The Guv'nor

Tales of the Unfortunate

 by Roben Micci

The Guv’nor

Here he is;

attempting to open the front door with his bottle opener key chain, introducing our protagonist: lord of the manor, clad in the particulars of council estate fashion. Namely: striped jogging bottoms, a poorly manufactured Lacoste polo shirt knock off and a baseball cap donned, pointed skyward (two sizes too small for his bulbous, shaved head). The ensemble is topped off with a pair of scuffed black formal shoes. This look was created with intention, however, it gives the impression that it may have come about from playing ‘wardrobe roulette’… 

Wardrobe roulette: Awaking, covering oneself in wood glue and diving head first into one’s wardrobe. Whatever sticks would comprise the outfit.
The outfit aside, he sported a very dark tan on his fore-arms and face but not on his neck - this partly due to the fact that you can’t turn park benches around no matter how much you try. Decorative scars adorn his face and when noticed are met with pride.  His face is his trophy cabinet and the white lines that provide evidence of blunt force trauma are indeed his trophies.

He mumbles an inaudible mash up of swear words “for cunts fuck shake” – his inimitable, unintentional Sean Connery impression he passes off every time he’s sunk a dozen or more. Throwing his keys to the ground he climbs through a window previously left open by his much suffering wife-Sharon.  He falls straight through and is met by a hard landing on the other side of the window. Laid out like doner meat draped over a stale pitta, he quickly rolls over to discover what broke his fall.

“FUCKSHAKE”

He reaches behind him to pick up half a PlayStation 3, spilling it’s circuitry onto the stolen laminate flooring – a mass of PS3 crumbs scatter out from under his arse as he struggles to get to his feet. The precarious placement of said beloved games console was no accident; this will be Sharon’s only victory this evening.

Hauling himself up onto the sofa after a botched attempt of rising unaided he takes stock of the ruin that lies before him. The heartbreak of the common man. The ramifications of what had just happened fill his head…no FIFA, no COD… a tear rolls down his cheek as he envisions MaChOmAn69 overtaking his hard earned trophy haul.

Feeling defeated he empties the contents of his back pocket onto the nearby coffee table. Its surface is covered in a fine epidermal layer of cigarette ash. He then sets about separating the assortment of coins from the last bit of baccy that had over spilled from his pouch. Paranoid, he looks left then right to gauge there was in fact no one else in the room with him. Reassured, he produces a small, sealed polythene bag from his pants.

“You can never be too careful”

Was Black John’s catchphrase and upon hearing it at least half a dozen times a day he had adhered to the sentiment quite religiously.
Spot has lost his ball.

“Has he? Well he’s lost his fuckin’ head now ain’t he?!”

He tears the top inch off the children’s book and decapitates the lovable dog in one swift motion. Perfect roach for the implied illicit activities.

The biological and physiological effect of alcohol mixed with marijuana induces a heightened reaction within him. This sends his heart into a carnival of palpitations and his brain into a state of increased paranoia and mania. He jolts up feeling nervous, confused and bounds instinctively towards the stairs. He finds them. Colliding at near break neck speed he knocks out his left incisor on the fourth step up.

“WHO FUCKIN’ PUT THESE ‘ERE? SHARON YOU SHIT SHOWER”

It made no sense – but spouted from his, now profusely bleeding, mouth – nothing ever did.
He climbs the wooden hill that had remained uncarpeted since they moved in together almost 7 years ago. At the top he feels a bit more in control and the solid pine wakeup call was actually benefiting his state of mind (partially). As he returned to the upright position of our species he remains Neanderthal in all other aspects of incline and instinct. Mistaking his young son’s bedroom for the bathroom he bundles through the door. Upon hearing a familiar cry of despair he utters without malice but with hearty conviction:

“GET OUT! YOU KNOW WHERE YOUR ROOM IS BOY”

He barks this whilst curling one out into his toy box. With a soiled derrière he reaches for the nearest object to hand and wipes his arse with a rare Pokémon card. Charizard. Mint. Laminated.

The boy runs out of the room to avoid the oppressive stench of a gut that housed the likes of 9 Stella’s, a multitude of shots and one mis-ordered shandy enthused with the foul aroma of a half digested savaloy and chips which all made for a hard environment to remain in, even for the most hardened of nostril.

The boy escapes the room evading his father’s attention. He slept in the bathroom that night – the only room in the house with a fully functioning lock; his panic room; his safe house; his rotten stench free haven. He had cleverly wrapped his hand in his pyjama top and rescued Charizard before leaving the room and was now cleaning the shit smears from it. If only he could laminate more things for protection, he thought. If only he could laminate his mother.
After courteously closing the ‘toilet lid’, the being of alcohol and drug addled inebriation rises and heads towards the final room he will throw into chaos this evening – now almost morning.

As the sun creeps through the gaps in the blind, pretty spots of light dance over Sharon’s face yet it fails to wake her.  An abundance of consumed sleeping pills make sure of this. Yet, five minutes later she is awoken with a start as our ‘protagonist’ arrives in the master bedroom. Priming his knuckles for action he slams the door and announces:

“WAKE UP SHA’, THE GUV’NORS HOME”.