Blimey, I’ve become my Dad.
Fatter, granted, but I can see the changes. I’d always fancied myself in dark chocolate suede brogues, grey flannels and a blazer. But I drew the line at yellow cardigans with football buttons, Tatersall shirts and cravats with riding crops or golf club motifs. He wore these with cavalry twill trousers and Hush Puppy suede desert boots. And so did his mates, all of them, Fred, Tom, Dave, Alex, Big Dave, Irish Dave, Ted, Little Dave and Dave’s mate Dave from the other pub. To go for a Sunday pint with my Dad was like going to a casting session for a Daks catalogue or an audition for Last of the Summer Wine.
When I was six or seven I’d come home from school and swing on the gate for hours waiting for him to turn the corner in to our street. A tall man, always well dressed in a double-breasted suit and snap-brim Trilby. He wore shirts with starched collars and gold collar studs as befitted an accountant. He walked well; erect and proud, swinging his rolled copy of the Evening News as if it were a swagger stick.
Tonight I find myself pirating music from the Internet – he would never approve of that, even though the computer and the internet would have beguiled and amazed him. And I’m listening to his favourite songs. He wouldn’t mind that it was Rod Stewart* singing, he would enjoy each and every number, and he would have sung along annoyingly loudly, just as I’m doing. Thanks Dad.
*Rod Stewart: An American Songbook. 4 albums.
Dad. 1951
