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And when he did bother to come home he'd sit in that fucking chair, doss off with his tray in his lap. And I'd just stand there looking at him. I'd look in his face, and movie my mother'd go upstairs, and I'd say, "Say, Mum, ain't Daddy coming to movie bed?" And she'd say, "No. No, he's all right, son. He'll come up when he wakes up." He's gotta wake up to go to bed! movie Now, I'd stand there looking at this fucking old man, you know, my dad, you know, in that chair, that horrible fucking chair with the shiny, worn-out arms. I should've burnt the fucking thing. By the end he was hemorrhaging from both ends, you know? I used to hear him in the morning hanging on to the kharzi. It was lovely. Never stopped him going to the pub, though. No, he was well enough to do that.
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