You remind me of your father...

I was listening to the last in the latest series of Richard Herring’s excellent ‘Richard Herring’s Leicester Square Theatre Podcast’ (Ra-HEL-S-T-P (pronounced as phonics) as all the cool kids are calling it, with him interviewing Stewart Lee, Paul Putner and Trevor Lock about 1990’s Sunday morning BBC2 programme ‘This Morning With Richard Not Judy’.

In this Stewart Lee was discussing the difficulty of looking back at certain humour he had written in his 20’s where his connection and empathy with the world was at a different and far more shallow level than it is today with an extra twenty years of life and the responsibilities of parenthood sitting firmly on his shoulders.

Some of the characters that he was writing about included aspects and characteristics of his own family and upbringing. He noted that he would not be able to write in such a way today, that he couldn’t pick up on a particular characteristic or habit of an individual that could be mocked or laughed at by audiences. Whilst this makes him a more empathic individual, the ability to be that younger person who could mock the older generation - that person who lives with the reality (whether excepted or not) that their life has not developed into the dreams and aspirations they had in their youth meant that his humour had lost something. In part it is driven by the fact that he had indeed turned into this older person himself, open to the same ridicule of the younger generation.

There it is, one of the challenges of growing older; we all become a version of the thing we mocked when we were younger. Let me give a personal example.

Many years ago when I had to move home (as in parents house) for a few weeks when I was in-between houses, I was struck by a rather amazing and somewhat disturbing sight.

I was sitting on the toilet for my normal morning evacuation exercises. Now at my parent’s house, the toilet is in a separate room from the bathroom. The upstairs landing is an L shape with the toilet one end and the bathroom the other. As I opened the door, my Dad was sitting in the middle of the landing (at the 90° corner), cross legged, drying his hair (in those days he was still sporting the side parting Bobby Charlton) with an old style hairdryer which had a long tube from which the hot air came with a brush on the end and he was stark bollock naked to boot.

Of the many things I could have been expecting as I opened the door, this was not one of them. My instinctive response was to ask, ‘what are you doing?’

The look on his face, a kind of mixture of both contempt and exasperation for such a stupid question also resonated through his voice as replied ‘what does it look like, I’m drying my hair!’.

It wasn’t right, I’m not proud when I look back but my response was an instant loss of all control as I went into instant hysterics. It’s not often this happens to me but when it does I lose absolute control. I mean I was on the floor crying, gasping for breath and the more I thought about it the worse the lack of control was. I don’t know how long I was rolling about on the floor but it was long enough for Dad to stand up, shake his head at me disapprovingly and move to the bedroom.

And s, the other night, after a shower I got out and noticed that once again my daughter had taken the towel and left it in her room. As the airing cupboard is in her room, I went downstairs dripping water over the carpet slightly begrudgeon and moody to get a new one. It was about 10pm but as I opened the airing cupboard door I made a sound, which must have woken her. So she looks up from under her duvet at her Dad, stark bollock naked, water dripping from his chest hair and asks, “What are you doing?” “What does it look like?” I snap back, “I’m getting a towel”. At least she saved me the dignity of not laughing directly in my face. There are many things I am proud of when I see aspects of my behaviour shadowed from my Father, however this wasn’t one of them.

I’ve also been thinking about this blog quite a bit recently. Whilst I never set out with any particular plan or style on how I would write, this outlet seems to bring out a softer more empathic voice in me. Whilst this has been an interesting voice to nurture and I look forward to this further developing, I feel that in itself it restricts certain things I would like to say.

So I am going to invite an old friend to also write some blogs over the coming weeks. I’ve known Creamy (I’ll save his surname for now) for around 18 years now although I do see far less of him now I don’t drink etc. he’s an individual I both love and despise in equal measures. He’s the kind of person you love being around drunk and then spend the following day apologising for the carnage he has left behind him. I have no idea what his writing is like but I will make sure that he has his own page and that there are plenty of warnings before you enter his mind. Lets give it a go and see how things work out.

Finally, I’d like to remember Maurice Ashdown who suddenly and sadly passed away this week. A while back over the Xmas period I wrote a set of short Facebook blogs about 5 of my favourite records. In choosing the songs, one I wrote about was from one of a number of local bands in the Reigate area with whom I used to go and watch or play with. In this and in the programme notes I wrote for the Spanglehead/ Family Fandango, I reminisced fondly about the music scene in Reigate and Dorking in the late 80’s and 90’s. It wasn’t just about the bands, however good they were. It was also about that whole scene and friendships were bonded with people that have lasted and have grown stronger each day.

I can’t confess to being a close friend of Maurice and his wife Mary. Most years I see them only a handful of times either at gigs or weddings or other parties from people in the aforementioned scene but every time I saw them both it was always a genuine pleasure.

Whilst I have had many conversations with Maurice, all I could tell you about him is his loves and passions in life, quite simply because these were the only things I have ever heard him discuss. He was a person who really role-modelled how to make the most of and enjoy every day. Partly because of failing eyesight and not wearing glasses all the time on stage, I don’t when playing spend a lot of time looking at the audience. However one thing that would always grab my attention and make me smile was the sight of Maurice out in the audience, smile as wide as his face, dancing along with a pint in his hand.

My wife shared a story with me yesterday, which I hadn’t heard before. The first time she met Maurice was in a pub in Reigate. Once I had introduced them and my focus was elsewhere, he went over to and put his arm around her and said ‘you have a good boy there, make sure you look after him’. She said that is was said with affection and protection. Karen said that they would sometimes remind each other of this when they saw each other again. It’s a story that makes me smile and also feel a great deal of pride and affection to know that there was someone like Maurice in his own subtitle and beautiful way, looking out for me.

You’ll be greatly missed Maurice, and whilst you will always be there in the stories we will all share about you that scene will never be quite the same without you there. To Mary, Pemma, Naomi and family, our thoughts and love are with you all.