friday lunch time and have the reception four weeks later. This meant that most of the Bride's side of the family had to drop out as nobody could get the time off work, and those who had to travel a fair distance (myself included) simply couldn't rearrange things at such short notice - nobody was going to get to the church ceremony, and there was no reception the same day as they were going on the honeymoon. This irritated a few people, but still...their day, so bicker a bit and get on.

The day of the reception arrived, and the whole family schlepped from the various corners of the country to celebrate. Everything was going well until K's father passed a quip to the groom that he should be dancing with his wife instead of playing poker with his mates.

All hell broke loose. Groom stormed off demanding that K choose between him or her father. K stuck by her husband, told her father to 'fuck off' and then she got into a fist fight with her sister (who happened to be her Maid of Honour). The Groom's family started swinging punches at my family, the reception venue gradually emptied as more and more people joined in the brawl on the cricket pitch, until all was silent - apart from my mum, still drunkenly dancing on her own, wondering why nobody would come and dance with her.

By some miracle, nobody got arrested - but K and her sister haven't spoken in 3 years. It rates highly on my 'most entertaining weddings ever' list though ;)
( Wicca'd Witch needs ideas for a new sig on..., Fri 13 Nov 2009, 0:15, 4 replies)

I'm a middle brother
Apols for lack of lulz.

My father regularly beat my mother.
My mother regularly took her frustration out on me and my brothers.
My older brother was a herion addict through his late teens and early twenties.
My younger brother turned to petty crime.

I spent every moment I had studying, because i knew that the quickest way out I had was to go to university. I didn't care about the degree or the place, i just wanted to escape and be free. Luckily I got into a decent uni as far away from my family as I could.
So for me coming back home for the holidays was akin to descending into a Hades that specialised in simmering loathing, emotional blackmail and random outbursts of crazy.

I avoided contact with them for a couple of years after I left uni, but felt guilty about it. I repented a bit after I got engaged because I didn't like the thought of getting married with no one from my family present (my wife has a huge extended family) so I called to invite them and try to patch things up.

They didn't want to come and my older brother called me a traitor for having "abandoned" my poor parents and younger brother. I tried to remind him of what it had been like growing up there.
I reminded him of one incident I vivdly remember when he got caught smoking at the age of 15 and was beaten to a bloody, snotty pulp. The fact that both my parent are smokers and it was their cigarette he was smoking, didn't seem to him to impugne their parental skills at all. His actual response? "yeah, but it could have been worse".

I had no reply and walked away, haven't spoken to them in years.

What really annoys me now is when people ask about my family and I say that I haven't talked to them in years because we don't get on. They look at me as if I've just anally violated a puppy infront of them, using a kitten.

Run, run while you can.
(Bo Nidle Coming back in from the cold., Fri 13 Nov 2009, 0:09, 2 replies)

Splits.
There's feuds, and there's feuds.

My Ladyfriend's father moved to NZ from Sri Lanka about fifteen years back, after being *disowned* by her grandpappy. By all accounts (er, hers, anyway), Grandad sounded like a right prick. Drunkard, spiteful... wretch. The point at which her father was disowned? That final splitting of familial ties?

He wouldn't give the bugger cash to fuel yet another drunken binge.

Can't choose your family, unfortunately.
(Scritty Bakerman., Thu 12 Nov 2009, 23:51, Reply)

"I have run out of coke"'s story just reminded me
My mother's older half-brother. Jane, his witch of a mother once told him "you're not my son" and disowned him. Not because he was the disownable sort (lovely bloke actually) but because she was a sour, nasty bitch.

He died 2 years ago, I think he was about 70. His mother was still alive. Did she come to her own son's funeral? Did she fuck.

Rumours last year that she'd finally kicked the bucket. Unfortunately those rumours turned out to be untrue. As my mother said, the devil looks after his own.
( eXOBeX, Thu 12 Nov 2009, 23:29, Reply)

Ah, Grant.
You were always a little overshadowed by your brother (to hear what your dear 'ol mum used to have to say about it).

'course, after you schemed with that fucking accountant to steal yer crippled dad's savings, she doesn't have much to say about you at all. Living with Bruce now, I wonder if that burns? The brother who always gives a damn about you. Now he lets you stay in his house when you've got nothing and noone else left. I hope you don't resent it.

You were always someone I looked up to, until I didn't anymore.
(Scritty Bakerman., Thu 12 Nov 2009, 23:28, Reply)

My family is one huge extended feud in physical form.
You can't talk to them for five minutes without them bringing up what 'er Sharon sed towar Jeehson (twenty years ago.) This constant atmosphere of bickering and ill-feeling, endlessly propagated generation after generation after generation, was perhaps the reason I became the black sheep and have little if any contact with them now. On the plus side, this has strengthened my desire for independence no end; on the minus side, I find the very notion of family, so fundamental to most people's lives, quite appalling. To most people, it stands for happiness, warmth and support - to me, it means overboiled grey vegetables, cold uncomfortable chairs and two distorted ugly faces screaming at each other, forever.
( The Mock TurtIe ™ --- Thinks you are a cunt, on, Thu 12 Nov 2009, 22:53, 1 reply)

My family do a nice line in these...
My Dad's side of the family do a nice line in drunked punch-ups at family gatherings but it's my mum's side that come out winners...

My mum is prone to going a bit mental sometimes - a couple of years ago at Christmas she called one of her son-in-laws a wanker for no good reason, threatened to slap one of her grandsons for not sitting down, and when my other sister visited threw not just a monumental strop because the dinner was burned but also Christmas decorations at her other two grandchildren, aged three and five, despite the fact they had nothing to do with Christmas fayre being Carbon Cuisine.

Thing is, she gets it from her mum...

I have mentioned my family's fondness for 'Granny Jackboots' before on these hallowed pages, but in terms of feuds she really is the winner. Let us go back in time to the early 1920s when she was little.

My Great-Grandfather was often away on business trips a lot, especially overseas, which in those days meant getting on a bloody big boat and taking weeks to get where you were going. As a result he often brought back presents for his two daughters, Joyce and Olive, of whom my gran, Olive, was the younger by three years.

On one occasion, the girl's father returned home with teddy bears from the US as presents. Owing to my great aunty Joyce being the older sibling, she got a bigger bear. Now time passed as time is wont to do. through the Second World War when my mum was born and into the mid nineties, during my great aunt's last, senile, faltering days. Bearly able to recognise her own reflection, never mind the faces of her relatives Joyce eventually died and it seemed for the best. My gran on the other hand soldiered on for another ten years after that. In time, she too began to lose her marbles, often thinking I was the paperboy and my mum was just one of the nurses in her care home, however one thing still remained burned in her Alzheimer's riddled brain up until her dying day.

Joyce got a bigger bear.

If anyone can match bearing such an insignificant grudge for over 80 years, they have my click.
( Sonic James Doom forgetting the date since... umm..., Thu 12 Nov 2009, 22:42, 1 reply)

I smacked my brother in the face. Hard.
And holy *fuck* he deserved it.

OK so... my brother Huw works as a doctor. Not that you can tell by the smug fuckeryness he brings to any given party. Oh no. With that and the two small kids, he's a bit too used to being in charge, no matter what. I'd love to say this doesn't spill over to his non-work life. But I'd be lying.

~~backstory~~

Huw was a superior, lordly little cunt when we were kids. Never missing the opportunity to give it the Charlie Big-Potatoes it over his little brother (that's me. Hi.), when to be honest the answer was simply "er, that's because you're nine, and I'm six, you daft bastard. Hence you can do long division or whatever." But, you know, whatever gets you through...

~~/backstory~~

Fast forward a few years - I'm 34 at that point - and I'm quite good at DIY. Basically because my mate's Dad showed me most of it, it's not a big deal in and of itself. I now work doing project management for an audio-visual company... data networks, a/v, whatever it might be. Tellies, projectors, that sort of thing.

So when Huw's wife asks me how to fix a big heavy mirror to the wall, I give her the advice about wall fixings, rawlpugs, several screws versus two coachbolts, the usual. Any builder or old boy anywhere knows this stuff. Plus a bit of over-engineering just in case.

However.

My mistake was to casually enquire as to the weight of the mirror. 35kg apparently. "Oh, right, so about the same as a big telly." This being last year when plasma TVs weighed about that, in the 42"-50" range. LCD tellies weigh less, but tbqfh at the big sizes they are wank. Sorry for dulls; it's my job.

This is the point where Doctor Smugtwat has to weigh in. "I don't think a telly weighs *quite* that much..." While doing these mincy iron-pumping actions, which is funny; he hasn't taken any exercise in ten years or so.

"Er, the weights are written on the boxes, dear boy. I can read, actually."

To cut a too-long-already story short, Doctor Smugtwat takes a swing. Misses. Gets a smack in the mouth, goes down. Bleeds a bit. Bit of a mistake when only one brother takes any exercise (and the boxing classes were good fun, never planned to use them but it's all a bit needs-must-when-the-devil-drives). I think it was a sort of a right hook with a bit of uppercut. Got toothy marks on my knuckles and everything. Score.

Huw, if you're reading this, you're a smug cunt, you deserved it, and I'm amused to picture you bleeding on the floor every time I think about it. I miss your kids and your missus, but you? You can fuck off and die. Remember the time I had to take you away from the house party for nearly-getting-a-shoeing from the host? I do. And you say *he's* a psycho? Mirrors are available, dear boy.

Lack of funnies? Sorry everyone.
(johnnyevil, Thu 12 Nov 2009, 22:06, 7 replies)

Where was he for 10 years?
I've read some very touching stories here and so I thought I would lighten the mood a little with a story my friend Annie told me about her nutty family.

Annie and her mum and dad had been invited to a family bash. Annie's mum had a sister but they had sort of lost touch and so hadn't spoken for years. However, this reunion had forced them to come together again. Annie's mum told Annie that her sister was mad and untrustworthy. However, when Annie met her aunt, it turned out she was just a little eccentric and lots of fun.

As the evening wore on, family stories came out. At one point, Annie's aunt asked Annie if she knew why there was such a big age gap (ten years) between her and her sister. Annie didn't know and it was clear that Annie's mum didn't want Annie to know either. However, a few sharp glances down the table weren't going to shut the aunt up.

"well" she said, "the reason that we were born so far apart was because my father shot a man because of a horse, and was banged up in prison for ten years - bet your mum never told you that story".

The two sisters didn't speak again for another four years.
( camp freddy well, would you look at that!, Thu 12 Nov 2009, 22:00, 3 replies)

i wonder....
if barryfromeastenders called that girl?
(norfolkngood, Thu 12 Nov 2009, 21:45, 4 replies)

I'm still frightened of my Mum
and I'm 34.
( Mrs Entity is in hiding., Thu 12 Nov 2009, 21:18, 3 replies)

Headfuck
About 8 years ago, my father and grandfather had an argument. As a consequence, they didn't speak for 2 years, and barely spoke thereafter, only reconciling just before my grandather's death last year.

What was the argument about? I'm not allowed to know. Apparently it was something so serious that, according to my mum (who divorced my father before this happened) "It's better if you don't know, you will never be able to speak to either of them in quite the same way again." All I know is that it wasn't anything directly to do with me or my brother.

Only four people on Earth have ever known what my dad and my grandad fell out about - the two antagonists, my mum, and, for some reason, her ex-husband. She said she'd tell me when they were both dead, so that I didn't have to look either of them in the eye knowing what had happened. I asked what would happen if she were to die first, so she has written it down, on a piece of paper in a sealed envelope, only to be opened in the event of the death of everyone who knows this ugly little secret.

I know where this envelope is.

Should I open it?

edit: Just to make clear that my dad's very much still alive and I see him on a regular basis...
(Axeman Jim, Thu 12 Nov 2009, 21:03, 28 replies)

damage
In one of my earliest memories I’m yelling at my father to ‘stop it’ while hitting him with a yellow plastic spade from my seaside bucket and spade set. He had my mother by the throat on the bed and was screaming at her. She’d have been around 23; I was 3, maybe 4. It was probably around 3 in the morning, my mother was hysterical by the time we got home. About 15 hours earlier my father had taken me out to see the Loyalist flute bands strutting their hatred up and down on the ‘glorious’ 12 of July. They still have that sectarian bile in Glasgow to this day. It had been a long blazing hot summer’s day in the early 70’s. We had ended up at some Orange Lodge where my father had been drinking for about 13 hours straight. He'd fallen in with a band from Ulster, a bunch of drunk bigots he’d never met before that day, I though it was great – they let me bash away at their drums while they got battered. I can vividly remember men shouting and singing, stinging smoke in my eyes, overflowing ashtrays and the smell of drink.

There were no mobiles back then and we didn’t have a phone at home. My mother had been out of her mind with worry all day. When we finally rolled in, there were long mascara streaks down her cheeks and her eyes looked red and sore. I was half asleep riding on my utterly trashed father’s shoulders. Apparently he had taken me out for ‘a walk’ that afternoon, so she tore into him immediately, screaming and crying. I remember feeling confused.

We lived in a ‘room and kitchen’ in a tenement block in Glasgow, no central heating, no bathroom, no running hot water. My Mum came from a nice lower middle class family and had a job at the bank. She had been ‘caught out’ at 19 – pregnant the first time she was cajoled into sex with her first ‘proper’ boyfriend. He was older, 26 and assured her he knew what he was doing. Clearly he didn’t have a fucking clue. So like many from that era they got married. Her parents were devastated. They wanted her to ‘go away’ for a while and then for me to be adopted. She thought she was in love and maybe marriage would curb his drinking – things would be OK. My grandfather died in a hit and run accident before I was born. I was a Godsend to my grandmother at this time. I’ve been her favourite ever since.

Growing up I remember the nightly high wire act of my mothers nerves. The longer his dinner curled up in the oven, the clearer indication of the state he would be in when he got home - the more agitated my Mum got; a miserable nerve jangling circle. We could be chatting and laughing then we would hear his key turn in the lock and my stomach would flip over. If it got so late I had to go to bed, I would lie listening to the screaming and smashing and bawling, often into the early hours. The vile, disgusting names he called my mother never leave me. Lying in bed, my mother sobbing on the couch he would roar; ‘hingoot’ (a Glasgow term for some slut you would ‘hing oot’ the back of) ‘whore of fuck’ ‘slack arsed bitch’ ‘nagging cunt’ and bizarrely ‘get in this fucking bed before I start killing’ how could one resist? When morning came he would get up and go to work quiet as a mouse. Mum would often get us ready for school, still with red swollen eyes, but she'd still sing along to pop tunes on the radio. When my wife and I started seeing each other, she heard some of his foul tirade one evening - he was unaware she was in the house, she was shocked to the core. I was humiliated.

But mostly I saw the carnage first hand. My father is an inadequate, inconsequential insecure little man – about 5’4’’ wiry and bitter about it all, but drink turns him into a huge bug eyed roaring tyrant. He would come home drunk every night. Most nights were spent either under the fear of a huge bust up or in the midst of one. I was terrified of him. Weekends were worse. Smashed TV’s, coffee tables ornaments – whatever came to hand. Doors punched through, glass smashed, plates of shrivelled up food thrown at walls. I’ve seen my mother pinned to the wall with a flaming bunch of newspapers held up to her face. I've seen her threatened at point blank range with an air rifle and the place shot up, holes in doors and walls. In the midst of some of the worst raging battles, that often went on for hours at a stretch, I’ve seen my mother batter his skull open with a shoe and stab him in the ribs with a kitchen knife.

But mostly it was my mum that was terrorised and abused. My sister and I were often dragged blinking and crying out of our beds because we were ‘leaving’, we decamped to my gran's a few times but we would always, despite pleading otherwise, end up going back after a few days. My mum maintained he was a ‘good worker’ and 'never laid a finger on her'. Grabbing, pushing gripping and throttling didn't seem to count.

My father could not bring himself to show any affection to me as a child. Even on rare sober occasions he was still aggressive and volatile. I was told aged 7 or so I was ‘all the man I was ever going to be’. ‘Men don’t kiss’ he would snarl at be at bedtimes usually crushing my hand in a vice like grip; that was ‘goodnight’ on a good night.

I have no memories of him ever playing with me or hugging me. Christmas morning was invariably the aftermath of the night before; a nursed hangover then an engineered argument so he could fuck off before 11am to find some shithole boozer then stagger home and ruin Christmas dinner. The few family holidays we had involved on day one seeking out a shithole boozer full of drunken losers, then mum switching between finding ways to amuse us or pleading with him to come out, while my sister and I sat outside having cokes and crisps ferried out to us. We had a lot of coke and crisps. When I was around 13 he started taking me to the same shithole boozers to drink with sad alky losers then he would drive us home. My mum seemed glad to see him ‘taking an interest’, she never once complained about him giving me drink or driving home hammered.

I was artistic as a child. This made me a ‘fucking poof’. When I was about 12 I liked Adam and the Ants – this made me a ‘fucking poof’. Pretty much everything I did made me a 'fucking poof'. We were constantly reminded how he hard had to work to clothe and feed us regardless of the fact my Mum also worked full time, looked after us and kept house. My Mum is a good woman and did her best, she gave my sister and I lot of love and affection. Any happy childhood memories centre round my mum, sister and grandmother. But I can’t say I don’t feel some resentment that she didn’t pull us out of the situation, she never had the courage to leave, she often said she wanted to, and then would just bury her head in the sand. She deluded herself the neighbours were somehow unaware of our nightly three ring circus. By now we lived in a 4 story block of shit thin council flats with neighbours above below and beside. I could hear him roaring and swearing when I was out playing on summer evenings, everyone knew what was going on. Growing up we weren't even allowed to say the word 'alcoholic', like it was some blasphemy. It was quite late in life before I realised that I had nothing to be ashamed of, it wasn’t my fault. As kids we weren’t allowed friends round in case my father came home ‘in a state’ despite the fact it was common knowledge - he was always 'in a state'. Might be why I’m very poor at making and maintaining friendships - might have nothing to do with it. No idea.

Things got worse as I went into my teenage years. I had a worse ride than my sister, she was pretty much left alone, she’s also a good deal tougher than me. He saw me as a threat. But then he seemed to resent pretty much everything he encountered. Mum buried herself in work in various Glasgow high street shops. Her escape to a normal life. Her worst fear was he would turn up drunk at whatever shop she was working in and ‘the girls’ would see what she lived with. She pretended her home life was normal, whatever the fuck that is. My escape was school, I was untouchable there. I was bright, creative and mischievous. I ran rings round the teachers, knowing full well they couldn’t terrorise me like my father did. I cottoned on to that from a very early age. They had rules - rules I could subvert, bend, flout and play to my advantage. I got into a fair deal of trouble at school but nothing serious. I could probably have done a lot better though.

I moved out, went to college and met my wife. During my late twenties she encouraged me to ‘get to know my father’ hoping the damage could be repaired. He would come to our home, I’d cook a meal, and he would ruin it being drunk and aggressive. The final straw came one New Year. He got completely hammered, leered all over our next door neighbour and made a complete arse of himself. I asked him not to smoke in the bedroom, so he burned a hole in the new carpet then simply denied smoking. Then I walked into the kitchen to find him pissing out the back door into my garden.

I’d had enough. I wrote him a long heartfelt letter. Never got a reply. Not a word. That was 12 years ago. I see little of my mother as I won’t go to her house, it’s driving us all apart, she adores my little boy but he’s never set foot there either. My father missed my wedding, the birth of my son, his first steps. He’s missed my life.

My sister got married a year ago. She wanted to play happy families, have the perfect wedding and for me to be civil to my father. She didn't want to be embarrassed in front of her friends. But she was also afraid what might kick off – it would be the first time I clapped eyes on him in 11 years. The first time he would see his grandson - her wedding day. I could see she had a point. I agreed to a ‘family lunch’ in a restaurant, a few days before the wedding, a neutral location (I picked a nice one I knew but my sister was worried he would feel uncomfortable there). I resented my sister for insisting upon this whole thing for my father’s sake. I flew back from where I was working abroad and took extra holiday for this shit – he got hammered and failed to show, said he was 'unwell'. I got landed with the lunch bill.

In the run up to the wedding I had fantasies of kicking the shit out of him, I’ve never been a violent person but I wanted to punch and kick and stamp him to a pulp. But the sight of him; skinny, red faced and bug eyed mad just brought the sick feeling of fear back to my stomach. At the wedding I was civil for my sister’s sake. He saw this as a green light that all was forgotten. I was incensed at this. He has never made any attempt to apologise or even acknowledge the damage. My mum is still with him, her and my sister try their best to sweep it all under the carpet. I can’t do that, the pain and misery, the threats, the sick feeling of fear, the raging fights; they’re all still too vivid.

My sister now has a 5 month old child. But we have a strained relationship. I have seen her twice in the last 5 months yet we only live about 12 miles apart. I last saw her just after the birth. It caused friction that I didn’t attend the naming ceremony. I wouldn't go because my father would be there. My mum pulls her head out of the sand periodically to complain that I should let him see his grandchild claiming he would be a ‘good grandfather’. I stand by my assertion that if he can’t be a father he can’t be a grandfather. My wife supports me in this. But inevitably it’s caused a rift. As my mum has got older she has developed a rose tinted set of memories – like some sort of domestic holocaust denier.

I love my grandmother but at 86 she won't be here forever. No doubt my father will be at her funeral when she goes. I can’t bear that thought. When his liver eventually goes I know I won’t be at his funeral. I will get dog’s abuse from my sister for that and probably resentment from my mother.

I’m not without my own issues. I can have a foul temper and I too drink far too much. I love my wife and little boy dearly but my wife has said on occasions I can be abusive and have sometimes frightened her. This has caused me great pain and deep shame. I’ve tried hard to address this and keep on top of things - make sure I don’t turn into my father. My boy gets my love kisses hugs and encouragement every day. We lost everything this summer and had to flee home from abroad. I’ve been unable to get a job since, but on the upside I get to play with my boy every day.

He has a father who loves him dearly, a father who he is completely unafraid of, and a father who he loves dearly in return.
(omnishambles ™ has been fucking things up big style since, Thu 12 Nov 2009, 20:33, 24 replies)

Pearoast from terrible parenting
My father promised for my whole life that he would pay for my entire education as he had done for my sister. In the Christmas holidays of my first year, mere days before my first university exams he announces that he is no longer paying for my education. This was due to an argument we had stemming from him randomly deciding I had spent my fees money on beer. Even after I had provided him with receipts covering all of the money he had given me, he was still acting as if I had indeed spent my fees on beer. I was about to have to pay £1500 pounds for accommodation and had £500 in the bank. He said I should get a student loan to pay for it knowing full well that I wasn't eligible for one.
On the same holiday he'd been making snide comments about me being a below average student etc (how the hell would he know - I hadn't done any bloody exams yet!). Well I showed him - despite the panic of thinking I would have to drop out of uni, and spending more time in the bank etc trying to get overdraft etc than revising for the exams, I was still in the top couple of people in the class.
Did he apologise for being a general wanker? Did he apologise for making me live on tesco value baked beans for a month before I found a crappy job and got paid? Did he apologise for the fact that because of him I was working practically full time as a waitress while I should have been focusing on my degree?
Like fuck did he - he apologised for putting me in charge of so much money at the start of the year. Money that I had proved I had spent on the things I was supposed to have spent it on.
Haven't spoken to the man since, emailed him to tell him all about my first class degree from one of the best universities in the country and my upcoming place in one of the most competed for PhD programs in the country. Below average student my arse!
He used to spend entire summers when me and my sister were young trying to turn us against our mother. "Your bitch mother this, your bitch mother that etc". Spent a long time trying to persuade us that our mother was mentally ill (narcisist apparently) and was abusing us. She wasn't going to win any mother of the year prizes, but our mentally ill and abusive (emotionally and psychologically) parent is most definitely our father. The fact that he is never the wrong one in an argument (even after being proved wrong) and the fact that everyone (especially women) that stands up to him are mentally ill in his eyes leads me to believe that if anyone is my family is a narcisist it is most definitely him!

I've not spoken to him now for nearly five years and I have to say that cutting him out of my life was the best decision I've ever made - not speaking to him has really helped me psychologically. A lot of people don't understand being able to cut a parent out of your life but I always tell them that if I was going out with a man who behaved the way my father does then everyone would be telling me to dump him.
(mmm....beer, Thu 12 Nov 2009, 20:20, 3 replies)

Not mine, but contains classic quote
Years ago I went to a wedding, invited by a guy I was at Uni with. He was the best man and the reason he asked me was he needed someone to "babysit" the groom's sister.

Apparently this woman hadn't spoken to her brother for years, but in the interests of family togetherness she'd been invited to the wedding.

It didn't go well. The sister was quite obviously a loon: scarred wrists, vibrated like a tuning fork, smoked like a chimney. Charm didn't work, so I just kept distracting her with drink.

Bad idea. After more white wine than you'd think someone who weighed six stone could swallow and live, she started telling me things.

Things like: she'd always fancied her brother. Things like: they'd married in secret in South Africa (WTF?) Things like: he'd raped her when she was 11. (Which would have been something, as she was 6 years older)

By this time I was dripping with cold sweat. I caught the senior bridesmaid's eye and mouthed "Help!".

We got her out, just before she proceeded to chuck up all the wine. There was then a long tearful rant, followed by more hurling, and then she passed out.

The following week I got a letter from the groom. After the thanks for keeping her quiet, and the apology for putting me through it, came the classic line: "What you have to remember is that (X) is madder than a meerkat with a snake up its cunt".

I have never ever dared use that line.

Apologies for length.
(all my scars face forward possesses 2.5% of a hyperalloy combat chassis, Thu 12 Nov 2009, 20:11, 3 replies)

Well
at least the obligatory Star Wars story should be a piece of piss to spot this week!
(Halfy By light alone, Thu 12 Nov 2009, 19:58, 1 reply)

I actually have an answer for this week
Sorry it's not very exciting.

My Mum doesn't really speak to her brother (my uncle) and hasn't for maybe 15 years and I don't know why. They speak when they have to, like when it looked like he was going to pop his clogs and when my nan (her mum) died.

It was very strange seeing all these family members at the funeral who I had not seen since I was 5 or 6.

As a result I don't see most of my family. My dad's brother lives abroad so we see him more but not very often, and didn't for years.

It's probably where I get my can't be arsed attitude from!
( thistle, Thu 12 Nov 2009, 19:57, Reply)

My bloody mother
Ah the mother/daughter relationship. So much fun to be had.

It's taken me 40 years to realise that my mother is just a little bit mental. My younger brother realised much earlier than me and as a result, moved to Scotland without telling anyone when she boycotted his wedding.

Clue that should have alerted me to the fact that my mum is a selfish, alcoholic, "victim" included:
-making nuisance calls to her brother until 1471 came in
-refusing to come to my wedding because it was going to be in a catholic church.
-refusing to come to my brother's wedding -no one really knows why, she just had a big hissy fit
-me having to carry her to the bathroom when she came to live with me after my son was born because she was too drunk to walk
etc
etc

After many bouts of emotional blackmail and manipulation, resulting in my stress levels hitting the roof every time she was around, I decided I needed a break - and after a massive row one day I threw her out of my house.

A year or so down the line, and after lots of therapy, I got in contact to try and reconcile and deal with our issues. We went to family therapy but it was clear that we were not getting anywhere.

Counsellor to mum: and why are you here?
(Me - expecting some basic comment like "I want to make things work with my daughter, I don't understand why we don't get on" etc etc)
Mum: I want to find out why she is refusing to let me see my grandson and why she is using him as a weapon against me.

After a few sessions and another bout of depression, in Feb this year, I decide to walk away again for a break. She doesn't contact me.

In June, I got a letter from her telling me she was taking me to court to get an access order to see my son. I write explaining that it would be better for us to sort things out, and her relationship with my son would then also be restored. I also said that unfortunately, my son didn't want to see her as she always moaned at him.

October comes and my 12 year old and I go to court. My son talks to the CAFCAS officer and says he doesn't want to see grandma. The court agrees that it is up to my son whether he has contact with her as he's nearly 13 years old and can make his own decisions.

I have no idea why she thought that taking me to court would be a good idea and now sadly can't see a way that we will ever reconcile.

It felt like an article from Take A Break magazine....
( camp freddy well, would you look at that!, Thu 12 Nov 2009, 19:39, 3 replies)

My grandad
I asked my Dad the other day if he knew where his Dad was, and he said no. He doesn't even know if he's alive and doesnt much care. The stories are legend and no-one really knows who or where he is.

I know very little about my 'grandad'. I know that in 1968, on being introduced to the girl who would become my mother 5 years later by his eldest son, he slapped her to the ground and kicked her in the stomach. That was the last time my dad saw him in the flesh.

I heard about the time in the late seventies, when he lived in a council flat in Childwall(?) Liverpool, and threw a flaming chip pan at my grandma because she had the temerity to accidentally start the fire.

I remember seeing an old version of my dad on Question Time once, asking a question about Grandparental Rights and Access to grandchildren (good luck motherfucker). Realising who it really was, was without doubt the strangest moment of my life.

I heard my Uncle Pete walked past him one day in the street. My grandad stopped with a vague recognition. He pointed at Pete and said, "I remember you, you're my ex-son." and walked off.

So, lovely guy really. Funnily enough, we dont get on.
( I have run out of coke is a little sweaty, Thu 12 Nov 2009, 19:38, Reply)

An ex
Girlfriend of mine had a total tosspot of a dad, he was a wifebeater and a drunk (amongst other things). She used to call me in tears while i could hear her mother screaming at him to stop, the first (and last) time i met him lasted about thirty seconds before i was beating the shit out of him in the hallway. This was because as soon as he opened the door he started yelling at my girlfriend like he did his wife and i saw red, then he saw red, then his wife saw red (all over the hallway) that was two weeks into the relationship. For the next 18months until we split up i was never allowed to meet the rest of her family as they said i was "too violent"

Inlaws can be such arseholes sometimes.
(Boiled_Tater is not the messiah, Thu 12 Nov 2009, 19:17, 1 reply)