Seeing as she died this morning, the time seems right to tell you all about my mother. You can't libel the dead, except in America where the authorities are willing to turn a blind eye to anything you do to the dead as long as it doesn't harm good ol' Ralph Nader's chances to make a difference to this world or that alternate one where the crazy shit happens. Not that these accounts what I is recountin' ain't gonna be the dog's honest truth, Ruth, but y'see she spent her whole life telling the world lies about her, and, well, who are they gonna believe, me or her? Probably me, but she's dead, so they're gonna say her so as not to sound nasty.
She was born six months before she was conceived - I said you wouldn't believe me. Are you calling me a liar? Are you? Hmm? Well? Say it. Call me a liar. I dare you. Say it. Yeah, you're right, it's a lie; I was just testing you. The rest is all one hundred percent not what she'd say but true. She was born. Nothing happened worth mentioning until she was eight, then she was made Poet Laureate after the death of Pam Ayres. Two weeks later they, the ESTAAAblishment realised she was but a wee bairn, just an eight year old unschooled in the ways of poetry and laureating. They kicked her scrawny arse (don't worry, it got fatter) outta there, cos adults never let us kids do anything do they? I'm gonna listen to my Radiohead CD unless I lent it to someone, in which case I'll listen to Slipknot instead. Back in the day, both Radiohead and Slipknot weren't the popularé tune-smiths they are now. Angry young eight year olds had to take out their frustration elsewhere. Most voted with their feet, giving the proper electorate who hadn't bluffed their way into the voting booths by stacking two children inside a long coat athlete's hand and verrucas where they held the pens after the hormonally repressed eight year olds. She didn't cos she had crumbly shoulders, so couldn't be stood upon, and she was a chronic bedwetter, so no-one would let her stand on them.
I think it must be genetic, because just like her fine upstanding son of weak moral turpentine, she got addicted to the heady heights and headier lows of playing with candle wax. Up until the day we died we were locked in mortal battle, involving knives, chains, baseball bats, and had we been in America, guns too I'm sure, over who got addicted to candle wax first. She said she got into it aged eight and two weeks, whereas I maintain that I was a forty-a-day boy at seven. She called me a retarded cunt (see where I get it from?) and said that she was eight years before I was seven. I came back with the witty retort that it was just her opinion. She bust a cap in my ass - the whole roll of them in fact. My bowels have been shaky ever since. True story. I was there.
It's not that I didn't love her - although I didn't - it's just that she's dead now and I have to say I did or people will think I'm just telling ludicrous stories about her solely for my own amusement. (Oh, she's not even dead, although you wouldn't know it to look at her. For Hallowe'en she's followed my advice finally: she broke into a local morgue, peeled all the skin of some dead dude and is wearing that to get people to give her chocolate and apples with razor blades. I eat the apples, she shaves her legs). That's a lie of course. The reason why she looks dead is cos she is dead. She died yesterday and this is me coping with the grief. I might go round some local capitalism establishments later and see if I can't get some sympathy discounts on books, CDs, food, [funny fourth option] and [less funny fifth option].
Yes, all her life amounted to was a brief stint as the people's choice for head poetry dude at the age of eight, and her rapid fall from grace playing with melted candle wax two weeks later. Talking to her on her death bed, she seemed happy at what she'd achieved, but she might have been lying. She had this crazy idea that the phone was being bugged by the CIA. Stupid bitch. Why are they gonna bother bugging phones when it's far easier to read emails? I guess you'd have to say she was of her time, and now that she's dead, her time is up. (Although she's not dead, just resting. We cremated her anyway. It's her own fault for not waking up earlier to make breakfast).