Roy Keane-An Extract (well ahem kind of)

It was my birthday a couple of weeks ago. All the family were over for the
weekend. The night before, there's a problem. Auntie Betty's postal order
hasn't turned up.
One of the paper hats is torn. We have to drink our Asti Spumanti out of
plastic cups.
I go and see Auntie Betty, quietly, in the kitchen. She says that Uncle Mal
was supposed to pop it in the postbox on his way to the shops last Tuesday.
I say, "do you think Jimmy-Floyd Hasselbaink's waiting on a f****** postal
order the night before his f****** birthday?" She tries to fob me off with a
game of pass the parcel.
The game starts. The music keeps stopping and starting, Uneven,
disorganised, just like musical chairs four years ago. I just laugh. But
then I think, "where's the f****** kids?" Theresa goes: "They're in bed Roy,
it's nearly midnight. They're tired".
"We're all f****** tired. It's the day before my birthday. Could they
f****** not have played pass the parcel?" I ask her.
I try to get something to eat. Uncle Ken's had all the mini Kievs. So I
have to prepare for the
biggest day of the year with just a packet of mini Cheddars and a
sausage
roll. Theresa had the
power to put it right, she knows how to use the microwave, but she just
stands there. I phone the gaffer on his mobile, and he agrees it's
ridiculous.
Next morning, the postman finally arrives. Of course, the postal order isn't
there. He apologies. Keep calm, Roy, I tell myself. Don't play into his
hands. Right in front of the whole family, he says to check if it's not
slipped under the mat.
"I'm very sorry, Mr Keane, I really am, but I still haven't got your postal
order," he says.
Goading. Humiliating me in front of everyone. I'm calm, but I'm
starting
to feel it. He
mentions the time that I lost that postcard behind the fridge that cousin
Sue sent from Malta.
There's no way: anybody who knows me knows that I would never drop something
down the back of the Zanussi.
He's dangled the carrot, and I've had a big wet bite.
I say to him: "Well, f*** you then. You're a f****** crap postman, you were
a f****** crap painter and decorator before that and you're a f****** crap
person. You can stick your postal order up your bollix. I have no respect
for you at all."
I go and sit in the garden for a bit, then I go and see Nan and tell
her
that's it. I'm
spending my birthday in the shed. He set me up, saying that it might be
under the doormat, and I went for it. They've wanted me in the shed for
years.
Of course, they're saying to me "Roy, this is your birthday. The
biggest
day of the year", but
there's just no way I'm having anything to do with a postal service like
this.
Nan tries to get me to stay, but my mind is made up. And I don't think you
need to guess who it was that apologised to the postman: so-called nice guy
Great Uncle Derek.
Maybe I'll come out of the shed for my next birthday. But not if Uncle Mal's
going to the postbox.