An extract from an unfinished novel
'My entire family, down through the years, have taken it in turns to make sacrifices for the next generation and the glorious future, killing their own dreams so their children can have some of their own. Well, now the future for which all those sacrifices has been made is here. I’m the last of the line, bar some distant cousins in Bristol; my grandad’s brothers got slaughtered on the Somme, dad was the only male of his generation, so it’s all distilled down to me, the guardian of the Mollicroft legacy, the avatar of dynastic hope.
'Well, I have absolutely no intention of passing on my genes, let alone the hopes and fortunes attendant upon the family name. As soon as I get my hands on it, I’m going to fucking spend it, I’m going to piss it away in uselessness, and attempt to experience all those things my forefathers didn’t because they were too poor, too stupid, too working class, too fucking decent; I’m going to live for them all – take those drinks, shuck those responsibilities, cut those strings and dynamite my bridges behind, ahead and in front. I’m putting a headlock on hedonism, opening every orifice and organ to excitement and harvesting experience in the highways and hedgerows and anywhere else beginning with aitch. I intend to go out with a smile on my face and tales to tell that’ll pin back the ears of the dead.’
Jim looked at him, vaguely stupefied by his friend's sudden and vehement eloquence. ‘Well, I suppose some poor sod’s got to do it.’
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