Marabou Stork Nightmares Read Online Free PDF

auld man, I suppose. He was really interested in birds as well.
    I mind ay askin ma Dad if we would live in a big hoose like the ones in Barnton when we went tae South Africa.
    — Bigger than thaim though son, much bigger. Like ah sais, much bigger, he telt ays.
    The funny thing is that it was in the period when we were preparing to go to South Africa that I have some of the most vivid memories of John, my Dad. As I've indicated, he was a little bit crazy and we were all frightened of him. He was far too intense about things, and got himself worked up over nothing. I worried about the shotgun he kept under the bed.
    Our main point of contact was through television. John would take the TV pages from the Daily Record and circle the programmes to watch that evening. He was a keen nature freak, and as I mentioned, particularly interested in ornithology. We both loved the David Attenborough style nature documentaries. He was never so happy as when programmes on exotic birds came on the box and he was very knowledgeable on the subject. John Strang was a man who knew the difference between a Cinnamon Bracken Warbler and, say, the Brown Woodland variety.
    — See that! Bullshit! A Luhder's Bush Shrike, the boy sais! That's a Doherty's Bush Shrike! Like ah sais, a Doherty's Bush Shrike! Jist as well ah'm tapin this oan the video!
    We were the first family in the district to have all the key consumer goods as they came onto the market: colour television, video recorder and eventually satellite dish. Dad thought that they made us different from the rest of the families in the scheme, a cut above the others. Middle-class, he often said.
    All they did was define us as prototype schemies.
    I remember the note he sent to the BBC, smug in his knowledge that for all the research capabilities he imagined them having at their disposal, their presenter had got his facts wrong. The reply was initially a great source of pride to him:
    Dear Mr Strange,
    Thank you for your letter in which you point out the factual error in our programme WINGS OVER THE BUSH which was transmitted last Thursday.
    While this particular nature documentary was not made by the BBC, as commissioners of the group of independent film-makers who produced the programme, we accept liability for such inaccuracy in our broadcasts.
    While we at the BBC strive for accuracy in every area of our broadcasting activities, errors will inevitably occur from time to time and keen members of the viewing public with specialist knowledge like yourself provide an invaluable service in bringing such inaccuracies to our attention.
    The vigilant and informed viewer has a key role to play in ensuring that we at the BBC maintain our high standards of broadcast excellence and adequately fulfill the responsibilities of our charter, namely: to educate, inform and entertain.
    Once again, thank you for your correspondence.
    Yours sincerely,

    Roger Snape
    Programme Controller, Nature Documentaries.
    The old man showed every fucker that letter. He showed them in the pub, and at his work with Group Six Securities. He freaked out when my Uncle Jackie pointed out to him that they had misspelled his name. He wrote a letter to Roger Snape saying that if he was ever in London, he would kick fuck out of him.
    Dear Mr Snap,
    Thank you for your letter in which you show yourself to be an ignorant person not spelling my name right. I just want you to know that I do not like people not spelling my name right. It is S-T-R-A-N-G. If I am ever in London I will snap you. . . into small pieces.
    Yours faithfully,

    John STRANG.
    The only things which seemed to give Dad enjoyment were drinking alcohol and listening to records of Winston Churchill's wartime speeches. Pools of tears would well up behind his thick lenses as he was moved by his idol's stirring rhetoric.
    But these were the best times. The worst were the boxing lessons he gave us. He had a thing about me being too uncoordinated, especially with my limp, and