by brightonsauce

Real hair-tugger of an afternoon.  I could not squeeze one out.  No dragons today, no midget teddy bears at war, only the

Road show, dr1 [will tidy up a little bit more, see how she flies.]

[Update tags tmrw, ‘he said.’] [getting there :/]

‘She’s a good-looking girl, and exotic,’ said Daddy, whose hands rested masterfully upon the wheel of the Subaru Forester 03.  He had driven this particular road many times.

‘Yah,’ said the upstart, junior, Daddy’s  son.  ‘I am taking her out tonight, probably she can watch me sing.’

‘Great stuff,’ said Daddy, ‘you know, I definitely drive this road – better than anybody in the country,’ he said.

‘Yeah, I’ll take my guitar, maybe sing a tribute, lullaby lady under spotlight.’

‘In fact,  I am the carefullest driver in England,’ said Dad.

‘She likes you, she said that.’

‘Of course she does.  You told her I know Czech quite well, know the country, the people…intimately?‘

Pops cleared his throat, looked across the interior toward his son.  His son looked exactly like him, only twenty-three years junior, and lacked a certain integrity of spine.  The Mother’s influence, naturally.

‘Well, she liked you – up until I told her your story, your role in the Czech velvet revolution story.’

‘You little fucker.’

‘She hates you now.’

‘But son, I told you it was just a t-shirt, my t-shirt [worn] in 1989.’

‘Yes, during the overthrow of a tyranny.’

‘I was there, for the Rolling Stones, the nation’s greatest celebration concert.  The people embraced capitalism.’

‘Yes Daddy, and you wore the Moscow Sparta basketball cap top, the Lenin star emblazoned upon your chest.  Apparently Pops, at the arena, remember, you were, in your own words, “coated head to food in the spittle of strangers.”’

‘We must all bear our fetishes,’ said the father.

‘Indeed Daddy, your legend comparable to Eric, Berlin zoo, 1945 notorious ice-cream poisoner, swastika tattooed across the forehead.’ […just shit, draft on, loser, nnng…]

‘You little bastard, deliberately confusing my role-models.  Anyway, the Rolling Stones were shite.  There was no Waterloo Sunset, no Paperback Writer.  I love that tune, you know that [truth].’

‘And you were kicked out of the stadium, Dad.’

‘I was not kicked out.  Oliver (Pratt-Stanbury), he said ‘who’s buying the beers?’  I turned around in a crowd of 200 000 people.  Later, I could not find my mates.  So, I stood outside the stadium, alone.  I drank their beers.  More people spat at me.

‘Great times, Dad.’

‘Memories son, of travelling.  You should  try it yourself one day.’

Father tapped the wheel, his mastery confirmed in situ, and eased down from fourth to  third gear on the hillside.  How he disliked the common  application of brakes, such a gauche practice on highways.  A frenetic sequence of lamps flashed at the rear end of the leading vehicle.

‘Look son, another moron,’ said Daddy.

‘A relative.’ said junior.