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The Imposters by Nick Hollin
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I never knew my dad. He left before I was conceived. His place was taken by a far less cool and clever man with an enormous gut and a love of bad jokes, many of which he would wear. The first time I realised he wasn’t my dad was back in ‘85. Live Aid was on the telly and millions were starving in Africa. As I watched the imposter hoovering up a mountain of Spag Bol, splattering his shirt (and improving it in the process), I couldn’t help feeling he was largely to blame. When Status Quo appeared and he rose to his feet and started strumming the air I remember looking across at my mum, still slim, still attractive, sill related to me, and wondering what on earth could have possessed her. By ’91 Europe had finally become a union. At home the divisions continued to grow. I’d returned from my first term at uni well read and well red (with a series of badges to prove it), looking for an argument but unable to find one. ‘Anti-consumerism? Been there, done that, bought the t-shirt!’ joked the man still claiming to be my dad, as he polished his Tory blue Rover. I went inside to rant at mum, but was shocked to find a woman in a tartan golf sweater asleep on the sofa, a copy of the Daily Mail laid open on her lap. It was clear to me then I’d been fooled by them both. Raised by a pair of imposters. Christmas ’97, a child was born. And he was mine. Although I was still too young to fully believe it. When he was handed to me in the hospital I was reminded rather bizarrely of being back at uni cradling a king-size kebab, feeling a little unsteady on my feet and trying desperately not to drop it. Of course I’d never felt that much love for a kebab. Not quite. The male imposter had been a bit down over the previous two weeks because his footballing hero had died at the age of fifty-four, the very same age he was then. But when he walked into our hospital room and I introduced him to Billy (a name my son just happens to share with that famous Leeds player) there was an instant transformation. I’d never seen him look so happy, or so proud, or so much like my dad. It’s 2011 now and I’m sitting on the sofa at home, a nice cup of tea resting on my ever expanding gut, watching repeats of Midsummer Murders. Out of the corner of my eye I can see my son, he’s listening to his ipod, so loud I can hear most of the rhythm but none of the blues, and he’s staring across at me through his dyed black fringe. He’s been looking at me like that for a while now. I think he’s starting to become suspicious. And to tell you the truth so am I.
Winning Entry: Politically Correct Third Place: Third Time Unlucky |
