Free Frank Skinner Autobiography by Frank Skinner Page A

it back home.
    Anyway, the second shed, which contained other garden tools including the lawnmower, was now making its way to join the big shed in the middle of the garden. I don’t think Keith, my mom, or me actually said ‘Not the pigeon loft’ but I’m pretty sure we were all thinking it. The pigeons, thankfully, were not in the loft; they spent most of the day flying in a close formation which included a strange tumbling movement when, for a second or two, they looked like they were falling out of the sky, then resumed flying normally as if nothing had happened. These pigeons were known as ‘tumblers’, I presume because they appeared to tumble as they flew.
    Once the pigeon loft had joined its fellow wooden structures in the middle of the garden, Dad actually stepped inside the second shed. Surely now he’d finished his re-arranging of the garden the effort had used up his temper, and when, after some calming deep breaths, he emerged from the shed, he’d be ready for a couple of cheese and onion sandwiches and an afternoon nap? Yes. So why had he now emerged carrying a large tank of paraffin? We watched in frozen silence as he prepared the sheds and pigeon loft for cremation. Within a few minutes, all I could hear was the crackling of flames and a child’s voice, muffled by tears, saying ‘cricket bat’.
    My old man stood back and watched what was, it has to be said, a fairly impressive sight. The flames were reaching, I would say, about twenty-five feet and our next-door neighbour, Mrs Weston, said the next day that her lace curtains had singed in the windows. I’ll never know at what stage in the afternoon, or how many pints of mild it took, before my dad thought to himself, ‘I’ve lost money because neither my wife nor my son would place a bet for me. What should I do? Oh, I know, I’ll make an enormous bonfire of all the wooden structures in my garden. Sorted.’
    Coincidentally, it was carnival day in Oldbury, and as my dad purposefully strode past on his way home from the pub families were lining the pavement to see all the colourful floats and people in giant papier-mâché heads. As it turned out, those families who lined the pavement in our road were a bit disappointed because the carnival had to re-route to avoid the two fire-engines parked outside our house. We had a carnival of our own right there in the back garden.
    I’m not sure that gambling on the horses really brought out the best in my dad. On another Saturday afternoon, we were watching a very exciting end to a race on the telly. My dad’s chosen horse was neck-and-neck with another with only a couple of furlongs to go. Then the TV reception started to go a bit wonky and the picture was replaced by loud interference. At this point, my dad decided to add a bit of loud interference of his own. He picked up the telly and gave it a good yank to rip the plug out of the wall. We all sat looking at the space where the telly had been. It was a warm day and the kitchen door that led into the garden was open. My dad, the ex-footballer, after a short run-up, took a throw-in from the back step and the telly ended up about ten feet up the garden. We all heard the sound of it land and then implode, but no one looked. Dad went to bed. The telly, of course, was rented. My mom phoned the shop on the Monday and explained that Keith and I had been ill in bed, and while she was bravely struggling up the stairs with the telly so we could have some entertainment to take the edge off our terrible illness, she had fallen and the telly had been irreparably damaged. The TV shop, God bless ’em, took pity on the brave mother and sent a replacement telly the next day.
    Unplanned live at the Shaftesbury seems to be going pretty well, but we had a bit of a hiccup just before the second show. Dave and me got picked up at 7.15 for the show at 8. I sat in the front with our regular driver, Gerry, and Dave