Prat

Read Luke Ch 15, v 11-23

(Recite this, out loud, walking along, to the rhythm of your footsteps. Best by far in a Ray Winstone / Bob Hoskins accent. If you are reading this on your phone, turn it on its side).

My mate Josh down the pub,
Got a story about this bloke;
He’s minted. Now then,
He’s got this, fam’ly business.
He could give them anything ,
He never stinted–on them.
Got blokes , working for him,
Bespoke, load a’ stuff, and so
He’s got these two sons. The oldest,
A straight-down-the-line
Sort a’ bloke. Not rough, yer know?
The other – was a bit of a lad, a bit mad.
Could be a prat, I’m told,
Bad news and how!
Saw what the old man was worth,
Said “I want some a’ that, pot a’ gold,
An’ I want it now!”

So he kicks off – like chronic.
Father has to give in–to him.
Put hisself and the business on the line.
He risked everythin’–for him.
Packed in, pulled out, retired.
Split the lot between the two–of them.
Soon as the youngest got his share,
He decided what to do–right then.
Cashed in his bit.
Loads of the ready was what
At his insistence, he got.
Right up the young prat’s street.
All them breathin’ down his neck –
Wanted freedom, distance–a lot.
He voted – with his feet.

Goes abroad to some hellhole,
Where he was into
Everything, real deep.
‘Everything’, I mean you could buy
Anything, dead cheap.
Talk about a walk on the wild side,
More a marathon run–then some.
Enjoyed hisself to death,
Laid everything in sight.
Sure, he was havin’ some–great fun.
“I get tarts for free, (and high class pros,
I pay for, as well.)”
If you asked him. “Any regrets?” “Regrets!
On what score? Like hell!”

Then the money ran out,
He got no clout, no more.
S’no use to shout.
He found out, for sure,
Without a doubt
What a bunch of louts
His friends might
Really be. – They headed out
Of sight, off site.
Then the economy goes down the drain.
It goes well, insane.
There’s no welfare state, there mate.
So earning a living’s
One hell, of a game.
Some of the things he did! –
Lowest of the low, he was–gettin’.
Sometimes he could have ate
The leavings off folk’s plates,
But he couldn’t, cus they wouldn’t–let ‘im.

Then (Josh said),
A light bulb went on – flash!
In the plonker’s little head.
“I’ll put an end to muppetry.
I’m bonkers, must be said.
In this puke hole, I’m well up-a-tree.
Here I am – me,
My father’s son, I’m starving
And even blokes what work for him,
Aren’t short of grub,
Not even one, they’re larfing.”
Although it took a while
The big idea hits him.
Genius! – With style.

“I’ll go back home!”

But there’s more to it than that.
He saw for, the first time in his life,
And since he set out on the roam,
He was – a prat.

He had to confess.
He’d been a right bar steward, no less.
“I’ve stuck two fingers up to Dad.
I must’ve driven him up the wall.
And if there is a God,
Where He’s concerned
I’ve stuck two fingers up, an’ all.
I’m not fit to be my father’s son,
No more, I know the score.
The time for grovelling has come.
It’s all your fit for chum.”
So, sty-fell-ing a sob,
He decides to say “I’m sorry.
I’m not fit to be your son no more.
Just gizza job.
Any job, ‘cause basically I’m poor.”

So he goes home.

Now the old man’s front drive’s
The length of a small runway.
When father sees him, at the gate,
Well, there’s only one way.
When he sees him comin’
The old man sets off runnin’.
The old man–there’s no way he’s fit.
And running, rich old guys avoid
If they can–get away with it.
The son – he starts in.
“Dad I’m not fit to be – ‘”
The old man interrupts him.
He starts up – and butts in.
“Come on don’t be a mug.
Come on don’t make me laugh.”
He gives him the old bear-hug
And calls in his chief of staff.

“Get him kitted out
In the Armani and the Gucci.
Come on now!
The best that we have got.
This here is my son now.
He’s got to look the part
He’s got to have the gear.
We lost him now we‘ve found him
We’re having the biggest party,
You lot have seen all year.”