around and I just shuffle behind him and follow on again. It’s absolutely freezing. Dundee in the winter is bad enough but at three in the morning it’s like the North Pole. I remember one of Dad’s mates saying when he was young, he woke up with an ice cube in his bed and when he threw it in the coal fire it made a fart noise. I’ve always thought that was hilarious.
We get in the car and all the windows are covered with ice. It’s like being in an igloo with a drunk bear. It takes Dad ages to get his key in the ignition and I’m getting colder by the minute but I can’t say anything because any remark from me could set him off. After about five minutes of silence and me blowing mist out of my mouth to keep myself entertained, Dad turns around to me with his left eye closed, trying to focus.
‘What, do you want to fucking drive?’
I never say anything as I’ve managed to learn when to speak and when not to speak, depending on how drunk he is.
He turns away again and hallelujah – the key goes in and the car starts. The windows are covered in ice and I still can’t see a thing. He turns the wipers on and shouts, ‘We have liftoff.’
I try not to laugh just in case he actually thinks he is in a plane, as we might as well be in a submarine for all he knows.
‘Turn the heaters on, I canna see a fucking thing.’
I’m not surprised with all the scotch and vodka you’ve been drinking
.
Then he starts singing, ‘Can yi hear the Rangers sing, I canna see a fucking thing woowoooo!’
He’s actually lost the plot
, I think. I switch the heaters on and the window wipers are going full speed.
‘Your lights, Dad.’
‘I’m no fucking daft,’ he says, turning the wipers back off. That’s his attempt at putting the lights on.
No you’re not daft, that will help you see in the dark, you stupid plonker
.
Luckily I don’t say this out loud. Eventually the window starts to clear and he finds the lights. He’s looking more and more wobbly as time goes on, probably down to the fact that we’ve been in the car for fifteen minutes and not even moved an inch. I’m freezing and getting a bit tired myself as I hardly slept the night before.
Then we start moving. We drive out of the car park at about five miles an hour onto the main road at the back of Ardler and turn right towards Downfield Golf Course, passing the turning for the Timex Brae. Dad is now muttering away to himself, ‘And away we go.’ The car’s all over the road and Dad’s head is kind of bobbing up and then slowly falling down.
Shit
, I think,
he’s falling asleep
.
‘Dad, Dad! You’re falling asleep!’
He doesn’t respond.
‘
Dad!
You’re falling asleep,’ I shout a second time.
Nothing again, so I grab the wheel as we’re coming up to a massive bend to the right up the side of the golf course. I hold on for dear life while he takes forty winks with his foot planted on the accelerator.
I don’t know how I manage it, but I steer the car up past the Ardler multi-storey block and up towards Clatto Park. It’s a thousand metres and all the time I’m screaming at the top of my lungs, ‘
Dad, wake up you’re in your car, Dad! Dad! Wake up!
’
I even muster the courage to elbow him in the side of the head – and that seems to do the trick.
‘Oh hello!’ he shouts as he wakes up, and looks at me all confused. ‘What the fuck’s going on!’
‘Look at the road, Dad, you fell asleep, you’re driving.’
He looks at my hand on the wheel then looks forward and puts his hands on the wheel.
‘Fuck me, I’m pissed,’ he says, turning right down into St Kilda Road and back towards St Fillans to the house, clipping wing mirrors all the way home.
Brilliant, I think, the fiasco’s over. My heart’s still pounding, and now he’s trying to squeeze the car into an eight foot gap. It takes him twenty minutes and he keeps nudging one car and then the other until he creates enough space for himself. He keeps saying,
We get in the car and all the windows are covered with ice. It’s like being in an igloo with a drunk bear. It takes Dad ages to get his key in the ignition and I’m getting colder by the minute but I can’t say anything because any remark from me could set him off. After about five minutes of silence and me blowing mist out of my mouth to keep myself entertained, Dad turns around to me with his left eye closed, trying to focus.
‘What, do you want to fucking drive?’
I never say anything as I’ve managed to learn when to speak and when not to speak, depending on how drunk he is.
He turns away again and hallelujah – the key goes in and the car starts. The windows are covered in ice and I still can’t see a thing. He turns the wipers on and shouts, ‘We have liftoff.’
I try not to laugh just in case he actually thinks he is in a plane, as we might as well be in a submarine for all he knows.
‘Turn the heaters on, I canna see a fucking thing.’
I’m not surprised with all the scotch and vodka you’ve been drinking
.
Then he starts singing, ‘Can yi hear the Rangers sing, I canna see a fucking thing woowoooo!’
He’s actually lost the plot
, I think. I switch the heaters on and the window wipers are going full speed.
‘Your lights, Dad.’
‘I’m no fucking daft,’ he says, turning the wipers back off. That’s his attempt at putting the lights on.
No you’re not daft, that will help you see in the dark, you stupid plonker
.
Luckily I don’t say this out loud. Eventually the window starts to clear and he finds the lights. He’s looking more and more wobbly as time goes on, probably down to the fact that we’ve been in the car for fifteen minutes and not even moved an inch. I’m freezing and getting a bit tired myself as I hardly slept the night before.
Then we start moving. We drive out of the car park at about five miles an hour onto the main road at the back of Ardler and turn right towards Downfield Golf Course, passing the turning for the Timex Brae. Dad is now muttering away to himself, ‘And away we go.’ The car’s all over the road and Dad’s head is kind of bobbing up and then slowly falling down.
Shit
, I think,
he’s falling asleep
.
‘Dad, Dad! You’re falling asleep!’
He doesn’t respond.
‘
Dad!
You’re falling asleep,’ I shout a second time.
Nothing again, so I grab the wheel as we’re coming up to a massive bend to the right up the side of the golf course. I hold on for dear life while he takes forty winks with his foot planted on the accelerator.
I don’t know how I manage it, but I steer the car up past the Ardler multi-storey block and up towards Clatto Park. It’s a thousand metres and all the time I’m screaming at the top of my lungs, ‘
Dad, wake up you’re in your car, Dad! Dad! Wake up!
’
I even muster the courage to elbow him in the side of the head – and that seems to do the trick.
‘Oh hello!’ he shouts as he wakes up, and looks at me all confused. ‘What the fuck’s going on!’
‘Look at the road, Dad, you fell asleep, you’re driving.’
He looks at my hand on the wheel then looks forward and puts his hands on the wheel.
‘Fuck me, I’m pissed,’ he says, turning right down into St Kilda Road and back towards St Fillans to the house, clipping wing mirrors all the way home.
Brilliant, I think, the fiasco’s over. My heart’s still pounding, and now he’s trying to squeeze the car into an eight foot gap. It takes him twenty minutes and he keeps nudging one car and then the other until he creates enough space for himself. He keeps saying,
Similar Books
