The next morning was no better from the last night. Shorty’s still unconscious after dad hit him down the stairs so I have to walk to the Flamingo to fetch my scoot. That shouldn’t have been a problem, I like long walks to clear my head and warm up after a night left on our doorstep, but when I got onto Bloomsbury way, after an hour of walking, some fucking rockers ambushed me. They rode out on their tanks from Barter Street, stopped, dismounted and gathered round me. I was NOT in the mood for this, so I attempted to walk through the front wall and pretend I didn’t notice.
But they weren’t fucking about, they were head hunting, and it was my unlucky head that was their prey. I felt a kick just above the arse and flailed out, knocking this guy’s face in. I was already bruised and bloodied from dad’s rage last night, but I was mad. Extremely fucking mad, and had a go at the arsehole how kicked me. Considering the circumstances, I didn’t do a bad job, then they gang up on me, beating me to an inch of my life.
Then a kind of miracle happened, a bobby came along, the cows made like sheep and scattered after one another, shouting things like “FUCKER!” and “WANKER!” at me and him as they left. This bobby was Superman though, he tackled one of them to the ground and arrested him. After the van came and took him off, he smashed the fucker’s bike! It was a great moment to see a supposedly neutral member of society actually helping my cause. He helped me to my limping legs, and I looked at him for the first time, and it was fucking Clive!
At least I think it was, one of my eyelids felt like a fucking golf ball. He supported me on his back and said he was gonna get my to the hospital for recovery and sue the bastards who attacked me. I was worried about my scooter’s parking fine, but he said that now he is the law he can help me get round it. He’s a fucking miracle indeed, and I now know why we don’t see him often, he mainly works nights. At least he’s one of the good’uns, unlike the fuckwits who arrest me for no reason apart from the fact that they get a bonus, and they see a Mod and think it’s trouble. Making up accusations is how most of them live, but I know Clive won’t, he’s too good and honest to lie to anyone. That is unless the authorities fuck him up like they did with my family.
My father used to be a respectable man, surprisingly. He fought for king and country in the RAF during the closing months of the war, alongside Old Charlie. He was involved in a couple of dogfights, and by the time he was 20 had destroyed over 30 Messerschmitt, Focke-Wulf and Junkers. He was one of the RAF’s best airmen. Then they got to him. Even though he was performing at his best, his commander tried to push him farther and farther, until he snapped and became domineering over his peers. Unfortunately, his actions were reinforced by the commander promoting him to squad leader. Since then, he’s behaved like a fucking prick and thinks that he can rise ever further in the world by taking his rage out on all of us. Someone needs to open his eyes and tell him that he’s not a squad leader anymore and that he is just digging himself a bigger and bigger hole that he will struggle to get out of.I’ve tried, oh how I’ve fucking tried, but whatever goes in one ear comes out the other, and that’s why he hasn’t changed since March 1945, a month of leadership given to him by the authorities has fucked him up big time. I can only hope and wish that that doesn’t happen to Clive. And believe me, I’m wishing every waking moment now that I found out he’s a bobby. He may be fucking cool now, but no one wants that to change in a month.