On being a bad sport - Part 2

Hello loyal readers and contributers to The Lounge! Today we are all over at Robo Mum's blog, sharing our experiences of  Hissy Fits. Tanties! Spitting the dummy! Pitching a fit!

EDITED TO ADD: Also linking up with Grace for Flog Your Blog Friday :-))




Well, once again we have hit on a topic that is close to my heart. *sigh*

I know it is hard to believe, new readers, but I am one of the great dummy spitters of all time. My loyal regulars might remember the series I started recently on my epic unsportsmanlike behaviour. You can read the first post again here! And who wouldn't want to read about it, hey?! In that piece, I dissect one of the more public meltdowns of my primary school years.

Today, for your delectation, I present to you a history of sibling directed spack attacks.

Part 2 - On Brothers and Sibling Rivalry and Losing Your Shit

My brother C and I have always had a RAMBUNCTIOUS sibling relationship. Ah, halcyon days. We used to chase each other round and round the house until one caught the other.  That unlucky soul would then have their face mashed into the Sega Master System (or in later years, the Nintendo) whilst being simultaneously beaten about the head with the handset.  The Mater would come over all vapoury and have to lie down in her room while we wrestled and screamed on the floor. Don't blame her I guess.

Here we are in happier times. Brother C is ROCKING a Ren and Stimpy shirt and flanno. 

Once, in a fit of girlish pique, I threw a steel paint removal brush at him - high spirited scamp that I was! He was left with a blood pricked imprint on his back. Mater and Pater were not impressed that day, and I was sent to my room to think about wot I dun.

Another amusing anecdote that the parentals and miscellaneous extended family like to bring out at Family Occasions is this one time, when the whole family (cousins and all) were playing cricket on the school oval in the summer holidays. I had locked myself in the car, tantruming about something, and was being summarily ignored by everyone as they Got On With The Game. Ignored, that is, until I unlocked the car, came streaking (not naked don't worry) onto the pitch, shrieking with rage. I ran past the fielders, making a beeline for my unfortunate brother. I proceeded to kick him solidly in the shins, whilst the Much Older Cousins looked on, bemused, and then ran shrieking hysterically back to the car, locking the doors behind me.

OH SUCH FUN!

I should add in my defence here that my reputation as quite the SPITFIRE could probably be seen as a reaction to my mother's family, in which anyone who heats up beyond a sort of "What ho chaps I'm a bit annoyed at you. Better keep utterly silent about it!", or a "I say old thing I thought we were having proper custard not store bought. I might just roll my eyes and tsk about it for a bit!"  is classed as TOTALLY PSYCHOTIC.

But I digress.

Ah, but Brother C and I could press each other's buttons like nobody else.  As a teenager I took particular pleasure in preying upon him whilst he was lying sloth-like and vulnerable on the couch, watching Blackadder on TV. I would sidle up til I was almost standing on top of him, and then break into vigorous go-go dancing, so that the television was obstructed. This inevitably ended in the same result - he would punch me, shouting "Why don't you FUCK OFF AND DIE!".

The HILARITY! Good times, good times.

This sibling enmity lasted well into our adulthood, and it is with GREAT fondness I recall one particular incident, during a rather bleak period in my life in my early 20s where I had temporarily moved back home, jobless, licking my wounds after yet another relationship disaster. Brother C was lying prostrate on the couch, as he does, while I sat gloomily near him, probably weeping quietly to myself and moaning softly.

Brother C, roused by my gentle sobs, looked at me with disgust and said something like "God you just need to GET A JOB and stop being so awful and go out and find some friends you pathetic loser!". Or so it sounded to my sensitive ears.

His words only served to increase my misery. I glared at him, slumped as he was on the couch, lumpen and immobile, and it was then, reader, that my old companion the Red Fog descended.

I leapt from my seat, shrieking like a banshee, and launched at him as he lay inert on the lounge. I ran with arms flailing, screaming in rage. I set upon him with my fists, shrieking "I HATE YOU I HATE YOU I HATE YOU I HATE YOU!" as he tried to cover his face with his hands. I grabbed at the closest arm, and bent down, teeth bared, howling and wailing, and tried to bite a chunk out of him.

Unfortunately, over the years, Brother C has somewhat overtaken me, height and strength wise.

See? He is a LOT bigger than me. I'm wearing heels in this pic. Also am pregnant and therefore, despite appearances, not drunk. SO CLASSY. Invite me to weddings at your peril!  His bemused smirk belies the fact that he is undoubtedly still thinking "WHY DON'T YOU JUST FUCK OFF AND DIE!"

As I leant over with my bared fangs, he quickly placed his other hand on my forehead, and pushed me away. He held me there at arm's length while I shrieked and flailed uselessly in his general direction, until the Mater appeared from her room to see what all this jolly fuss was about, what ho!

An artist's rendition. And by artist, I mean, me. So perhaps it is more accurate to say an "artist's" rendition. Note please the hand on the forehead and the flailing arms. Note it I say!

I think I ran sobbing from the room and threw myself on my bed.  You know, in a LADY-LIKE WAY! And no doubt he didn't move from his position on the couch and continued on with his television viewing.

Anyway, such has been the tenor of our complex sibling relationship over the years. Me, flailing and go-go dancing and shrieking and crying; He, lying on the couch.

Long may it last, bro.

Do you have any siblings? Ever tried to bite them? Are you a mental? ME TOO!

I'm off to punch some walls in. Have a good day peeps.