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2 Fat Dad

Dennis’s dad jumped up and down and shouted with joy. Then he pulled Dennis into a tight hug.

“Two nil!” he said. “We showed ’em, eh son?”

Yes, I know I said there was no hugging in Dennis’s house. But this was different.

It was football.

In Dennis’s house talking about football was easier than talking about feelings. He, John and Dad all loved football, and together shared the highs and (more often) lows of supporting their local third-division team.

But as soon as the match finished and the referee blew his whistle, it was as if that sound also signalled a return to their strict no-hugging policy.

Dennis did miss being hugged. His mum had hugged him all the time. She was so warm and soft, he loved being held by her. Most children can’t wait to grow up and get bigger, but Dennis missed being small and being picked up by his mother. It was in her arms that he had felt most safe.

It was a shame Dennis’s dad hardly ever hugged him. Fat people are good at hugs, they’re nice and soft, like a big comfy sofa.

Oh, yes, didn’t I mention? Dad was fat.

Really fat.

Dad worked as a long-distance lorry driver. And all that sitting down and driving had taken its toll, only stretching his legs to go to the service station café and eat various combinations of eggs, sausage, bacon, beans and chips.

Sometimes, after breakfast, Dad would eat two packets of crisps. He just got fatter and fatter after Mum left. Dennis had seen a Trisha episode about a man called Barry who was so fat he couldn’t wipe his own bum. The studio audience were told about his daily food intake and “oohed” and “aahed” with a strange mixture of delight and horror. Then Trisha asked him, “Barry, does the fact that you have to get your mum or dad to wipe your… underneath… not make you want to lose weight?”

“Trisha, I just love me food,” was Barry’s smirking reply.

Trisha put it to Barry that he was “comfort eating”. Trisha was good with phrases like that. She had after all been through a lot of difficult times herself. Barry cried a bit at the end, and as the credits rolled Trisha smiled sadly and gave him a hug, though it was hard for her to really get her arms around Barry as he was the size of a small bungalow.

Dennis wondered whether his dad was comfort eating too, having one more sausage or slice of fried bread at breakfast to–in Trisha’s words–“fill the emptiness inside”. But he didn’t dare share that thought with his dad. Dad wasn’t keen on Dennis watching the show anyway. He said, “It’s just for girls, that.”

Dennis dreamed of one day having his own Trisha episode, with the title, “My brother’s farts smell well bad” or “My dad has a chocolate Hob-Nob problem”. (Dad ate a whole packet of the admittedly more-ish biscuits every day when he got home from work.)

So when Dennis, his dad and John played football, Dad would always go in goal, because he was so fat. He liked it because it meant he didn’t have to run around that much. The goal was an upturned bucket and an empty beer keg, a remnant from a long-forgotten barbecue they’d once had when Mum was still around.

They didn’t have barbecues any more. These days they had battered sausages from the local chippy, or bowls of cereal, even when it wasn’t breakfast.

What Dennis loved most about playing football with his family was that he was the best. Even though his brother was two years older, Dennis could run rings around him in the garden, tackling, dribbling, and scoring with great skill. And it wasn’t like it was easy to get the ball past his dad. Not because Dad was good in goal–it was just that he was so big…

On Sunday mornings Dennis used to play football for his local club. He dreamed of being a professional footballer, but after his mum and dad split up he stopped going. He had always relied on his mum to give him a lift–Dad couldn’t take him as he was forever driving up and down the country in his lorry trying to make ends meet.

So Dennis’s dream floated quietly away.

Dennis did play football for his school though, and was his team’s number one… shooter?

Sorry, reader, I must look this up.

Ah, striker.

Yes, Dennis was his team’s number one striker, scoring over a million goals in a year.

Excuse me again, reader, I don’t know much about football, maybe a million is too much. A thousand? A hundred? Two?

Whatever, he scored the most goals.

As a result, Dennis was incredibly popular with his team-mates–except the captain, Gareth, who picked Dennis up on every little mistake on the pitch. Dennis suspected that Gareth was jealous of him because he was a better footballer. Gareth was one of those boys who are unusually large for their age. In fact you wouldn’t be surprised to find he was really five years older than everyone else in his year, but had just been held back on account of being a bit thick.

Once, Dennis was off school with a really bad cold on a match day. He had just finished watching that day’s Trisha, a gripping episode about a woman who discovered she was having an affair with her own husband. Then he was looking forward to some Heinz tomato soup and his second favourite show Loose Women, where a panel of angry looking ladies debated important issues of the day–like diets and leggings.

But just as the signature tune was starting there was a knock at the door. Dennis got up grumpily. It was Darvesh, Dennis’s best friend at school.

“Dennis, we desperately need you to play today,” pleaded Darvesh.

“I’m sorry, Darvesh, I’m just not feeling well. I can’t stop sneezing or coughing. Aaachoooo! See?” replied Dennis.

“But it’s the quarter finals today. We’ve always got knocked out at the quarter-finals before. Please?”

Dennis sneezed again.

It was such a strong sneeze he thought he was going to turn inside out.

“Pleeeaaassseee,” said Darvesh hopefully as he discreetly wiped some of Dennis’s stray snot from his tie.

“OK, I’ll try,” coughed Dennis.

“Yeeeessss!” exclaimed Darvesh, as if victory was already theirs.

Dennis gulped down a couple of mouthfuls of soup, grabbed his kit and ran out of the house.

Darvesh’s mum was sitting in her little red Ford Fiesta outside, with the engine running. She worked on the tills at Sainsbury’s, but lived to see her son play football. She was the proudest mum in the world, which always made her son squirm a little.

“Thank goodness you have come, Dennis!” she said as Dennis clambered onto the back seat. “The team needs you today, it’s a very important match. Without doubt the most important match of the season!”

“Just drive please, Mum!” said Darvesh.

“All right! All right! We’re going! Don’t talk to your mother like that Darvesh!” she shouted, pretending to be angrier than she really was. She put her foot on the accelerator and the car lurched uncertainly off towards the school playing fields.

“Oh, you’ve decided to come have you?” growled Gareth as they pulled up. Not only was he bigger than everyone else, he had a deeper voice, and was disturbingly hairy for a boy his age.

When he showered he looked like a big monkey.

“Sorry, Gareth I just wasn’t feeling well. I have a pretty bad…”

Before Dennis could say “cold,” he sneezed again even more violently than before.

“Oh sorry, Gareth,” said Dennis, wiping a small gloop of snot from Gareth’s ear with a tissue.

“Let’s just do this,” said Gareth.

Feeling weak with illness, Dennis ran onto the school pitch with his team, coughing and spluttering all the way.

“Good luck boys! Especially my son Darvesh, and of course his friend Dennis! Let’s win this for the school!” shouted Darvesh’s mum from the side of the pitch.

“My mum is like so embarrassing,” rumbled Darvesh.

“I think it’s cool she comes,” said Dennis. “My dad’s never seen me playing in a match.”

“Let’s see a nice goal from you today please, Darvesh my son!”

“Mmm, maybe she is a bit embarrassing,” agreed Dennis.

That afternoon they were playing St Kenneth’s School for Boys, one of those schools where the pupils felt a little superior just because their parents had to pay for them to go there. They were a very good team though, and within the first ten minutes had scored. The pressure was immediately on, and Darvesh stole the ball off a boy who looked twice his size and passed it to Dennis.

“Lovely tackle, Darvesh my son!” shouted Darvesh’s mum.

The thrill of possessing the ball made Dennis forget his cold for a moment, and he weaved his way through the defence and approached the goal-keeper, a luxuriant-haired boy sporting brand new kit, who was probably called Oscar or Tobias or something. All of a sudden they were face to face, and Dennis sneezed again uncontrollably.

The snot exploded onto the goalie’s face, blinding him for a moment, and all Dennis needed to do was tap the ball past the line.