The Uncle Bob Question

It's one of the topics of conversation surrounding The Wedding.

I imagine that almost every family has an Uncle Bob. My Uncle Bob is the stuff of legend. But, to fully describe him, I'd better start at the beginning.

His name's not really Bob, I've changed it, in some half-assed attempt to assuage the guilt I'm feeling about relentlessly mocking him in the following blog post.

Uncle Bob married into my mum's side of the family about twenty years ago. My dad enjoys recounting the tale of the time he first met him, at some kind of "welcome to the family" get-together.

He decided to break the ice with "so Bob, what do you do for a living?"

"I take an empty sack... and put it under a chute... and when the sack is full I put it onto the truck."

Now... at this point I should say that my Dad is not snobbish about occupations. He's done some pretty working-class jobs himself in his time, so he wasn't humouring Bob when he inquired...

"What's in the sacks?"

Blank look.

"... I don't know."

My dad's a lot like me (not in that way, he was a lumberjack, and he's okay, but the dressing up in suspendies and a bra skipped a generation), and my brain works a lot like his brain. So I can imagine the abject terror he must have felt when he realised I've got to continue to navigate this conversation without laughing.

For all my Uncle Bob knew, he could be carting about toxic waste in those sacks. British Nuclear Fuels would probably pay good money for a worker like Bob. "Just take the glowy stick-type things and drop them down that big bottomless shafty-type thing until you start feeling a bit hot and bothered, thanks!"

It hadn't occurred to him to ask his employers what was in the sacks. That was beyond what was required to do his job.

Although, thinking about it, the fact that he worked for a malt factory should have been a big clue.

Uncle Bob kept budgies. Uncle Bob likes Country and Western. A lot. His idea of the height of sartorial elegance was a full Rhinestone Cowboy outfit. And not just for special occasions.

My family is pretty spread out. In fact, by Norfolk standards, we're practically a diaspora. So Uncle Bob and his wife (which would be my Aunt... do try to keep up!) were the only relatives of mine who lived in the town where I went to High school. This was fine while I was safely locked away inside the school during the first to fifth years. However, in the Sixth Form we were allowed out at lunchtimes to terrorise the town's cake shops and newsagents.

Then Uncle Bob became a real problem.

I'd be hanging out next to the War Memorial, trying to look and sound as cool as my friends (trying being the ever-operative word) when...

"Isn't that your uncle behind you Simon?"

I'd look round, and there he was, his grin nearly as wide as his stetson. Texas belt buckle gleaming in the East Anglian sunshine. Radiating uncoolness like a glowy stick-type thing.

"Hello boy!!"

Groan. "Hello Uncle Bob."

You know those poor kids who had parents who were teachers at the same school? Even those kids felt sorry for me.

One day, we were walking back to school at the end of lunch when I espied Uncle Bob and my aunt heading towards us. To my surprise they were pushing a pram.

I guess they were both in their late forties at this time, but that doesn't really excuse my first thought: oh my god... he's bred!

"Isn't that your Uncle Bob, Simon?" one of my mates helpfully pointed out.

"Yes... should we just cross ove..."

"Hello Simon's Uncle Bob!"

"Hello boys!!!"

"Er, hi Uncle," I said. "I didn't even know you two were expecting..."

"Oh no," he said, giving us a conspiratorial wink. "It's not a baby."

He lifted the blanket, underneath half a dozen tiny little puppies blinked at us.

"Vet says they're not supposed to be out of the house yet. Might catch germs and that," he explained. "But we had the pram so I thought..."

"You thought you'd push a pram full of puppies through the town centre... whilst in full cowboy gear."

"Yep!"

...

So yeah, back to the Question. Should Uncle Bob be invited to the wedding reception? It's an open vote.

I fully expect you to all vote "yes" about twice over, because I know you're all evil bastards! :-)