WHO'S the daddy? the e-mail asked in the subject line. There was no further message.
I stared at it, momentarily nonplussed. In an instant the phrase had short -circuited my brain and transported me back to 1979 and the afternoon when a mate borrowed a pirate video from his older brother, and I first saw Ray Winstone menace his way
through Scum, Alan Clarke's scabrous critique of Willie Whitelaw's "short, sharp, shock" borstal system. Winstone played Carlin, a charismatic bruiser who is determined to become top dog at a young offenders' institution. Armed with a pick-axe handle, he duffs up his rival and roars the question over the groaning, bleeding body of his enemy.
Then I realise the e-mail is actually an invitation to write this column. For I am the latest recruit to this page, charged with writing something about being a father. Three decades after Ray, I can shout out in my best Cockney-geezer accent that I am indeed the daddy... to two girls and a boy, aged ten, eight and five.
It is Father's Day today, a time for reflection, perhaps. I have three Father's Day mugs, decorated by the children and presented with love. The first dates from 2001. I used it every day at work for several years, until the handle broke off. Now it holds pens and such like. The second one, from 2004, was pressed into service as the other one was retired. Unfortunately the handle broke off that too. Even worse, it happened when a colleague was rinsing it out and it smashed in the sink. You'd have thought she had just run over a dog by the look on her face when she came back with all the pieces carefully collected.
The last one, from 2007, is in the cupboard at home. It, too, will soon be brought out to take its chances on the tea run. My colleagues will make me sign the no-blame collision waiver form that comes as standard with domestic ephemera at work. But there is really no need. I love all the mugs – the yellow one with hearts, the blue and green number, and the yellow spotty one – but it was more of an inconvenience than sad when they cracked and smashed.
Those of a sentimental disposition, who keep their children's first shoes, locks of hair, teeth and every drawing from school, will think me not only rather clumsy, but a cold-hearted git who doesn't value the important things in life. But I think I do. Father's Day is a sweet moment of breakfast in bed and a card made by the children. In my life, every day is father's day. And there can be no greater joy than that.
