Hasn't he had enough parties?

…sour grapes, anger, frustration, legalism from the older brother

Right from the start, I felt cross, I felt left out and I felt things were way out of my control.

For a start, there was no discussion about the way life was going to be for me. Oh, no. Father just upped and sold off a portion of his land to provide wonga for my younger brother to go splurging on booze, women, wildness and debauchery. Not a word to me about this.

Perhaps Father could have been sympathetic: ‘Johnny wants his inheritance, and the only way I can manage to give him one third of my property is to sell it off; this will of course mean we shall have to work a lot harder with what we have left to try to survive…’

At least he could have made it clear to me: ‘Your waster brother is being given a fabulous gift, while you shall have to stay to earn your living. Hard luck…’

It was too much to hope that Johnny might have said ‘I’m off! Fancy coming with me for the laugh?’

But no, I stay here. I work hard. I’m labouring with all my might to stay alive, unable to throw parties for my friends (although I am a bit worried about Caleb, who seems over-keen on partying with a goat, which strikes me as slightly perverse) and having to be the ‘good son’.

Every day, I get left alone in the fields, working with the hired men and the servants, because Father avoids any labouring – he just does his thing up on the roof. He really should let it go, realize that Johnny isn’t coming back, and put some effort into our survival.

And then (amazingly) the sad loser does come back, with some sob story about becoming a hired man, while Father, instead of going off the deep end, like he should have done, no, he goes berserk in the opposite direction and gives him full rights and privileges, plus a ring and a coat and shoes and a party (as if he hasn’t had enough parties).

I don’t even get an invite; I come in from working in the distant fields and discover this shindig in full swing and have to ask one of the servants what’s going on. ‘Master Johnny has returned and we’re all invited!’ he says.

So here’s Father, spending money that is effectively my inheritance on a Welcome Home Slap-Up Feed for the whole village to rejoice over this jerk who has done nothing but kick us in the teeth. Makes me mad!

I demand to speak to Dad, who comes out of the revelries to speak to me.

‘What’s the problem?’ he asks. He’s irritated with me for making him leave his guests, I suppose, but this just makes me even more angry.

‘I’ve been here all this time,’ I start explaining (yes, maybe a little loudly, I admit) ‘with little thanks, no opportunities to go a bit wild with my buddies, obeying you… and look what you do when this – ‘ I struggle to find a word which adequately captures way I feel, so settle for one of the first that comes to mind ‘ – this hooligan comes home, having blown all our money on women and wickedness, and you just welcome him in? Where’s the justice in this? He should be punished, disowned, thrown out, left to his own devices, cut off, told to take a long hike. Oh, yes! But instead, you give him gifts we can ill afford and make a great big fuss of him…’ I was completely overstating how I felt, but anger and frustration got the better of me.

Father tried to calm me down. I didn’t hear much of what he said, except that he kept going on about how Johnny was lost but now is found; he was dead but is alive, and how we should be glad.

Pah!

R

Ruddy Raymond rails rather rudely; rich Reg responds. Ray rejects, rebels; raves randily, remarkably resoundingly.

Rasher-bearers ruminations? Rather ridiculous. Regret. Realisation; revelation; revival; resolution. Returns.

Reg runs, rewards – ridingboots, ring, raincoat. Restaurant repast: rump, roullard, roly-poly, rissoles, rusk, rhubarb, raspberry ripple; rock-n-roll, reggae, rhumba!

‘Ray rejected, restored; robust. Rejoice!’

Letters without decenders

excludes g j p q & y

Kid asks father for inheritance; leaves with cash. Reaches far-off land and soon the funds are all used on women, drunkenness and wild life.

When famine strikes the land, this fellow seeks work with a bacon and ham farmer. ‘I’d love to eat some of the food these animals have,’ he thinks to himself, in an unwise moment.

Realisation comes to his troubled mind. ‘I will arise and return to dear old dad and tell him I am not his son from now on; I shall be like one of his hired servants.’

When he was still a distance from home, his father saw him from his view on the roof. Father ran to embrace him and called for a silver band to adorn one of the four extendable, flexible, knuckled and nailed parts of his hand (not a thumb), a coat with a collar, leather shoes for his feet and smothered him with kisses of welcome. He invited friends and the folks that lived near to a celebration, and killed the fatted calf to feed them all. Beef with mustard or horseradish sauce, bread, salad, cake, cheese (and biscuits), wine etc.

Father declared ‘This son of mine was lost, but is found; he was dead; now he is alive!’

P

Prodigal petitioned Pop ‘Pay portions!’ – pocketed.

Passion-pits proved popular; passing. Payout pitiful, pals pushed-off. Provoked, Prodigal preferred pinky-perky porkers’ pod-pudding. 

Pow! Plain prophecy plops psyche-wise. Prepares pleading pre-emptively.

Pater produced pearl-ring, plus pumps. Protein-rich party provided – plump, pink pot-roast, pretzels, panini, pasta, pan-fried potato-cakes, profiteroles… Pa pipes: ‘Popped-clogs; post-mortem proves proper pack-of-lies!’ 

Deteriorating swill

viewpoint: pigs

Grunt, waffle, oink, snort.

Lousy food we get here. And the turnover of staff is a bit on the rapid side.

Look at this bloke we’ve got now! Skinny, broke, hungry, and no idea of how to look after porkers. I saw him being sly when he was pouring out the swill into our trough this morning. He got some on his hand and he tasted it. Wasn’t much impressed, I don’t think.

Oh, there he goes. Gone. Thanks a lot.

Waffle, snort, grunt, oink.

Gossip

Now, my dear, I simply must tell you about the boy (dirty boy) in the farm up the lane. Yes, you now, the one that had the party last week. We all went, but did you know the story behind it? I mean, it’s pretty funny to throw a party when there’s news of a famine not so very far away, and it’s bound to affect us sometime. Bound to. Stands to reason, like as makes no never mind. Doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know that. So he fed the whole community and gave away his insurance policy – and mark my words, that’s what that fatted calf was, you know. Oh, yes. I know.

Well, what I heard was that the farmer had lost control of his younger son and sent him away. Oh, yes, some time before. A little while. Not sure. But it happened like that, I have a feeling in my water.

I heard he said ‘I consider that son dead,’ which is rather shocking, don’t you think? Terrible parenting. Terrible. Tut.

Anyway, the boy went off to Dissipation City and spent all the money his father had put in his pockets. Yes, all of it. Every penny. Makes me shudder to try to work out what he could have spent it on. Wine, women – oh, yes, wild women (like that Mrs McMattress at Number Seventeen – what goings-on!) – lavish parties and dinners and all kinds of excess, you know?

I don’t think I could have spent that sort of cash in such a short time – not without some help, anyway – and he’s got nothing to show for it. Nothing. Not a thing. Nothing at all. Diddly. Look at it this way: when he came home, he didn’t even have any sandals on. Can you imagine such a thing? I was shocked. I really was.

Oh, I forgot to say that by the time the money was spent, the famine had started and everyone was suffering. Yes everyone. So the boy (and this bit really is quite, quite dreadful, my dear) took a job on a pig farm. Can you? – well, it’s a shocker. A pig farm. A shocker. Tut.

Sitting there every day next to those dirty, nasty beasts, and him all hungry and everything, I heard he was tempted to try the slops the pigs were eating… I can’t believe that. Too much, too much! The vegetables would have been rotten, so that’s impossible to imagine, although I suppose if you really are that hungry than you might consider it, but it still sounds quite far-fetched – probably but some old wives’ tale or urban myth – these things spring up all the time, you know dear, oh, yes. Where was I? Oh I remember, the boy.

So when he’d been there a while, so I hear, he starts to think and realizes that if he came home, his father might apologise and he’d be able to be stay at his home, where he belongs.

It’s shocking that he got thrown out in the first place. And it’s a happy ending that his father might apologise, which is not less then he owes him.

Still, it takes two to tango, I always say. I said to Mrs Ogmore-Pritchard the other day ‘It takes two to tango,’ and she had to agree. Simply had to. Because it really does.

When the boy got home (no coat on his back, no shoes, hadn’t had a decent wash for quite some time, so I hear), the father felt guilty as predicted (quite right, too!) and made it up to him and threw that party.

Did you try the roast beef, my dear? It was tender, delicious and cooked to perfection. And the boy had new sandals. And a ring. I don’t doubt the boy will soon be selling that, now he’s had the taste of the good life. No, that roast beef was lovely – moist and full of flavour – with lovely potatoes and Yorkshires and gravy and French beans and that poor wife of his must have worked her fingers to the bone – to the very bone, I tell you. Mind you, she’s not quite the driven snow she makes herself out to be.

I know people pretty well and I can read that father like a book. Like a book! I can see it a mile off – that father’s trying to buy his way into the boy’s affections. Hear me out on this, hear me out. I know. I can tell. I can sense these things in the air, smell them in the ether, if you know what I mean. Stands to reason. Bound to be, bound to be, quite honestly. Couldn’t be anything else. Couldn’t be. Terrible parenting. A shocker. I said that to Mrs Ogmore-Pritchard ‘This is a shocker. And that Mrs McMattress is no better.’ And she had to agree. Had to. Because it’s true – or at least, we think it might be. Stands to reason. Men coming in and going out at all hours – they can’t all be painters and decorators and plasterers and gas fitters – Corgi Registered my foot!

Where was I? Oh yes, that boy’s now working long shifts on the farm, and his days of wild living are behind him. Serves him right! I never much liked the look of him.

And I can’t be sure he’s the father’s son, if you know what I mean. The wife gives herself such airs and graces, even if she does work hard in the kitchen. I’m impressed with her roasting skills, but when it comes to buns in the oven – well, that’s another – I heard – well, I can’t tell you who it was for certain, but I can say that Mrs Ogmore-Pritchard has a few views on the matter. A few views. And she’s often right – well, I agree with her at least., which is halfway towards proof in my book. That’s how the rumours start – and there’s no smoke, is there? No smoke without at least a grain of truth, I always say. Well, unless the flue has been fitted by someone who is Corgi Registered. And we all know what I think about that.

Mrs Ogmore-Pritchard thinks her Cyril might have been playing away from home – I know, I know. More than a few shreds of evidence, yes, more than a few. Oh, yes.

Still, I can’t stand here all day listening to your gossip…

Cockney rhyming slang

Lad comes down the apples and pears and asks Arnold Palmer for his sausage & mash. Quits the drum, taking the bread & honey with him. Saucepan lid goes straight down to the rub-a-dub, blows the Sovs getting elephant’s (trunk) and in living that can only be described as Mother Goose.

Then, and here comes the Barry Crocker: no food to put on the Betty Grable. ‘I’m not staying here, not on your Nelly!’ says he. There he is all on his Jack Jones; run out of Becks & Posh; completely borasic and totally Lee Marvin. Even thought about half-inching some of the porker grub.

Christian Slater, he opens his mince pies and starts to use his loaf. Puts on his titfer and goes Union Jack to his Mickey Mouse. He meets his dad and falls on his boat race at his plates of meat.

Father gives him a few hit & misses, a Charlie Prescott, an highland fling (not on the dog & bone), and a new pair of ones & twos. He throws a monster moriarty. ‘Strike a light! Me currant bun was brown bread – pushing up daisies – but now he’s a cheerful giver!’

Stairs, farmer, cash. Place (drum & bass), money. Kid pub, drunk, loose.

Shocker, table. Life (Nelly Duff, puff, breath of life). Own, dosh, skint (borasic lint), starvin’. Pinching.

Later, eyes, head (loaf of bread). Hat (tit for tat), back house. Face, feet.

Kisses, coat, ring, telephone, shoes. Party. Son, dead, liver.

Radio Four news

An irresponsible waster was today acquitted at the high court, when his father suddenly decided to drop the charges.

The young boy had taken a large proportion of his father’s wealth and become poverty-stricken, following an enthusiastic bout of conspicuous consumption. When famine struck, he was penniless and had to seek gainful employment with Porkers’r’Us, Inc. However, after a short while, the boy ingested rotted vegetation, and realized he should return to his home and seek employment there, which he did. The BBC has learned that the father lavished gifts of jewellery and couteur upon the son.

At a press conference later, the father spoke with some emotion. ‘My son was lost, but now he’s found; he was dead, but now he’s alive.’ Doctors confirmed that this was not a genuine case of resussitation, and have concluded that the father must have been speaking figuratively.

For further details and pictures, please click on www dot bbc dot co dot uk forwardslash news forwardslash prodigalson (all one word).

O

Opportunist offspring orders overpayment. Off! Orgy of overspending, outrageously offensive. Overnight outage… occupation outside; Old-Major omnivores.

Onset of ongoing ontology. Oh, organize oral-discourse. Old-man overcome, organizes offer of overcoat, o-shape, Oxfordbrogues, other objects, on-the-house.

‘Once, out! Organic!’

N

‘Nest-egg, now!’ nascent, numerate ne’er-do-well nihilist nomad Number-two-son nagged. Nouveau-riche Nick naturalises: notes ‘n’ nickels; nefarious nauseating narcotics (nose-candy); novel naughty naked nymphet nubiles; neat nectar nonstop.

Nil-nix notable nationwide no-go-area. Now nearing Napoleon’s nosh (nouvelle-cuisine?) – not nutricious!

Nano-secondly neophiliac. Nostalgia…

Nearby nuzzles, ‘Nick needs neckwear, Norfolkjacket, nose-ring!’ News, neighbours – notice nachos, natter, noisette/noodle nourishment.

‘Numbskull Nick nearly non-compos-mentis, nullified; new nipper notwithstanding! Nice!’

Alphabetical order by word

a a a a a a again!’ alive and and and and and and and ask 
be be calf called came celebrated.  coat 
dead deciding demanded eat famine father fatted found; 
gave go 
He he He he he he He he him him, him, hired his his his home home.

in inheritance is is job killed knew 
left living. long longed longer lost man, money my no off, 
pigs pods. ran ring, 
saw senses, shoes. since son son son. spent still struck, 
tending The the the their ‘This to to to to to to took 
was was was was way When While wild worthy  

Alphabetical order by length

a a a a a a be be go He he He he he he He He in is is my no to to to to to to

and and and and and and and ask eat him him him, his his his job man, off, ran saw son son son. The the the was Was was was way

‘This calf came coat dead gave home home. knew left long lost pigs pods. ring, took When wild

again!’ alive Found; hired money shoes. since spent still their While 

called famine father fatted killed living. longed longer senses, struck, worthy

tending demanded deciding

celebrated inheritance

Homophones

words that sound the same, but are spelled differently

Sun shining, air fresh & balmy, the fair boy asks his father – aloud – to be a source for alms. ‘Don’t whine; there are so many discrete things I want to buy.’ Father allowed this.

‘By the time of your return, I shall have missed you,’ said the father, taking his cue,  with the tone of a prophet as the boy ventured forth.

After barely a pause the lad was in Dissipation City, his jeans stuffed with loot. He couldn’t wait to encounter so-called new friends, including a man who claimed to be a Colonel, plus the people he knew. These included wild women (at least one was a whore) and a pair of gamblers who rarely won and their lives were coarse through and through. 

He drank and bought porn and decided ‘Those girls can put their paws on me when e’er they like,’ and put on a bet or two. He’d made little effort to curb or lessen his spending or heed any warning (he just rode his luck), having decided to seize the day, lavish his sauce all over, hire a suite of rooms on the fourth floor, learn no lesson and get farther into sin and wickedness. He was not in control; neither being discreet nor making a profit.

On the first day, he started to pare down his cash; only a week or so passed and it was gone. He had nothing to pawn, even. All was spent, and his companions deserted. Not only did he err personally; the national scene was about to alter, too; famine! It was winter, as well, and there was a hoar frost.

He was starving, losing weight from his waist, and his arms became weak; his stomach was a knot.

He took a job to aid and abet a man who owned pigs. ‘I find my eye is on their food,’ he thought to himself with a wry grin, ‘but I know that’s barmy. They’re eating waste rubbish.’ He came to his senses. ‘As I sow, that’s how I must reap. I shall arise and go to my father (where else can I go?) and say I am wholly unworthy to be called his son, and because of this flaw, say you’re going to have to make me one of your hired men. I deserve to be fined, or banned, or told to shoo.’ He was about to write a note to the pig owners and their trough-wright, but then failed to do so.

He stepped off the kerb and walked up the road, as he had no money to pay a fare. The exertion made him sweat through his pores. But while he was still a long way off, his dad (ho prays daily) sees him through the morning mist and has the flag highered to show he’s been seen. He runs to meet the boy and kisses his neck; lavishing gifts generously – like a coat to wear and a left and right shoe and a torus to show he’s family, and got the same genes. And he kills Taurus, the fatted calf.

‘No, forget the past, days of yore, and what is owed, son,’ said dad. And he threw a village fayre. There was rarely-roasted meat to gnaw, poached pear, tubers with thyme, a heap of lemon sole, some chicken wrap (made from rye bread), a band with two tubas and a lute, a poet who performed a rap and an ode, a cast of actors, some dancing and a cake with sweet icing made from the kernel of almonds, plus fine wine, which a waiter pours when the maid made the signal, having joined the queue of servants.

‘This soul was lost, but is found. We thought he was dead, and were about to perform a rite on an altar, but no, he’s alive! Cast off mourning! Ere we eat, let’s sing a hymn! Holy God deserves all praise, of course. This is my heir – my beloved son!’