"Robert Rankin - The Fandom of the Operator" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robert Rankin)

`We have more class at my school, when no one's off sick with diphtheria,' I said.

`Same sort of thing,' said my daddy.

`No, it's not,' said my Uncle. `Don't just humour the boy, tell him all of the truth.'

My daddy nodded. `It's nothing like that at all, son,' he said, smiting me once again.

I considered the poker. A boy at our school had done for his daddy with a poker. He'd done for his
mummy too. And all because he wanted to go to the orphans' picnic inGunnersburyPark. I wouldn't
have dreamed of doing anything as horrid as that. But it did occur to me that if I smote the Daddy just the
once, buthard, it might put him off smiting me further in the future. It would be the work of a moment, but
would take quite a lot of nerve. It was worth thinking about, though.

`There'll be a wake,' said my Uncle Jon, derailing my train of thought. `There's always a wake.'

`What's a wake?' I asked, pretending that I didn't know, and edging myself beyond my daddy's smiting
range.

`It's a kind of party,' said my Uncle Jon, lizarding all around and about in the visitors' chair. `Folk like
your daddy drink a very great deal of beer at such functions at the expense of the dead man's family and
rattle on and on about how the dead man was their bestest friend.'

`Is there jelly and balloons?' I asked, because I greatly favoured both.

`Go and play in the yard,' said the Daddy.

`We don't have a yard,' I informed him.

`Then go and help your mummy lather sprouts.'

`That's women's work,' I said. `If I do women's work I might well grow up to be a homo.'

`True enough,' said my uncle. `I've seen that happen time and again. Show me a window-dresser and
I'll show you a boy who lathered sprouts.'

My father made a grunting noise with his trick knee. `Much as I hate your uncle,' he said, `he might well
have a point on this occasion. He knows more than most about homos.'

`I'll take that as a compliment,' said my uncle, `although it wasn't meant as one. But let the lad stay. He
should be told about these things. He'll never learn to walk upon ceilings, just by stand-ing on his hands.'

`There's truth in that too,' said my daddy.

`What?' said I.

`What indeed!' said my daddy. `But tell me, youngGary, what do you know about death?'

`Well,' said I, toying with the poker, `I've heard that good boys go to heaven and that brutal fathers
burn for ever in the fires of hell.'