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deathboySon. Of. A. Bitch.
My folks have been phoning, emailing and texting me for the last week or two.
I have not got back to them, which I do feel bad about, and I know how frustrating it is for them, but the reason is this:
What they wanted to do was to talk me into going home for my birthday.
Home. Burntwood. Shittest one-horse town in the midlands. I don't think they even have the horse anymore. I suspect they hung it on charges of witchcraft. No-horse town. NEGATIVE HORSE TOWN. Except that they think that minus numbers are the work of the devil. I think they once burned a man alive for using a fraction.
Burntwood favours supermarkets, teenage pregnancy and casual violence. I HATE 'home'. I loathe the place and most of the people in it with a white-hot passion. Every single time I go back, I remember how much I hate it.
My parents want to see me for my 30th, but, being the laziest people in the universe (when it comes to visiting their kids), instead of saying "hey, it's your 30th birthday, you know, YOUR birthday, we'll come and see YOU" - oh, no. They want me to get on the motorway for a few hours, return to the brood nest and have a nice game of "kick the swan's face off", or whatever it is they do in Staffordshire for entertainment.
They had a cinema there when I was a kid. It got closed. I suspect they thought it contained mischievous spirits.
I haven't even worked out what I DO want to do for my birthday, but I know that being in Burntwood is not a part of this plan. So, I finally cracked and called my dad back after a voicemail messge listing the various ways in which he'd tried to get hold of me and how it was important.
When he picks up, after the obligatory mock-surprise at my calling him, he reiterates the list of ways in which he has attempted to contact me. I explain that I'm sorry, but that I haven't worked out what I want to do and meant to call back when I actually knew, but that I wasn't planning to come home.
"Who said anything about coming home?"
Well, you did, dad. And mom did. You both did. In text messages, on a near-daily basis.
"We could come and see you, maybe"
Yes, but you won't.
"And of course, we get to see Corben"
Which is, to be honest, what I suspect the real reason is, entirely. You want to see the baby, you can't be arsed coming down here. Wait for it, wait for it...
"But I did think that maybe you might want to come up here or something..."
Of course you did. Why in the name of hell would I want to do this?
"I thought you might want to see Phil or something"
I would like to, and indeed if I did come back, that would pretty much be the only reason. I'm more interested in seeing if I can get him to come and visit me. You know. For my party. At mine. Where all my stuff is. Where I will be.
"OK, OK, I just thought you might like to see yer mate, but if you don't want to..."
Yes indeed, let's make it sound as if the only reason for my not returning to the rural outskirts of purgatory is to specifically avoid my best friend.
He then goes through the list of how he tried to get in touch with me again, and how upset he was that I didn't call back.
THIS IS WHY I DON'T CALL BACK. YOU SEEM TO BE ONLY CAPABLE OF COMMUNICATING VIA EMOTIONAL BLACKMAIL.
I'd like to see 'em. Probably not on my actual birthday, but near it. And in London, where they have cinemas and arcades and computer game shops and taxis and the internet and pizza delivery and electricity and very rarely sacrifice pigs to the harvest god to prevent him from curdling the milk or round up their neighbours and burn them in a wicker man.
Not north of the river, anyway.
I do love my folks, I would very much like to see them, but they can chuffing well come down the motorway or, frankly, whistle for it.
Parents. Doesn't matter how old you are, they can always make you feel like a kid again. Gah.
My folks have been phoning, emailing and texting me for the last week or two.
I have not got back to them, which I do feel bad about, and I know how frustrating it is for them, but the reason is this:
What they wanted to do was to talk me into going home for my birthday.
Home. Burntwood. Shittest one-horse town in the midlands. I don't think they even have the horse anymore. I suspect they hung it on charges of witchcraft. No-horse town. NEGATIVE HORSE TOWN. Except that they think that minus numbers are the work of the devil. I think they once burned a man alive for using a fraction.
Burntwood favours supermarkets, teenage pregnancy and casual violence. I HATE 'home'. I loathe the place and most of the people in it with a white-hot passion. Every single time I go back, I remember how much I hate it.
My parents want to see me for my 30th, but, being the laziest people in the universe (when it comes to visiting their kids), instead of saying "hey, it's your 30th birthday, you know, YOUR birthday, we'll come and see YOU" - oh, no. They want me to get on the motorway for a few hours, return to the brood nest and have a nice game of "kick the swan's face off", or whatever it is they do in Staffordshire for entertainment.
They had a cinema there when I was a kid. It got closed. I suspect they thought it contained mischievous spirits.
I haven't even worked out what I DO want to do for my birthday, but I know that being in Burntwood is not a part of this plan. So, I finally cracked and called my dad back after a voicemail messge listing the various ways in which he'd tried to get hold of me and how it was important.
When he picks up, after the obligatory mock-surprise at my calling him, he reiterates the list of ways in which he has attempted to contact me. I explain that I'm sorry, but that I haven't worked out what I want to do and meant to call back when I actually knew, but that I wasn't planning to come home.
"Who said anything about coming home?"
Well, you did, dad. And mom did. You both did. In text messages, on a near-daily basis.
"We could come and see you, maybe"
Yes, but you won't.
"And of course, we get to see Corben"
Which is, to be honest, what I suspect the real reason is, entirely. You want to see the baby, you can't be arsed coming down here. Wait for it, wait for it...
"But I did think that maybe you might want to come up here or something..."
Of course you did. Why in the name of hell would I want to do this?
"I thought you might want to see Phil or something"
I would like to, and indeed if I did come back, that would pretty much be the only reason. I'm more interested in seeing if I can get him to come and visit me. You know. For my party. At mine. Where all my stuff is. Where I will be.
"OK, OK, I just thought you might like to see yer mate, but if you don't want to..."
Yes indeed, let's make it sound as if the only reason for my not returning to the rural outskirts of purgatory is to specifically avoid my best friend.
He then goes through the list of how he tried to get in touch with me again, and how upset he was that I didn't call back.
THIS IS WHY I DON'T CALL BACK. YOU SEEM TO BE ONLY CAPABLE OF COMMUNICATING VIA EMOTIONAL BLACKMAIL.
I'd like to see 'em. Probably not on my actual birthday, but near it. And in London, where they have cinemas and arcades and computer game shops and taxis and the internet and pizza delivery and electricity and very rarely sacrifice pigs to the harvest god to prevent him from curdling the milk or round up their neighbours and burn them in a wicker man.
Not north of the river, anyway.
I do love my folks, I would very much like to see them, but they can chuffing well come down the motorway or, frankly, whistle for it.
Parents. Doesn't matter how old you are, they can always make you feel like a kid again. Gah.
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no subject
Date: 2007-07-24 07:58 pm (UTC)Half an hour? HALF AN HOUR?! Ehhh, you kids don't know you were born. It was a good hour's bus ride (or 1 and a half on the train - go figure that!) to either the hive of villany of Teesside, or the Inbred seaside town of Scarborough if you wanted to visit something as exciting as a bloody Woolworths until I was 15!
Oh, and I was wrong about Whitby it seems. The first cinema they had they turned into a bingo hall, and then it became Boyes Stores. For some unearthly reason they 'moved' the cinema over the road and then changed *that* one into the BT HQ. Although apparently there used to be a skating rink opposite the Metroploe for a while until some one drowned in it and the council filled it in, which I suppose is fair enough really.