My grandson turned three last week. His mum blew up balloons and laid on a sumptuous spread of artificial colourings, preservatives, thickeners, acidity regulators, stabilisers, emulsifiers, flavour enhancers, silicates, stearates, sweeteners, anti-caking agents, gelling agents, paraffins and waxes. We stood lovingly to one side while he, his four brothers and sisters, and an assortment of neighbouring hag-ridden young mums and their sullen kids dived in. The Mayan Diet, observed a wit. Eat as much sugary crap as you want because the world is ending next week.
The naughtiest boy present was my grandson’s cousin, name of Landen. Landen is a speechless, painfully thin, malevolent little boy who has spent more time than most kids of his age being hidden in cupboards from social workers. He is regularly sent home from school for biting. Recently, he was awarded a gold star at school for not biting the teacher or any of his classmates for three days on the trot. On average it probably takes most gently raised people up to half a century to complete the spiritual journey from innocence to disillusion. Landen’s journey has been short. Six years old and he’s already there before me. Whack him and he just laughs at you.
My feelings about Landen are mixed. He is a nasty little boy yet my heart goes out to him. A bit of love and understanding and a hot, nourishing meal now and again is all he needs to get him back on track. But of course we adults are so busy. And kids are very resilient, you know. And the little shit will probably grow out of it, anyhow.
When the pop ran out, I volunteered to drive to the Spar to buy more. There was the usual clamour of applications for a ride in my old coupé, far more than there were seats available. Noticing his angry apartness, I asked Landen if he’d care to join our expedition. He dumbly turned his head away. But as we were about to depart he appeared and squeezed into the back between Bailey and Macey.
The second we were rolling, I flicked on the radio. Popping out to the shop was partly an excuse to find out how West Ham were doing at home to Chelsea. They were one-nil down at half-time was the last I’d heard.
The second half was the featured Five Live match commentary. Normally, tuning in to the second-half commentary is a terrible mistake. I have an uncanny knack of doing so seconds before West Ham concede a vital goal. It follows without fail, like a law of Nature. Fellow West Ham fans tell me precisely the same thing happens to them. If I had the good sense, enough money, and the organisational ability, I would bet on it and retire.
I cocked my ear towards the radio, straining for clues. I only have to listen to the noise of an Upton Park crowd to know the score. A rising note sounded like it had scented blood. Mounting excitement in the commentator’s voice confirmed this. ‘One one,’ he growled. ‘Chelsea on the back foot.’
A miracle was happening, then. Chelsea had been all over us in the first half, apparently. I was listening to a dramatic fightback. Given the baleful effect I have on the course of a Hammers match if I tune in to the radio commentary, I should have switched it off immediately, and was about to, when a delirious roar of the crowd told eloquently of a goal for the Hammers. I joined in, pumping two-fistedly at the road ahead.
Simultaneously, I was conscious of a commotion on the back seat. In my rear-view mirror, Landen was sinking his teeth into Bailey, who was screaming. Elated by the turn of events at Upton Park, and with one hand on the steering wheel, I turned round and left-handedly tried to cuff Landen off her. With breathtaking insolence, he turned and started biting Macey. Now I was cross. Bailey was crying, Macey was screaming and I had Landen by the neck with one hand and was yelling blue murder at him. Landen swivelled his piggy eyes at me but failed to remove his teeth from Macey’s arm.
I stopped the car, got out, pushed the driver’s seat forward, reached in and tried to haul Landen off Macey. Then the crowd and the commentator went mad. West Ham had scored again! Now, instead of yelling blue murder I was shouting with joy and punching the air. There wasn’t much room in the back of the car, so I punched the air in the gaps between the children’s heads while my feet danced a little jig in the road.
Seeing this, Landen relaxed his bite, Macey ceased bawling, Bailey stopped crying, and all three of them gawped at me, united in their astonishment.
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