Andy Richardson: No need for a special day for my dad
I love my dad. He’s my hero. As a five-year-old kid at school, I was asked to write an essay about someone I’d like to be. And while the rest of class eulogised the likes of Kenny Dalglish and Noddy Holder, I wrote about my old man. Sideburns and bicycle kicks never were my bag.
My teacher read my essay, bless her. She deserved a medal for ploughing through handwriting that would make a doctor with a sprained wrist blanch. She told me to show my essay to my dad. I did and he kept it. That was 40 years ago. And nothing’s changed since. The essay’s still in his top drawer and he’s still the nonpareil.
The greatest gift of my life has been my mum and dad. Normal families are increasingly rare – try as I might, I’ve never been able to form one – though that’s precisely what they created. Stability, love, honour, decency, respect, good humour and kindness run through our family like the letters in a stick of Blackpool rock. Their achievement has shaped lives and provides a long-lasting legacy; their life lessons have been passed down through generations and will endure through time.
Dad is my go-to, my shining light, the bloke I’d love to be but will never quite measure up to, a man who’s put his family above all else and who has led by example for all of his life.
When other fellas find themselves in a tricky spot, they employ the Elvis test. They look in the mirror and ask themselves: ‘What would Elvis do now?’ I’ve never gone down Graceland Road. For one, I imagine The King would say ‘Eat a burger’, or ‘I’m the king of vegetables, I’m Elvis Parsley’.
And that’s no good to anybody when you’re wondering what to do about a failed relationship, a problem at work or whether or not to call a plumber out after discovering a leaky pipe at 11pm. Instead, I have the Dad test: ‘What would dad do now?’ And 10 times out of 10, he gets it right. Damn him and his consistent brilliance.
He’ll read this, of course. While others have flicked the digital switch and won’t leave home without their laptop, dad is of an avowedly analogue generation and consumes his news in ink on paper. And this week, his mate, Clive, will give him a call and tell him that: ‘Your kid has written something about you.’ He’ll pop to the shop and have a read.
He won’t get sentimental. He’ll be more interested in whether my column’s been well written, whether I’ve spelled things correctly and, most of all, whether I’ve told the truth. Truth’s everything in our house. Always has been. God help the woman round our place who says: ‘Does my bum look big in this?’
As kids, the lives of my older sister, older brother and I were in orbit around our parents. And, in turn, they built their worlds around us. Forming sports clubs, running youth clubs, taking us to football, speedway, athletics, cricket, the theatre and more, we were encouraged to have the widest panoply of interests. They’ve endured into adult life.
One of my favourite musicians is Noel Gallagher. Just as Sir Paul McCartney was the spokesman for the 60s and Paul Weller provided a similar service for kids growing up in the 70s and 80s, so Noel has soundtracked the lives of those of us who lived through 1990s Britpop.
In his Oasis tune, Fade Away, he sang this: ‘While we’re living, the dreams we have as children fade away’.
Not when you have a dad like mine, they don’t. They burn burn burn like Jack Kerouac’s fabulous roman candles. I continue to dream in the same vivid technicolour that I remember from my childhood.
And my dad continues to encourage me to reach higher and keep pushing, to go the proverbial extra mile and make things happen. He gives me drive and commitment, passion and determination, an unwillingness to give up when things get tough, and a sense of decency (most of the time) when warmth and compassion are required.
I won’t be buying him a Frank Sinatra CD for Father’s Day (he’s got them all), nor a missing 1913 Wisden (he’s probably found it), a signed photo of Muhammad Ali (he’s probably got one) and sending a twee card with a rubbish poem. I don’t need to. I tell him I love him in every email, call or visit.
He knows he’s been the greatest influence on my life – that’ll never change – and that I love him to the moon and back.
My school friends who chose Kenny Dalglish and Noddy Holder made pretty good choices.
But not as good as mine. Happy Fathers’ Day, dad.
Love you.
