The Same Old Story
Oz Hardwick
The prodigal son outstayed his welcome, lording it over his sibling and, frankly, taking the piss. He'd sleep till midday, then slob in front of the TV with a beer and his phone, calling out for fatted calf and over-tipping the delivery driver on his father's card. Dad had words but, this being the Bible and the moral having been done and dusted, they had no effect. They fell on stony ground, you might say. Forty days and forty nights stretched until a day was like a thousand years and strict doctrine slipped into superstition and fairy tale. Once upon a time, the father married a wicked stepmother, who stamped her foot and said Lazy Jack – which the Bible doesn't mention was the parasitic sack o' shite's name – had to go. So, she called the cook and they made him into a pie, and when Dad came home from a day of being a cypher for divine forgiveness – or maybe he was a woodcutter – he plonked himself like Desperate Dan at the head of the laden table. Mmmmmm, he said, wiping his chinny chin chin, Smells like fatted calf.