Sunday 21 June 2015

Pop

When I was about fourteen my dad decided it was time to have a conversation about sex. Being the forward thinking type, he started this conversation on the way to my nan's house. Whilst she was in the back of the car.
 
I can't remember exactly what prompted him, but the conversation went:
 
"Now you're a teenager you're going to have times when you feel randy. "
"Randy? What? No..."
"That's quite normal. As long as it's about girls."
"Oh my god, stop."
"You're probably starting to touch yourself - "
 
At this point I made a lunge for the steering, prompted mainly by my nan who was cackling like a witch. My dad deftly reached over and prodded me in the testicles with his index finger. I deflated like an old football.
 
"I guess that'll postpone this conversation for a week or so. "
 
We never had that conversation in the end. The closest we came was when, whilst I was watching Hawaii 5-0 he stood in the doorway of the living room and said:
 
"Alright, Boy?"
"Huh? Yeah. "
"You're not gay, are you?"
"What? No."
"Righto."
 
And off he went.
 
Not that he was particularly helpful when I finally brought a girl home.
 
"Ah, you're the girl he keeps talking about! Nice to meet you, come into the house, Claire. "
*Through gritted teeth* "Her name is Rachel."
"Richard?"
"I f**king hate you."
 
He was an unreconstructed male, my old man - part of the sixties mod scene, somewhat in the mold of Alfie, but without the dress sense.
 
Exhibit #1
So on occasion his opinions were a bit stuck in time. But as a father he couldn't be faulted. Except the time I woke him up an hour after he'd got back from a night shift and he threw my Action Man down the stairs.
 
I was always a bit of weed as a kid, but despite his exasperation at my lack of gumption he was fiercely proud of me and my brother.
 
"Get in the water you big Jessie."
Later in life we worked together at the same place, a race track in the south of England. At one point I was even his boss, which wasn't always the easiest relationship to have.
 
"Chief Marshal to John..."
"What did you call me? "
"Er... John?"
"What, are we on first name terms, now? "
"Well, I..."
"I AM your dad."
"Yeah,  but..."
"I'm not answering unless you call me dad."
"Look, John..."
"I can't HEAR you!"
*Sigh* "Chief Marshal to dad?"
*Chuckling* "You loser."
 
But he was always there in an emergency.
 
"Er, Dad... I've got a bit of a problem."
"We've know that for a long time, Boy. You just have to accept that it won't get bigger than that."
"Can you just... not, for a minute. I've just had a car crash."
"Are you okay?"
"Yes."
"Good."
*Pause*
"Also, you're a dickhead."
"That's not helpful. "
"I was aiming for the truth more than being helpful. Where are you?"
"Trumpington. "
"Bwah hah hah ha! Brilliant!"
 
I have a thousand memories I could bore you with: him racing me home from work,  rounding a corner to find me sheepishly reversing out of a hedgerow. Or the time he came with me when I drove two hundred miles to see Stone Henge on New Years Eve and discovered it was shut ("You," he said with a twinkle in his eye, "are a moron.") Or the time I asked him how many commandments there were in the Ten Commandments which he never let me forget. He taught most of my friends to drive, and they still talk about him like he was a legend. Which he was.
 
And then in 2002 he got cancer. Towards the end, in early June we were sitting in the garden whilst he smoked a Silk Cut ("Why did you get me Silk Cut? It's not like it makes a difference, you tit!") in his pyjamas. We'd both been silent for a while when he asked me
 
"What are you thinking, Boy?"
"I'm trying not to smile when I think about the inheritance."
 
He grinned at me, told me he'd never liked me. It's the last good memory I have of him. He fought very hard for another week and then he was gone. He was fifty seven.
 
Thirteen years have gone past, I got married, had kids, am lurching into my mid life crisis. My world is completely different to then, but I think about my old man all the time.
 
Except when I'm having sex.

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