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)