CRIVENS! GUEST POST: CHILDHOOD CAPERS - DOWN IN THE PITTS! FATHER FACILITATES GREENHOUSE VANDALISM...

Well, regular reader, the bold JP, has decided to respond to my

invitation to submit a guest post, so without further ado, here it is.

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As a small boy, one day my Dad said to me "Son, I'm giving

you this - it's all that remains of my childhood catapult.  It was

a beltin' catapult, but it's all I've got left of me toys, an' I'm now

givin' it to you, so look after it!"  He handed me a bare, gnarled,

age-darkened Y-shaped piece of a tree branch, with a bit

of grubby string bound around the handle.

Now jump forward a few years and the latest craze in our

village were these metal catapults you could get from the iron-

monger's, which could fire marbles for miles, because of the really

strong rubber.  But they were just a bit too pricey for me to buy, so

I thought "I know!  I'll mek one me sen out a that 'un me faether

gimme!"  (I don't know why I was talking like Kes, as I lived in the

Midlands!)  So I took some strong rubber off an aeroplane-launch-

ing toy, made a slingshot and threaded the rubber through it and

bound it tightly to the cut-out tips with strong thin string

and it was made.  But would it be any good?

There was only one way to find out, so, armed with a bag of

marbles, I climbed up on the bedroom windowsill, opened the

window wide and let one fly!  Wow!  It went for miles!  It was

just like a bullet!  But what should I aim at?  In the field behind

our garden was a telegraph pole, but in the next field to the

right, there was a pumping station with a glass skylight.

No contest.

And so I began showering the building with marbles!  As it was

so far away I couldn't actually see or hear if I was hitting it or not,

but it didn't matter, because in my head I was - The Smasher!

After a while, I was rudely interrupted by a very angry man in a

boilersuit, standing below me in the back garden.  He was shaking

both fists in the air and saying "Grrr!"  Red fumes were rising from

his even redder face and steam was billowing out of his ears!  He had

a huge lump on top of his head and his face was covered in scratches

and crossed plasters.  "What do you think you're doing?!" he

yelled up at me and began pounding on the back door.

"Get down here!" he bellowed, so I went down to the back

kitchen to face the music.  "He's been smashing my windows

with his catapult!" Mr. Angry was yelling at my parents.  "What

were you doing that for?" he yelled at me, whilst little birds

and stars were circling the lump on his head.

"I didn't know I was," I lied, "I was aiming at the telegraph pole."

"Well, you're not a very good shot then!" he retorted.  "You're

not even supposed to have a catapult, anyway!  Where did you

get it?" he demanded of me with a stern look in his eye.

"Me Dad gimme it." I answered.

Then silence.

My Dad had turned bright red and had this sickly grin.  Sweat

was pouring down his forehead.  "Go and fetch it, I'm going to

confiscate it!" Mr. Angry ordered, so I did as I was told.  Then I

was sent to my room, so I climbed the stairs, saying "Bah!"

As I closed my bedroom window, I could see Mr. Angry down

below, surrounded by these strange symbols - @#*%∆$#@!!

I never knew exactly what went on downstairs after that, but for

the rest of that week my Dad had strangely taken to walking around

with his trouser pockets turned inside-out!  Anyway, I stayed in my

room for the rest of that evening, and the next day, I thought it best

not to mention it.  And nobody spoke about it again - ever!

It was for the best I suppose.

Posted in: Cartoons