Here is a picture of my paternal grandparents, Granda Ug Knudsen on the right was a strong intimidating man, though strict with his own children he liked to spoil us grandkids, he caused a bit of a stir around the caves by having two wifes, not sure which one was my actual grandmother I just called them granny Ug 1 and 2 , he was into rock music when it was music of raw power, not the ya ya crap today, its all pop today, he would sit and bang rocks all day and he even shared his love of music with his children, at their bed time he would rock them to sleep.
Here is the black sheep of the family, Uncle Morris Lester Knudsen, or Mo Lester for short. I liked him, we always had special secrets together like rubbing the magic rhubarb to make a wish and if it squirts you with fairy juice it will come true. My father and Uncle Mo had a falling out and Mo went into the army on the side of the South, he was stationed on Hadrian's wall and to the rest our family he was considered dead to them, its one thing to rub magic rhubarb but joining a load of skirt wearing eyeties that drank wine and smelled of garlic was just inexcusable.
My father and I used to run around naked covered in blue paint scaring the shit out of the bloody Romans, when the North won the war against them, uncle Mo went off to Rome and got into the whole Goth scene, no really he became a Visigoth.
With no Romans to fight my father grew bored and went out for a packet of oats and wasn't seen again for years, he claimed he was captured by a Viking raider ship but it was more likely he volunteered.
Knudsen the red as he was called, he was always trying to get his village to adopt a method of living in which everyone had an equal share in everything. After a while he got sick of making speeches and became Knudsen the green and became a compost bin manufacturer.
My mother Gertrude was considered something of a beauty around the neighbouring villages,when Da vanished she had many gentleman callers making sure she had enough of everything as they were very friendly back then, when Da came back he got the wrong idea and slaughtered a good many of my new uncles. No matter how old you get you still miss your parents when they are gone, I miss mine, the fuckers never call, they moved to a retirement cottage down in Newquay, they'll phone up around Christmas time totally drunk and tell me what a good son I am and do I have my brother's phone number handy, ah families.
