I thought I was going to write a piece saying that, although
I used to hate Father’s Day, things have changed now
that I’m a father. Part of me hates all the Days –
Christmas Day, Easter Day, Halloween – because they
tend to suck money out of you and make you miserable. And
they’re getting worse. There was a time, not even very
long ago, when an Easter card was a nice thing – a pleasant
bonus. Now, for some people, the absence of an Easter card
is a misdemeanour. Easter, I can see, is moving up the scale.
Easter is becoming disruptive and expensive, like Christmas.
Mother’s Day is getting like the old Easter. And Father’s
Day is creeping towards the old Mother’s Day. Once it
was a phone call; now it’s a phone call and a card.
Soon it will be a gift, a visit, the cause of a million screaming
rows on the motorway.
Thinking this, I told myself to calm down. Soon, I might be
on the receiving end of the cards and the gifts. And Father’s
Day, I reasoned, is still the least noxious of the Days. But
then I went into Woolworth on Cliffe High Street. And there
they were – the generic gifts, the tubs of dad-themed
stuff, like enormous Yorkie bars. Jesus! Here it comes, I
thought: another ruined Sunday. So what will I tell my son,
when he gets older? Give your Dad a call. But not just because
it’s Father’s Day. I can think of a hundred better