By Pieter Thomassen

Reverend Uncle Peer is quite tipsy. While he’s sitting on the green leatherette two seat sofa, he pompously drowns another Bacardi and retrieves the next Caballero cigarette from the glass on the smoking table, the small screen of the black and white telly shows the trembling hands of the presenter of the programme which Uncle, in an attempt to be funny, has nicknamed National Fart.
      During Sunday lunch, he fishes the ripe red tutti frutti cherry out of his prawn cocktail, and sticks his nose – whiskey sauce still clinging to his moustache – into the ‘magnificent wine’ just refilled by Axel’s granny.
      ‘Well, mother Reuser,’ he drolly remarks, ‘Peter is waiting for Nixon at the gate to Heaven. He is sent straight into Hell. In there he is taken on a tour of the detention cells in which the executioners rape and quarter with sulphur and fire. In one of the small rooms Brezhnev is engaged in fretwork with Marilyn Monroe. Nixon remarks: that’s more like it. Peter replies: actually you’re watching Marilyn Monroe’s punishment.’
      Roaring with laughter, he removes his napkin from the silver holder engraved with RUP in curly letters, tucks it into his clerical collar, and sticks his nose into the air like a hunting dog, to appreciate the fragrances coming from the kitchen. ‘Boeuf Bourguignon,’ he roars, only to cut the tender steak after drinking two glasses of red wine. With his fork he puts the tender loin in his mouth. ‘This cunt is well worth eating,’ he whispers in the inimitable flowing dialect of Meijel.
      After custard pie, Axel wearing his new tortoiseshell glasses, sits on the two seater wedged between his still bewildered parents.

© Pieter Thomassen
© Translation Holland Park Press

Axel 19 – Axel 18 – Axel 17 – Axel 16 – Axel 15 – Axel 14 – Axel 13 – Axel 12 – Axel 11 – Axel 10 – Axel 9 – Axel 8 – Axel 7 – Axel 6 – Axel 5 – Axel 4 – Axel 3 – Axel 2 – Axel 1