Spud Read online

  I bought my ticket and climbed up to the top deck. The sun was shining and the city of London was flashing by. I flipped open my Walkman and loaded The Joshua Tree. I wasn’t scared anymore. Now I felt like a real traveller surrounded by complete strangers in one of the greatest cities in the world with the perfect greens of the park on one side and the three hundred year old buildings on the other. My left foot was tapping to the bass and my head was nodding along with the jangling guitars:

  I want to run

  I want to hide

  I want to break down the walls that hold me inside

  I want to reach out and touch the flame

  Where the streets have no name.

  There was mass celebration when I returned alive to the hotel. Mom and Dad (who claimed to have been worried sick about me) were still in bed surrounded by food and a couple of empty wine bottles. Wombat had arrived back ages ago with ten pairs of K Shoes and three tea cosies. The K shoes are all exactly the same colour (white) and look like very embarrassing tennis shoes. Wombat refused to apologize for deserting me in London and said she wasn’t here to babysit. I informed everyone that I wasn’t a child anymore anyway, marched out of my parents’ room and slammed the door, nearly bashing into the Filipino waiter who was bringing up more wine.

  I returned to my tiny room and watched the BBC news.

  Wombat may be right about John Major. There’s definitely something shifty about him.

  Monday 8th July

  BUCKINGHAM PALACE AND VARIOUS PARKS OF LONDON

  It was another early start for the Miltons. For the third morning in a row the Filipino waiter brought me yoghurt and nuts when I ordered a cheese and mushroom omelette. Wombat told the waiter he was a disgrace to England and then told him to buck himself up and clean up his act. The waiter grinned and nodded and then took away our orange juice. Mom and Wombat agreed that England had become a godless place.

  Today was a walking day. We made it through the massive Hyde Park and then St James Park and Green Park and finally to Buckingham Palace. Wombat was beside herself with excitement and pointed out the Queen’s bedroom. Soon a small group of tourists were standing next to us listening to Wombat’s descriptions of the Palace and what the Queen would be doing at this very moment. Unfortunately, Wombat then pointed at the window next to the Queen’s window and told us all that it was her own bedroom. The tourists laughed and then quickly moved on, although a Japanese tourist took Wombat’s picture and bowed to her. Wombat glared at him and said, ‘Go away, you horrible little man.’

  Wombat turned to us and said, ‘It wasn’t long ago when we were entitled to shoot these Japanese chappies, you know.’ Mom nodded along and went on about how London didn’t feel like London anymore. I pointed out to Mom and Wombat that we were also tourists and that the Japanese have as much right to be here as we do. Dad accused me of being a bleeding heart commie, and Wombat said we had more right to be here than the Japs because our ancestors were English and the Japanese ancestors were all Mongols.

  HYDE (HIDE) PARK

  At Hyde Park Corner there’s something called Speakers Corner. On a stage with a microphone members of the public are allowed to stand up and make a speech about whatever is on their minds. A crowd gathers below and either heckles or cheers on the speaker depending on what he is saying.

  When we got there a punk with orange hair was shouting on about fox hunting. I hardly heard a word he was saying because his accent was so bad. Most of the crowd looked bored and chatted amongst themselves.

  Next up was an old Welshman who went on about getting compensation for the closure of the coalmines. He told the crowd that Margaret Thatcher should be tried for crimes against humanity. He then called John Major a Nazi. Three skinheads with swastikas tattooed onto their arms stood up and did a Nazi salute. The crowd booed and the Nazis laughed.

  Then there was a whiney woman who went on about rates and taxes. The crowd ignored her completely and a few people told her to sod off.

  And that’s when Dad got up to speak. It was possibly the worst speech in history.

  THE WORST SPEECH IN THE WORLD! (LOWLIGHTS PACKAGE)

  Dad arrived on stage and forgot to switch on the microphone.

  When he did switch the microphone on it made a terrible screeching noise.

  The poor start must have made my father quite nervous because his voice was shaking badly.

  He then told the rowdy crowd that he was South African.

  Despite the boos, he pointed across Hyde Park and said, ‘Look what the blacks have done to the rest of Africa.’

  He finished off by shouting, ‘I say the Indians back to India! The Japs back to Japland! And the commies back to jail!’

  Mom, Wombat and the three skinheads gave Dad a standing ovation. The rest of the crowd were hurling abuse and picnic food at him so he scampered off the stage and disappeared behind some advertising billboards.

  Dad was on a disturbing adrenaline high after his embarrassing speech. Now he’s thinking of a career in politics.

  Tuesday 9th July

  Dad said he was exhausted after his speech yesterday and decided to spend the day having a pub lunch. Wombat said ten-thirty in the morning was an obscene time to start drinking and stayed behind in the hotel for elevenses and forty winks. Dad gave me three pounds and told me to buy another CD. I told him that CDs were twelve pounds so he told me to buy a record instead. I nipped in to the corner shop and headed straight to the magazine racks. There on the top shelf was the magazine I had seen on Saturday.

  Racked and Stacked UK

  My heart was pounding. I was terrified the Pakistani shopkeeper would think I was a pervert and call a bobby. My hands were shaking as I reached up and grabbed hold of the shiny magazine covered in plastic. (No doubt this is a cunning plan to keep perverts from getting horny and performing dodgy deeds in the shop.) Then there was an enormous crash as about ten magazines and five tins of baked beans fell to the floor. I felt myself blushing and there was a weird humming noise in my ear. I quickly started picking everything up but I had obviously caught the storekeeper’s eye because suddenly he was looming over me asking if he could help me with anything. I said, ‘No, I’m fine,’ but had a terrible knackjump in the process. I felt myself blushing and quickly packed up the magazines and left the store trying not to make eye contact with anyone in the shop. Strange things are happening to my mind and body. Let’s hope I’m not turning into a Boggo.

  Wednesday 10th July

  WIMBLEDON

  The journey to Wimbledon took up most of the morning. In the end we had to take four trains and a taxi. It should only have been two trains and a long walk, but Wombat made us get off the second train because there were too many blacks in our carriage. We then boarded the third train which turned out to be on the Circle Line and we ended up back where we had started in the first place. We finally arrived at Wimbledon and discovered the longest queue in the history of mankind. Dad tried to push to the front of the queue but was forced out by an angry woman with a yellow umbrella. Dad skulked back to us and said the Poms were a ‘miserable race of people’.

  Then Wombat became disorientated and seemed to think that we were queuing for war rations.

  After a few minutes of trying to reassure my grandmother that the war had ended nearly half a century ago, a tall man in a grey suit approached us and offered us black market tickets. Wombat asked him for a case of tinned sardines and a gallon of drinking water. The man in the suit ignored her completely and asked for a hundred and twenty pounds for three tickets. Mom haggled him down to eighty quid and took the money out of Wombat’s handbag. Dad graciously said he would miss the tennis and said he would rather check out the town of Wimbledon instead. Mom gave him a big kiss and Wombat gave him his thirty-five quid pocket money. We arranged to meet again at five o’clock in a pub down the street and Dad set off in high spirits singing the Wombles of Wimbledon Common song.

  Unfortunately, things went downhill after that. Turned out
our black market tickets for the Men’s Final were fake and that Wimbledon had finished last weekend, the queue we were standing in was for a Ladbrokes betting shop, and a light rain was starting to fall.

  We wandered off to take shelter in the pub where we discovered Dad at the bar with three very loud South Africans from Pretoria. They were all dressed in Northern Transvaal rugby jerseys and kept chanting insulting songs about England and shouting rude comments at the barman in Afrikaans. Dad’s face dropped when he saw us come in and he quickly threw his cap over his pint and said he’d been sheltering from the rain until the museum opened. Mom, Wombat and I sat in a booth and Wombat tried to order strawberries and cream for five pounds but the waiter said the tennis special was over and brought us dry scones instead. The only tennis we got to see was a rerun of a boring game of ladies doubles on the pub’s TV. The only player I recognized was Arantxa Sánchez Vicario who I’m sure must be a lesbian. Her thighs are bigger than both of mine put together! She also grunts like a man every time she hits the ball. Sánchez Vicario and her pretty blonde partner embraced after they had won the match and I then had a dark fantasy about what might go on in the change room after the match.

  Dad ordered a round for the whole pub, taking the money from Wombat’s handbag while she was hunting for her serviette under the table. After shaking hands with everyone in the pub he turned to me and said the South Africans had told him that living in England was worse than living in South Africa. He repeated this three times in case Mom didn’t get the message.

  Thursday 11th July

  A long day walking and sightseeing, including Big Ben, Houses of Parliament, Trafalgar Square and various pubs.

  Friday 12th July

  CAMBRIDGE UNIVERSITY

  What a beautiful place to study! I’ve decided that I’ll have to win another scholarship and study English literature at Cambridge University. (And then after lessons I’ll row beautiful women up and down the river Cam and recite love poems to them before taking them back to my rooms for some passionate kissing and fondling.)

  I found Christ’s College where The Guv said John Milton studied. In fact there was a bronze statue of him in one of the quads. He may have been a great poet but he was only the second best looking John Milton in Cambridge today!

  The boats being rowed up the river Cam are called punts. Wombat refused to hire a punt because she said she was worried about getting seasick. Instead we watched a small gang of students on Clare Bridge, a beautiful bridge with three huge concrete balls on it, who seemed to be planning some sort of practical joke. They were holding a giant soccer ball and were all pointing at a punt of Japanese tourists who were slowly drifting down the river and snapping away at everything with their fancy cameras. The students waited until the Japanese were just below the bridge and then hurled the giant football over it. The next minute there were screams and shouts and a huge splash. Obviously the Japanese tourists thought a huge concrete ball was about to crush them and they leapt overboard like lemmings. The crowd cheered and Mom and Dad gave each other a high five. The students then scattered in all directions, whooping and shouting. Dad thumped me on the back and said, ‘Bloody Japs – they’re not the only ones who can do kamikaze!’

  Sunday 14th July

  The Miltons (dressed in their Sunday best) strode into the massive St Paul’s Cathedral for holy communion. Wombat burst into tears when we walked down the aisle and said that this was where she got married in 1981. Mom handed her a tissue and told Wombat she was confusing her own wedding with that of Princess Diana and Prince Charles. Wombat pretended not to listen and made out she was deep in prayer. I didn’t recognize any of the hymns although I couldn’t have sung even if I had.

  There’s a very pretty brunette staying in our hotel. We locked eyes in the lobby and she gave me a smile. I tried to smile back but my lips were stuck to my gums.

  Monday 15th July

  Brunette must have checked out because there were five bald men sitting at her breakfast table this morning.

  11:45 Express train to Brighton to visit Wombat’s sister. Everyone was nervous. Wombat was nervous because she was seeing her sister for the first time in twenty years. Dad was nervous because Mom wants us to emigrate to Brighton. (She hasn’t told us this but Dad overheard her telling Wombat that she wanted to live in Brighton and has even started checking out possible schools for me.) Mom was nervous because Dad was looking twitchy and a bit manic. I was nervous because fear is catching and I don’t like the thought of leaving my home and my country and settling somewhere cold and miserable.

  12:04 Wombat and Mom have a loud argument with the train’s barman because the bar is meant to open at noon.

  12:07 Wombat starts knocking on the bar door with her umbrella and shouting, ‘The sun is over the yardarm!’ The barman continues cleaning glasses without opening the bar.

  12:09 Dad says, ‘Bugger this,’ and presses an emergency button above his seat.

  12:11 The conductor arrives, looking pale. He has a fire extinguisher under his left arm.

  12:12 Mom abuses the conductor for not opening the bar on time.

  12:13 The conductor apologizes and orders the barman to open the bar.

  12:17 Sulky barman opens door.

  12:18 The Miltons file into the bar with the entire carriage watching in fascination. Wombat continues crapping on the conductor and the barman.

  12:22 The barman loses his patience with Wombat and tells her it’s Monday morning and suggests that she might have a drinking problem.

  12:23 Wombat hits the barman with her umbrella and calls him a vagabond.

  12:27 Very pale conductor calms everyone down and offers the Miltons a free round of drinks.

  12:28 Dad accuses the barman of bribery and of being prejudiced against South Africans. The barman offers him a double round. Dad accepts and the three men shake hands.

  12:29 Dad orders a double round of Johnnie Walker whisky for all four of us.

  12:30 The barman refuses to serve me liquor.

  12:31 Dad changes the order to a double round of three triple Johnnie Walkers and a tomato juice.

  12:32 I tell Dad that I don’t drink tomato juice. He says tomato juice is four times the price of a Coke.

  12:35 Pale conductor and sulky barman have to push two tables together because our drinks don’t fit on a single table.

  12:40 A small group of people watch us from the door and shake their heads. A large woman with red hair turns to an even larger woman with even redder hair and says, ‘Course it’s always the child that suffers, isn’t it?’ The even fatter woman nods and shakes her chins in dismay.

  12:42 Dad stands up and orders us to raise our glasses for a toast. He then shouts, ‘South Africa 1, England 0!’ and sits down again and knocks back one of his triple whiskies. Wombat calls Dad ‘uncouth’ and then sets off on a long story about the dangers of rail travel during the war. Dad takes the opportunity to steal one of Wombat’s triple whiskies.

  I spend the last eighteen minutes of the journey watching Miltons getting pissed with the compliments of British Rail.

  THE BRIGHTON BALLS-UP

  Bad news is that Wombat’s sister Eunice (Dingbat) is madder than Wombat. You can tell they’re related because Dingbat slammed the door on us at first because she thought we were Jehovah’s Witnesses. Dingbat’s husband (Neville) then opened the door again and invited us in. Neville’s accent was so strong I couldn’t understand a single word he said. We followed Neville into the house and found ourselves in a living room that smelled of cat’s pee. The culprit was a big fat red cat that lay on the couch with its legs open and a smug look on its face.

  Then Dingbat became confused again and told us all to leave. Wombat told Dingbat we couldn’t leave because there was an air raid under way. There was a moment’s confusion before Neville took Dingbat into the kitchen and explained to his wife in a loud voice that we weren’t Christians, we were Miltons. Poor Dingbat returned and started crying and apologized for n
ot knowing who we were. Wombat eyed her sister shiftily and leaned towards Mom and began whispering rather loudly. ‘She was always odd, you know – I once caught her canoodling with a girl.’ Dad choked on his scone and Neville quickly ran off to the kitchen saying that he needed sugar cubes. We then sat down to a very awkward tea where the conversation ran dry every minute or so. Every time there was a pause Wombat would whisper nasty comments so loudly that everyone could hear. After tea the conversation broke down completely and everyone looked around trying to think of something to say.

  Then Neville turned to Wombat and said, ‘Look, I don’t wanna mess about here, and the old girl’s not been her best lately… so um… have you brought the money?’ Wombat’s whole body jerked back in her chair and she grabbed her handbag. Mom looked startled and asked Neville what he was talking about. Neville looked at Wombat and said, ‘The money we’re owed. Our inheritance, luv.’ Instantly Mom’s lips disappeared. Wombat leaned forward and asked, ‘Are they begging for money?’ Suddenly Neville stood up and started shouting. The next minute we found ourselves on the pavement outside Dingbat’s house staring at a freshly slammed door. Mom suggested we head to the local pub for a drink to settle our nerves.

  WOMBAT’S MURKY HISTORY

  Contrary to rumours circulating at school, Wombat didn’t kill and eat her family. According to Mom, in 1938 Dingbat married Neville, who was a plumber. Wombat’s and Dingbat’s parents refused to accept Neville into the family because he was from the working class and their parents thought themselves to be just short of aristocracy. They forbade Dingbat to marry Neville, saying he was a working class thug who was only after Dingbat’s money and status. Dingbat didn’t listen to her parents and married Neville anyway. Their parents refused to go to the wedding and disowned their elder daughter. As a result Wombat inherited everything and Dingbat didn’t get a penny.