UnBooks:Conversations With My Father

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I have tried to keep this simple enough for you to follow

Abogaga weehhaa boobah squeek squeek is, regrettably, what people seem to hear whenever I address them. Allow me to introduce myself more formally: my name is the honourable Howard S. Percival Esq. I am a thinking human being. I have logic, I have sophisticated deduction abilities, I have aspirations, I have the world in my palm.

I also happen to be, unavoidably, a baby.

Being a baby then, people often mistake my sensible and patient attempts to reason with them, and interpret them as merely drooling, slobbering, waving my feet in the air and pooping.

They are mistaken.

For I am a superior intelligent being, and they shall come to bemoan their lot when the full extent of their misunderstanding becomes evident to them. They are not worth the ointment in the crack of my baby-smooth ass. But all these charlatans are effectively as nothing, mere dust in the wind in comparison to my one true mortal enemy; my nemesis; my Visigoth. My father.

The eternal fool. I hate the ground he so clumsily steps on.

The crux of the problem is that he resolutely contrives to misinterpret my every utterance in a manner calculated to induce apoplexy. I have long discarded the theory that it may simply be some form of well-meaning incompetence - this nincompoop is deliberately disregarding my every instruction, entreaty and reasonable request. For all the good it does, I may as well not bother engaging him in the intricacies of dialogue, and simply repeat "aaaaaaaa" ad nauseum. While his blithering inadequacies are, for the most part, rectified by the beacon of glorious competence that is my mother, they are rapidly becoming too much to bear.

So I hereby present the public with a collection of memoirs of my conversations with this imbecile, and his baffling insistence on thwarting my every dream with his strange chicanery. My experiences, my undisputed grasp of things that have occurred. I hope that this record shall set straight many misunderstandings, and allow my true worth to be known in this world and this lifetime. I can only hope that my fool of a father doesn't think that these carefully crafted notes are a "smeared picture of a flower on top of a drooled-over family" and secure them on the fridge with a magnetic alphabet letter.

Chapter 1: The Wardrobe Debacle

How I was expecting to be clad - how difficult can it be?

One fine day, on a particularly glorious morning, I decided it would be an excellent opportunity to sport my rather raffish new outfit, the one my mother bought, which she assures me is the most debonair apparel available today. I advised him of this clearly, by dribbling on his shoe, putting my fingers in his mouth, and making a low-pitched whining noise for several seconds. I'm not sure how much more obvious I can make things for him, and yet still he seemed not to comprehend.

His choice of diaper was a singularly inauspicious start, and signalled clearly that he had once again misinterpreted my intentions. How could the imbecile not fathom the depths of my horror when I found out that my genitalia was to be wrapped with a pamper adorned with an impressionist portrait of Dora. I was certain I had directed him towards garb featuring my hero: SPARTACUS, with a firm instruction of "b-b-b-beeeeiiieeoooeeeieeieeeoawbrbrbrpppbbteeeeiieiee"

As you would expect, I instantly tried to communicate my displeasure by waggling my legs around, thereby obstructing him in his attempts to gird my loins with a cartoon character. He merely swatted my attempts aside with a practised hand, and simpered at me "somebody's a frisky boy this morning, aren't you? Aren't you?" And then he tickled me on the foot. I laughed at his comical mis-reading of the situation, but unfortunately he took this to mean that his clowning had been appreciated, and he was beaming with pride as he passed me to my mother for my morning feed.

That pride shall have to be punctured.

Chapter 2: The Jasmine Incident

On another occasion, the fair Jasmine was at our parent/child activity group. I knew that my Dora-girded loins would make my continued wooing of her more of a challenge, but I resolved that this would be the week she fell for my charms - how could she resist a boy who had learned to roll over by himself, which my mother assures me is the cleverest thing any child has ever managed to achieve in the history of all things?

My heart soared when I saw an empty space next to her in the activity room, and when the accursed parent actually headed directly for it, I began to think that maybe I had been a little harsh on him - perhaps he was beginning to understand. I had underestimated his ability to thwart my plans yet again.

He placed me next to the apple purée of my eye, and I admired her grace, her poise, her ability to get both big toes in her mouth at once. Her outfit was tastefully chosen, and the delicate drizzle of vomit down one side only added to the overall effect. It was stunning.

I tried to explain to the buffoon that his patronising behaviour was inappropriate in front of the lovely Jasmine, and that perhaps a touch of decorum was in order - "aaaoaaaooaaaaoawwwaaeeeeeoeee" I told him, earnestly, but he just smiled, said "clever boy!" and blew another raspberry noise on my belly. I didn't dare look in Jasmine's direction.

Chapter 3: Where is that Bottle Shover?

No father, not that bottle

This very morning was another glorious morning (mornings are one of my favourite times of the day - right up there with afternoons and evenings). This time, I was stretched out languidly in my outrageously large bed, having turning onto my stomach, just to show off my taut leg muscles. O wond'rous morning! So many good things shall happen today, but first and foremost of those is my regular morning meeting with my mother in the part of her role I like to refer to as "The Bottle Shover".

My mother is a fine woman, wandering the house tidying up after my little - indiscretions - involving vomit, drool, excrement and the like. And she cuts an impressive figure, with a respectable pair of milk dispensers. I like those. It makes me feel important to think that such a lady is lavishing all her attention on me. How I love it when I greet my Bottle Shover with a happy smile, opening my mouth to signify my gratitude with a thankful "bahhboobahbah", while she just uses the opportunity to shove a bottle in my mouth, thus completing my morning ceremony.

So imagine my consternation when, instead of this salutary woman, my unkempt imbecile father bounds into my chambers, all huffing and puffing as though he is of importance to anyone! Where was the nice Bottle Shover, I wondered. What was this oaf doing here? Why was he picking up the wrong bottle? Why did my food looks like it hadn't been swished or heated long enough? Why was the bottle's temperature not 37 degrees precisely?

And then, if you please, despite my attempts to deter him by repeating "bdrrr bdrrr bdrrr bdrrr" in a high-pitched tone, he insisted on closing up on me with that bottle in what I perceived to be a menacing manner! I opened my mouth, but not to smile! I was trying to protest to the insubordinate wretch! To say: "no! Don't ram that bottle down my throat! That's not the way it's done!" But too late, the fiend was upon me, and all I was able to utter was "BALBVABSABLSAJBD GLUG GLUG GLUG GLUGUGUG GLUGGLUG *HACK* **BARF**"

Something simply must be done.

Chapter 4: The Grandmother Infliction

Oh lord, keep the infernal woman away!

Final proof, if proof were still needed, of my father's intentions to abjectly humiliate me at every turn was secured today, with a visit to the one-woman spittle factory that is my grandmother.

Now, I have heard it observed that, as a baby, I am prone to dribble a bit, and I have to reluctantly concede that this is the case - for some reason, the wretched stuff continues to escape my mouth, and there seems to be nothing I can do to stop it. But my grandmother is eighty-five years old, and should be able to control herself rather better. Instead, she seems able to generate more saliva in a single kiss than I do in a day! And she kisses me so much, I swear to you her intention must be to drown me in the stuff!

It would honestly be easier and highly preferable to me to simply be placed in a bath full of drool than to endure another visit to her house - as well as being more convenient, it would also be significantly less whiskery.

And yet, despite my strongest entreaties to the contrary, he extracted me again from the warm, comforting embrace of my mother, despite my plaintive cries, and we again visited the senile old hag in her ramshackle bungalow. And again, as soon as we got there, he thrust me towards her, a look of idiotic pride on his simple face - as if my many achievements to date are in any way attributable to him - and simpered "who wants a kiss from his granny then? who wants a kiss from his granny then?!"

My clear answer to that question: "AAAaggUUVEEeeiib-b-bEIEIEIEnnnnnngggg GURRRRG GLEEE AAEEaaaaAAEE" was utterly dismissed with a cry of "isn't he excited to see you! Yes he is! Yes he is!" And once again, her salivating lips slobbered their way across my face, leaving a trail of cake crumbs in their wake.

My rights as an individual are being completely ignored - the time for action draws nigh!

Chapter 5: Ahoy Ducky!


As a direct descendant of the Admiral Lord Nelson, I feel that my maritime education needs to start at the earliest age possible, to make sure I'm adequately ready for when my services are needed. After all, those damn Spaniards could rebuild their Armada any time now, and send over their conquistadors to revive their questionable glories of bygone days. The fools.

And so I sit in my baby tub, reliving maritime battles of past times, looking carefully at alternate historical angles and outcomes that could have come to pass. My battles are being won simply by using a rubber ducky, a yellow plastic cup and vigorous splashing of the water with my feet - tactics I feel Nelson himself could have adopted to his advantage.

The Portuguese, the Dutch and the French all fell trembling before me and their galleons drowned in my wake. I am the Poseidon of my tub.

My mother, the kind mermaid she is, believes that I'm simply being playful, enjoying the warmth of the water and the feeling of weightlessness - not realizing the terrible toll I'm collecting from enemies of queen and country. But being the bounteous, simple creature that she is, she allows me to take my time and enjoy every instant of the chaos and mayhem I throw at my adversaries and then, happy and satisfied, I'm carried away to the safety of the towel.

Alas, however, there are some days when my father, that accursed landlubber, will have the most outrageous will to "bond" and "connect" with me during those times of contemplation and battle planning.

Arrrrar arrrrhhaa rrrrarrhhaa rrrgghhhh arrrrr

By the gods, you scurvy dog! I protest, as he places the rubber ducky against the wind thereby allowing the Spaniards to launch two broadside salvoes at my flagship, leave the ducky where it is!

Bdumdurrrrreeeerrrummm BababaBABBBBeek

Fetch me some grog, you lily-livered fool! and stop with this soaping nonsense!

The novel Conversations With My Father is also available in paperback.

Thhpppppptttttoooooeeeaaee squee

Shiver me timbers! How can you not see that I must splash my feet very quickly or the Portuguese shall overrun us and steal our promised booty!

And then the most horrible moment, the moment he takes me out of the tub while me sailors are busy fighting for their lives against the sailors of The Black Ship?

Bllllblblbll bbblll booooh ppppttt

Avast father! You shall let me be or you shall walk the plank! I gurgle, but he throws my armada aside, alongside my hopes for a better future for my people, as though they were of no importance.

May Davy Jones embrace him to his cold watery bosom.



I have therefore decided that I can tolerate no more. I have considered several courses of action, but most of these would require me to be significantly bigger and stronger than I am at present. My towering intellect can only achieve so much by itself. If I am to be rid of this ogre, I have to avail myself of aid - a sort of human blunt instrument. Or, to put it another way, a hitman.

For someone with the necessary stature and experience, expunging his blundering from my life should be an easy task - someone this docile shouldn't take too much effort to eliminate. I can pay - I have an unlimited supply of smiles, and my mother assures me they are far more valuable than mere money, so that should easily cover any expenses.

So please, I implore you, dear reader - if you have any experience in such matters, please come to my aid in this, my hour of need. Rid me of this millstone around my neck, this ignoramus, this fool I am cursed to call my Bbblllurblluurrrddd-d-dDADADADADAnnnnnngggg DADA DADA DADA DADA DADA

Oh dear God please don't let him have heard that... No! That wasn't my first word! It was a tirade of invective, you unshaven dunderhead! No, wipe those tears from your eyes, this should not be the happiest moment of your life!


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