I am tempted to use this as a pen name for some of my writing in honour of my father. His name was not R.A. Ladd – it was one of his expressions, though I might have to put that into context in the Liverpool of the 1970’s.
My father had the misfortune in those days to have three overly flatulent sons living at home. This means for a couple of years he had three teenage boys at home, all three of which had awful tummy troubles. Being the oldest, my own situation was being conflated by my new addiction to beer and with it the impressive gut-wrenching wind that accompanies such taste.
One of us, usually Keith who later gained the nickname ‘Your Eminence’ or the ‘Cabbagey Kid’, would emit a disgusting stench, silently; a smell that would conjure up all the demons in hell collectively farting fire and brimstone.
Dad would suddenly look up and say, ‘Ah hey lad!’ which sounded like R.A. Ladd.
It would usually be followed up with one of the following;
‘Did a rat crawl up your arse and die?’
‘Kinnel! Nothing smells like that and lives!’
‘Have you shit yourself?’
Again, to put things in context, we lived in a relatively small three bedroomed mid terrace house (1950’s new build in Kirkby). The lounge was just about big enough for a three-piece suite. Two armchairs, occupied exclusively by the parents, and a sofa that sometimes had to deal with five children. I also remember these weird ‘pictures’, which were nails punched into a black background, and then different coloured strings between them to create clowns.
In the winter the gas fire would be on and a fug of cigarette smoke would be emitted constantly from the mother and father. It was always impressive when a fart was pungent enough to attack that fug and get the reaction,
“R.A. Ladd!”
Fairy Hanny 