It’s customary to wish a happy Father’s Day to all the fathers out there, but in truth I don’t know most of you and it would be presumptuous. You might be terrible dads, the type who tweet weird things at weather ladies, or attend Top Gear tapings. Maybe you’re merely a mediocre dad, the kind who makes his kids listen to Jethro Tull on vinyl, or calls it ‘babysitting’ when he looks after them by himself. Or, perhaps, you’re the kind of true, unrepentant monster who refuses to answer a toy phone when handed one by a toddler. I don’t know and I respect my readership – even the bad dads among you – too much to pretend otherwise.
But I will wish a happy Father’s Day to one extra dad this year. This is my third Father’s Day as a dad and I’ll be spending it with my own father in Derry, but I’m writing this before I see him, so I can’t give you any updates on his lovable antics, which has become the usual tradition for the past few years. Hopefully, he won’t mind if I don’t write exclusively about him this time, since I’ve even written a very cool and excellent book, which mainly comprises me saying how lovely and strange he is. Actually, he probably will mind, but will have to forgive me because I’m worried he’s getting conceited from all the praise. A few weeks ago, the queen of Irish authors, Marian Keyes, tweeted she had a crush on him and we’re still struggling through the aftermath of that on his inflated ego.
