Father’s Day. That compulsory, faintly absurd matinée in which offspring, nudged by guilt and the tireless ingenuity of marketing departments, attempt to settle a lifelong account with socks stitched with puns, ties for jobs long since abandoned, novelty aprons, and aftershaves which cling to the air like guilty admissions. A day when the machinery of sentiment is shrink-wrapped, barcoded, and subsequently quietly tipped into the landfill with everything else we once believed would last.
There is, however, still a better offering. Take him drinking. Ideally, somewhere he cannot be easily retrieved: to a brewery, to a vineyard. Or simply pour him a glass— properly, patiently — and let it say what you can’t articulate. That could be out for one of London’s best martinis — like those at the Dover, at the top of this page — or a night in with a good dram of whisky, as below.
