Oh brother

We all have brothers *

My brother is both older, and younger than me. Physically he’s 3 years older, which I’m convinced is just because he’s so fucking pushy.

But mentally he’s 5 years old. In the interests of full disclosure, I should add that when I’m with him I am also 5 years old.

A good example of this immaturity is our presents to each other.

Things he’s bought for me:

  • He started it, mum! For my 17th birthday he gave me a cheese sandwich. Home made. Warburton’s white bread. One slice of cheese.
  • When I passed my driving test, he bought me a cake in the shape of a car. He’d smashed the front in with a hammer, placed a “dead” Action Man figure emerging through the driver’s seat window, and splattered fake blood all over it.
  • A pot of yoghurt jammed inside a marigold rubber glove, and a sink plunger. He assumed I was a pervert, and not without justification.
  • A piece of plumbing equipment called a Bottom insersion flange.

Things I’ve bought for him:

  • A copy of Katie Price and Peter Andre’s album. (Review: my cat was dead, and now it is alive).
  • An Enid Blyton book called, breathtakingly, Mr. Pink-Whistle Interferes
  • A pot of something called Dog Oil: For Massaging
  • A box of Thornton’s chocolates, which I had carefully opened, bitten every chocolate in half, put back the remainder, and resealed.
  • An application form for the Dignitas suicide clinic.

* We don’t all have brothers.


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