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“Dad? Dad?”
Slowly, painfully, I open my eyes and lift my chin up from my chest. I’d fallen asleep on the couch, and Annie is standing in front of me, her little hand nudging my knee. “What is it, love?” “Dad, can we go to the playground?” Christ. The fucking playground. That’s the last thing I need right now. I’ve got a vicious hangover that I was hoping to kill off by spending the afternoon dozing on the couch. I’d put on Annie’s ‘Moana’ DVD for her to watch for what must have been the hundred and fiftieth time. “Just watch your film, Annie,” I say, closing my eyes again. “Daddy’s tired.” “But it’s finished.” I open my eyes again and look over at the TV. Sure enough, the end credits are rolling, as that song from the soundtrack that she’s always singing plays over them. My head’s pounding and my guts are in turmoil. I curse myself for getting into the kind of state I must have been in last night. I knew it was my weekend with Annie, I knew I should have been having an early night. In fact, I was all lined up to do just that, when my phone pinged at about seven o’clock. It was Nick. ‘Coming to watch Rovers?’ It said. I’d forgotten they were at home. Friday night matches, hard to resist. “I’ll just go the match,” I thought. “The match, then home.” Yeah, big fucking LOLZ at that. Of course, it didn’t happen that way. Never fucking does with me. I decided to have a quick pint in the Prenton after the match. That turned into three or four. Then it was three or four more in the Halfway House. Then a few of us got a taxi downtown. Before long, Nick had the beak out. Fucking Nick and his beak. He must be at least fifteen years older than the rest of us. Married, two kids, good job, in his late forties, but still behaving like he’s twenty five, wearing those skin tight tapered jeans, despite the fat legs and the waist line that’s expanding at the same rate at which his hair line is receding. He seems to think cocaine is some sort of elixir that’ll keep him forever young, especially if he snorts it in the company of lads far younger than him. I lost track of who left at what time, and from what shitty bar, but I remember me and Nick, the last men staggering, piling out of some Birko shithole dive or other at fuck knows what time, and into the BKH for a kebab. It was filled with the usual flotsam and jetsam of Birkenhead on a Friday night. There was some fella with all his front teeth missing, sitting on the floor, sucking a pizza through the gaping hole at the front of his mouth, a gaggle of women in their fifties, all loudly discussing their respective husband’s lack of sexual prowess, and the obligatory bloke in his thirties in a Ben Sherman shirt, so pissed he could barely stand, struggling to make himself understood by the Turkish lad behind the counter. The language barrier was far less of an inhibiting factor than the amount of alcohol the fella had imbibed. “Fucking hurry up, will you mate”, Nick shouted over the cackling women. “There’s hungry people here. Just order your fucking food.” Here we go. Typical Nick, this. As well as the class A’s, his other preferred method of keeping himself down with the kids is getting into some pointless fucking scrap. Usually with some poor, unsuspecting sod like this one. As though punching a stranger in a takeaway is gonna turn him into Lestat. He could drink the blood of a thousand virgins, it wouldn’t change the fact that he was around for the dawn of punk. The man turned round, struggling to focus, first of all on the women, then Toothless in the corner, then on Nick. “Oi! What gives you the fucking right, eh? I’ve as much right to be here as you have.” “Not when you’re taking all night to order a fucking kebab, you haven’t.” He gave Nick a look of indignation. “I’ll have you know,” he said, his feelings genuinely hurt, “that I fought in a war.” Nick was obviously considering whether to come up with some punchy retort, or just a punch, when Toothless unexpectedly piped up. “Yeah? Well it looks like the war won.” The man’s focus, such as it was, shifted from Nick to Toothless. “You want a fucking war, you gummy twat? I’ll give you a fucking war!” He charged in the direction of Toothless. As he ran past us, already off-balance, Nick decided to stick his foot out and trip him up, sending him barrelling into the group of women, knocking them down like a set of middle-aged bowling pins, all crashing down on top of Toothless. Arms and legs flailed wildly in the brouhaha on the floor, the women taking their high heels off and swinging the spiked end at any male head they could reach. We stepped towards the counter as the Turkish lad looked over at the chaos by the window, and shook his head slightly. “What can I get you?” He asked, as though this kind of thing happened every night. Which it probably does. We sat on the wall by Argyle Taxis eating our grease-fest, throwing the boxes onto the floor with the dozens of others when we were finished. “Fancy going over there?” Nick said. “My treat, like.” I looked over to where Nick was pointing. He was gesturing in the direction of Magoo’s, the notorious brothel next to The Waterloo pub. This was a new low, even for him. “Errr, no thanks mate,” I said. “Come on mate, what better way to end the night?” I shook my head. I may have been in a bit of a state, but the prospect of Nick paying for me to shag some poor bird who had probably been illegally trafficked from some country I’d never even heard of was enough to sober me up sufficiently to remember that, in about five hours time, my six year old daughter would be getting dropped off at mine. “No, honestly mate, I need to get off. I’ve got Annie coming round in the morning.” “Who the fuck’s Annie?” Nick asked. “My daughter!” “Oh right, yeah. Of course. OK, fair enough mate, you get off. Nothing more important than family, mate. Nothing.” And he walked off in the direction of Magoo’s, to catch venereal disease from a prostitute while his own family slept. I slept soundly through my alarm, only to be woken by the sound of banging on my front door. I stumbled out of bed and down the hall, opening the door to see Rachel, looking stunning as usual, and, holding her hand, Annie, looking just as beautiful as her mum, gripping her favourite stuffed toy, Mr. Pink Ears the rabbit, in her other hand. I bent down and gave her a big kiss, and she gave me a massive hug. Rachel looked me up and down as I stood back up, taking note of the bleary eyes, the hoarse voice and the whiff of booze presumably coming off me. “Late night, was it?” There she goes, with that self-righteous tone. She’s constantly fucking judging me, and it pisses me right off. Mainly, because I know she’s absolutely right to be judging me. Two weekends a month I get with my little girl, and I couldn’t even keep myself sober for one of them. It’s fucking pathetic. I’m fucking pathetic. Going out drinking and doing drugs with some dickhead I don’t even really like when my daughter’s coming to stay the next morning. What the fuck’s wrong with me? It’s no wonder I’m living alone in this pokey fucking flat, instead of with Rachel and Annie. What kind of fucking dad am I? Regardless of that, of how much I knew I’d fucked up again, the fact remained that I had a stinking hangover, so I brought Annie in, sat her on the couch with some toast and juice and her DVD, got myself some alka-seltzer, and tried to sleep it off next to her. Now though, she’s shaking me awake, imploring me to take her to the playground, looking at me with those beautiful green eyes of hers. Eyes that can penetrate the fog of even the deepest hangover just enough to shift a deadbeat dad from his couch on a sunny Saturday morning. “Come on then darling,” I say, reluctantly dragging my arse off the seat. “Can Mr. Pink Ears come too?” I get dressed and we get in the car, parking up at the Sainsbury’s by the playground. We go inside and get some provisions; sweets for Annie, a big can of Monster and a sausage roll for me, and take them over to the park. Annie’s straight onto the swings, demanding that I push her. I give her a few shoves, but my heart isn’t in it. I feel like I’m about to puke every time I move more than a few millimetres, the sun isn’t helping my headache, and nor are her squeals of delight. I direct her over to the slide, and take a seat on the bench. I crack open my energy drink and take a big swig, and attempt to eat a few bites of the sausage roll, but I can barely chew it without retching so I lob it into the bin and continue to sip my drink, hoping the caffeine, sugar and taurine will sort me out a bit. I haven’t been sat down two minutes when another dad wanders over and sits next to me. The worst thing about brining Annie here is the other parents, always trying to strike up some sort of mundane conversation. And this fella’s the worst for it. He’s nice enough, and all he’s ever doing is trying to pass the time of day with a fellow dad of similar age. But fuck me, he’s boring. Last time, he was telling me about how he was off to see fucking Mumford And Sons for the fifth time, how they’re the best live band he’d ever seen. This is a man who probably thinks the later Kings Of Leon stuff is a bit too edgy. Now he’s telling me about his festival plans for the summer. “Yeah, so we’re definitely doing Cornbury, of course. And Glasto. We haven’t been there since Thomas was born. We’ve booked a hotel a few miles away though, and we’ll just drive into the site each day. Couldn’t subject Thomas to the conditions on a festival site. Especially not with his allergies. Great line-up this year, though. They’ve got Kylie, Janet Jackson, The Killers-” “I think King Crimson are headlining the second stage too, aren’t they?” I ask, facetiously. “Erm, not sure about that, I’ll have to check.” He takes out his phone and starts searching for something. I look up to check on Annie. She’s just reaching the bottom of the slide. Before she can get off, though, another kid, a lad of about the same age, slides down and goes feet first into the back of her. “Ow!” She shouts, but the kid just gets up and runs over to the roundabout. “No,” the dad next to me says. “I can’t see a Count Cristoe on the bill. They’ve got Snow Patrol though.” But I’m not listening now, not that I really was before, as my long-dormant parenting instincts prick up a bit. I watch this lad as Annie follows him onto the roundabout. She tries to step on but he holds out his hand to stop her. “Hey,” she shouts, but he keeps trying to fend her off, like he’s king of the fucking roundabout. “Whose lad is that?” I ask the Cornbury Kid next to me. “Erm, not sure, haven’t seen him here before.” I do a quick scan of the other parents in the playground, but none seem to be paying any attention, so whichever one of them spawned this little bastard is either unaware of, or disinterested in, his current cuntish behaviour. “Are you alright, Annie?” I shout over, in an attempt to draw their attention to it. “The boy won’t let me on the roundabout,” she shouts back. Still none of the assorted mums sat around the other bench look up. “Really? The boy won’t let you on the roundabout?” I shout, unsubtly. Still nothing. “Well it’s not up to him, Annie. You can go on the roundabout if you want.” The kid glares at me, clearly unaccustomed to anything other than getting things his way, but reluctantly deigns to share something that he has no ownership of. I settle back into the bench, my hackles lowered, but not completely down. Horrible little shit. I keep an eye on him for a minute, then on the mums who continue to chat away, still with no acknowledgment of this lad’s behaviour. My attention is drawn away from the Real Housewives Of Prenton though, as the lad has started jumping up and down on the roundabout, the sound pinballing around my skull. “Hey,” Annie says, “don’t do that, you’ll break it.” The lad stops it, but runs over to where Annie is, and shoves her straight off the roundabout, onto the floor. Thank fuck it’s only woodchipping, or she might have been badly hurt. But she’s hurt enough, and instantly starts crying. This time I don’t even bother looking over at the Stepford Wives. “Oi! You little twat!” I yell, instinctively. I run over and pick Annie up. “What the fuck did you do that for?” I look over at the mums. Still none of them intervenes, other than staring at me, their mouths wide open in shock. “Who the fuck are you calling a little twat?” A voice booms out from behind me. I turn around, and stepping over the bench I’d been sitting on, is a massive, chrome-domed ‘roid head the size of a fucking shaved bear. He must have been sitting on the grass behind me the whole time, which explains the indifference of the mums. But this fucker is anything but indifferent as he strides towards me, casting a huge shadow over the boring get on the bench. He reaches me, and towers over me. He’s at least six foot two, and made entirely of muscle and fat. Probably an ex-squaddie, almost certainly from the Woodchurch Estate. Trust me to come here on the one weekend the EDL aren’t marching somewhere. Coz if they were, you can guarantee this one would be there, smashing fuck out of some town centre or other, shouting at Muslim bus drivers. “I said who the fuck are you calling a little twat?” He repeats, his breath reeking of bacon and Brexit. His fists are already clenched, one of them crumpling a copy of the Sun. Someone from Merseyside, reading The Sun. That tells you all you need to know about him, even before you get a look at the ‘Only God Can Judge Me’ tattoo he’s got emblazoned across his neck. As with all large, dumb animals, I decide not to make any sudden movements, and talk in a firm but measured tone. “You lad’s just shoved my daughter off the roundabout”, I say, my voice quaking slightly less than I expected it to. “While it was moving. And he kicked her in the back on the slide.” He looks over at his son, who has now come and stood next to Annie, to enjoy the site of his dad kicking the shit out of someone other than his mum. “Is that true?” “No, she fell, Dad.” “Liar!” Annie yells at him. “Don’t call my son a liar,” the big bastard says. “Woah,” I say to him, “you don’t need to be saying anything to her, mate.” “You don’t need to be saying anything to my son, either, you little prick.” “He is a liar!” Annie yells back at him. I love her bravery, her refusal to back down and be pushed around, whoever it is, man or child, that’s doing the pushing. It’s one of her best characteristics. But it does occur to me that if she had just backed down a few minutes ago, I wouldn’t now be facing the prospect of a good shoeing from the leader of the local branch of the Tommy Robinson Appreciation Society. “Look, I saw him do it with my own eyes,” I say. “Oh, so now you’re calling my boy a liar, is that right?” Ok, now it’s clear, if it wasn’t already, that this fella knows only one way to deal with conflict of any kind. He plans to intimidate me into backing down, and if that doesn’t work, he would much rather batter a stranger in a playground full of kids, than admit any wrongdoing from his child, and therefore any acknowledgment of his own poor parenting skills. I could explain to him that, however bad a parent he is, I’m not much better, but he’d probably be unable to process the information, and interpret it as a sign of aggression. “Well,” he says, “are you calling my son a fucking liar or what?” I make a quick mental assessment of my options. I look around for any signs of support. The mums are watching on, but only with an air of morbid curiosity, and I certainly can’t count on fucking Centrist Dad over there to get involved. Finally, I look at Annie, and she looks back at me. Our eyes lock, and something passes between us. An understanding. Some sort of unspoken, extra sensory connection. Something clicks in me, and for perhaps the first time since she was born, I truly feel like a father, not just some waster of a weekend dad. She gives me the barest nod of her head, and I return it. She turns to the boy that has caused all this trouble, and head butts him square in the face. He goes down crying, and his dad, distracted for a moment, doesn’t know whether to run straight to his aid or to twat me first. “What the fuck? Your fucking daughter’s just nutted my-” Mid-sentence, I volley him as hard as I can in the bollocks. Protected as they no doubt are by a scrotum strengthened by twenty years of naked sunbathing by hotel pools in Mallorca, he doesn’t go down completely, but it gives me and Annie enough time to act. “Run, Annie,” I shout, “grab Mr. Pink Ears.” She picks him up, and I scoop her up in my arms, and run towards the car. “Enjoy Glasto,” I shout at Centrist Dad as I run past him. I glance back to see the other dad, down on one knee, clutching his knackers, and still clearly undecided whether to go after me or look after his son. The fleeting eye contact with me makes up his mind, and he straightens up and takes off after us. Despite his size, he begins to gain ground, as carrying Annie slows me down. He speeds up as I run through the gate. I try to do likewise but Annie is starting to slip from my grasp, slowing me down further as I re-secure her. He’s just a few feet behind us as we reach the road between the playground and the Saino’s car park. If I have to stop for any traffic, he’ll catch us, but a quick glance tells me it’s clear. Despite that, he’s still gaining on us as I step off the kerb. Halfway across the road, I turn round to see him step off, but the big clumsy fuck miss-steps, and loses his balance. He tries to right himself, but staggers forward, trips over his own legs, and lands, face down on the concrete. The satisfying sound of shattering gammon face, as well as the site of his right arm being crushed under his own considerable weight, is enough to tell me we’re now in the clear, but I don’t hang around anyway. I get to the car and throw Annie in, fix her seatbelt and drive off. We have to drive past the scene of the face plant, and he’s being helped up off the asphalt as I reach him. I drive around the melee, keeping my head down as much as I can. I look back at my daughter in the rear-view mirror, and resolve to do my best for her from now on. No more fucking around, no more drinking with nobheads. No more drugs. From now on, I’m determined to be the best dad to her that I can possibly be. “Are you alright, Annie?” She nods. “Is Mr. Pink Ears OK?” “Yeah.” “That’s good. Love you, darling.” “Love you too Dad.” My little angel. www.youtube.com/watch?v=7rIpxpwiXtI PT1 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kYyGhUanVgg&t=4s PT2 https://twitter.com/NathanOHagan
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