Dad Rules

I’m at a fans convention in Earls Court. I just overheard William Schattner saying: “But do they fly cargo?” OK. I know Schattner starred in Star Trek. He still looks like he owns a cleaning company in Ohio. Only one thing interests me: where is Mike Tyson?

Somewhere the Baddest Man On The Planet is behind a partition, and people are paying 50 quid for his autograph. I can see why. I mean… Jesus! Do you remember what he did to Trevor Berbick? Aged 20, Tyson destroyed the reigning World Heavyweight Champion, like a rottweiller, taking out the postman. Tyson could have matched any fighter in all history for power, speed and pure savagery. I just want to see him.

I walk into the canteen. Tyson is sitting at a plastic table. He’s in jeans and white t-shirt. He’s picking at coleslaw with a plastic fork. Awestruck, I stand close enough so I can watch him, but not so close his minders have to say: Sorry, Mike’s on his lunch break.

Tyson is approached by Geoff - the desk sergeant from Ashes to Ashes.

“Mr Tyson,” he says. “I’m a big fan.  Could we take a picture?”

No, Geoff! No! He’s not going to give it away for free.

“Sure,” says Tyson.

Tyson stands, shakes Geoff’s hand, and they’re snapped by Tony (café owner from Life On Mars).

“Oh,” says Tony. “I got the camera the wrong way.”

Tyson pisses himself. He actually slaps his thigh and chuckles.

They do the picture again. Then I follow Geoff back to the table. I’m sitting by a guy who produced 2001 Space Odyssey. I’m opposite Cancer Man from The X files. I’m just thinking: I should have talked to Tyson.

I look up. Tyson is alone. He’s contemplating a yoghurt. Oh God. This is my moment.

I’m up. I’m striding over, wearing a suit, hat, and pink tie. I feel like a louche fop, who’s about to make a proposition, to a very unlikely maiden.

“Hey Mike,” I say. “I’m Andrew.”

He shakes my hand. He’s relaxed. Friendly. Now I must ask a question. But… what?  I want to ask him:  why did you bite Holyfield’s ear off?  Did you want to stop the fight?  Or were you just hungry?

I lean in.  I ask: “Mike… what’s the key to getting through a day like this?”

Tyson says: “It’s all… just about God.”

Wow. Big answer. How do I respond?

“I thought the key was… smile for the camera, and don’t keep em talking too long.”

Tyson smiles shyly. This is weird, but true… Tyson is coming across really sweet. He’s relaxed. Open. Kind.

“I know it’s a cliché,” he says. “But it’s all about God.”

OK. Tyson’s been signing autographs all morning. He thought about God. How do I empathise? Well… This morning I did autographs too (people paid a fiver to meet the clown from Ashes to Ashes). I liked everyone, but I mainly thought about lunch.

“I suppose there is a moment,” I say, “when you really look a stranger in the eye and you connect which does feel almost divine.”

“I wouldn’t pay to have my picture,” says Tyson, “but they do, and I don’t know why, but I feel profoundly humble.”

“I’ll tell you why,” I say abruptly. “It’s cos everyone is here to see someone who’s captured their imagination, and… Jesus … that spate when you were 20, 21, 22 when other boxers had theme tunes and dressing gowns: you were just climbing in the ring in your black shorts and just beating the crap out of them. Man, that was drama! Why shouldn’t they want to meet you? It wasn’t just the skill. It was the belief!”

He seems genuinely touched. “Thanks Andrew!” he says. He shakes my hand again. He swivels his hand and we do the thumb-up handshake. (I get excited doing that with any black man – it makes me feel so damn accepted! - I’m now doing it with Mike Tyson.) Oh God. Mike Tyson is now squeezing the upper arm of my right arm. Oh God. We’re about to hug. That’s… That’s too much.

I walk off, dazed, and I contemplate the strangest fact I’ve ever contemplated: I’ve just fallen in love with Mike Tyson. There. I’ve said it.  I love Mike Tyson. And, if by chance, Mike is reading the Dad Rules website, my message is:  get in touch. And if anyone else is reading, hoping for a Love Rule, I offer you Tyson’s.  It’s all about God.  You can tell anyone.  Unfortunately, before they’ll listen,  you may have to beat the crap out of a few guys.

Yes.  Yes yes yes yes.  I’ve been away too long.  To be honest I lost the password for my own website.  I know.  That’s incompetent, but how many passwords am I supposed to remember?  I’ve got about 65 of them.  I remember none.  At the beginning of the year, I was posting regular blogs, but then the Sainsbury’s Little Ones website said:  ”Andrew, we pay you to blog for us.  Would you stop posting them on your site?”  I guess I can see their point.  ”WHAT?” some of you are thinking.  ”You blog for Sainsbury’s?”  I do.  Go over there and you can find SIX MONTHS worth of kiddie stories.  There are some good ones - I like the one about au pairs - but it’s not like at Sunday Times Style where I could slip in more deviant fare, such as the one about the nude lady and the snake, or the one about Gary Lineker’s buttocks.    So visit Little Ones for kid stories.  In future, I shall harness this website for my new project:  LOVE RULES.  I’m doing a show on that in Edinburgh.  (Pleasance Below, 6 pm.  Come along.  It’s a cracker).  Meanwhile, I’m going to start posting love rules here.  Here’s one to get us started…

How Do You Stay In Love?

1) Magazines love to advise. Their Top Tip To Improve Your Love Life is always: “Say 10 positive things, for each negative”. I know a posh botoxed lady who gives ten compliments for every negative. She’s fucking patronising. “Oh well done,” she says, “you got your own drink.” Sure, you could try and resist all negatives. No, really. Try it. Whenever you say anything, remove all the anger and blame that lurk in your words like shards of glass. But I’d suggest a different rule: don’t depend on your partner to boost your fragile self-esteem. Learn to survive on what everyone gets – a diet of passive aggression, and the odd mumbled thanks. The Low Barb Diet. That’s what most of are on. Get used to it.

Friday.  I’m in my office reading about Jean Gross, “Communications Champion”  for kids, who says that toddlers are talking later – probably because kids watch too much TV, and their parents are too busy / stressed / lazy to give face time.  “Ugh,” I reflect,  “this is advice for bad parents.  Not me.” 

Then I reflect that Iris (29 months) has had the TV on all morning.  During which time I’ve been working.  I say “working”.  Actually I’ve done e-mails, I’ve worried about a comedy gig next week, I’ve fretted about whether I offended Tash in the playground this morning.  “OK Jean Gross,”  I think,  “you may have a point.”  I go next door. 

In the kitchen, my wife is talking under her breath, mentally preparing for a phonecall.  Nearby, Iris is examining cards from a Princess Memory Game.  “I got cards,”  she announces.  See, I think, she’s talking fine.  She’s learning fine.  Then she puts two cards in her mouth.  Then she gives them to me.  “Tarnij,”  she says.  I pause.  She thrusts them in my face.  “Oh!  Sandwich!”  I say.  “Tarnij,”  she corrects. 

Then Mum’s phone call arrives.   Immediately Iris gets up, and goes to the living room.  On TV, a wonderful sight appears:  a sheep dancing towards the camera singing “Timmy!  It’s Timmy!” to jaunty music.  Iris dances in delight.  I say: “Jean Gross says no TV,” and turn it off. 

Iris screams and runs for mum.  But Mum’s still on the phone.  “Can you watch her?”  she asks, hurrying away.  I pick up Iris.  We have some face time, during which she kicks me repeatedly in the chest.  I try to resume our game with the cards, but she screams.  She doesn’t want a tarnij now.  She wants a dancing sheep. 

Mum returns, and settles Iris by reading a book.  I’m now tenser than ever.  I’ll go for a run, I think, and go and change.  When I reappear, Iris beams at me.  “What you doing?”  she says.  “I’m going for a run.”  “What you doing?”  she says.  “Going to the park.”  “What you doing?”  she says.  “Tying my shoes so I can run to the park.”  Grinning, she asks the same question another eleven times.  She likes this game.  I like it too.  It’s forcing me to some something I’ve avoided all morning:  to be in the moment.  “What you doing?”  she says for the twelfth time.  “I’m talking to you,”  I say.  “Want tarnij?”  she says.  I say: “Yes!”

Eating my tarnij, I realise I’m not tense any more.  I cancel the run, and play for a bit.  Then I work calmly through my tasks, and only afterwards do I think about Jean Gross.  I have to conclude she’s right.  TV does cause trouble.  And it is good to have face time with children.  But it’s not just them who benefit.  It’s you.

Here are a few things I love about snow…

 1)   The moment it’s first seen.  Someone always says:  “It’s snowing!”  and they look astonished as if they’ve just seen Santa and he really was sledging through the sky, with a rheindeer whose nose has been used as a lamp.  (How can that work?  Does Santa run a wire up the snout?)  The happiest people are teachers.  They can’t stop themselves smiling as they announce:  ”I’m afraid it’s too icy for me to come in.”  It’s less good for people who work from home.  They can still reach their offices, but they find them occupied by kids. 

2)   I love how the world goes quiet.  I know it’s partly because planes are stuck at Gatwick.  But I’m an environmentalist, so I also love that.  When I hear the news saying “planes are cancelled and passengers are stranded”  I think “Great!”   

3)   I love seeing people walking on ice.  Legs are bent.  Bums are out.  It’s like they’re wearing nappies.

 4)   I love seeing snow falling from trees.  I love seeing fat dads whizz by, on sledges made from bins.

 5)   I love it when kids make naughty snowmen.  In our woods, I was delighted to see a huge snow cock.  

 6)   I love watching snowmen melt.  There’s one on the pavement opposite.  Two days ago it was fat and proud.  Now he’s lost his carrot, and he’s sliding down the wall like a drunk.   He’s still looking better than the cock. Yesterday its bell end fell off,  and a dog had weed on its balls.   

I can’t wait to see how it’s looking today.  I shall go and inspect.  

 Andrew x

            The kids have gone away for a night.  My wife instantly took advantage:  she started chucking their toys.

            First, she went like an Assassin for the Art Drawer.  Into the Black Bag of Death, she stuffed the paint-it-yourself teapot.  She laid waste to the set for making charm bracelets, out of safety-pins and plastic beads. Then she began a Pogrom against the Polly Pockets.  It was a hideous discriminatory policy:  she took out any Pollys missing limbs.  Then she trashed their plastic Poodle Parlour. 

            “My mum bought that Poodle parlour!”  I protested. “But it’s me,”  she said, “who picks up the plastic brushes.”  “Where are the Pollys supposed to groom their Poodles now?” I said.   “The dump,”  she replied.  “The sooner they arrive, the quicker they can melt.” 

             She reached for a torn book from the Oxford Learn Reading series.  “Ugh!”  She said.  “I’ve read hundreds of these. I still don’t know which one’s Biff or which one’s Kipper.”  “Give me that,” I said, and I ripped it before she could. 

            I kneeled before their book shelf like a great evil ogre. “Danny the Champion of the World,”  I said.  “Don’t worry.  You’re staying.  Harry Potter, relax.  Merlin the Magic Kitten, I’m afraid it’s bad news.”

            We threw away old homework.  We binned a badly painted plaster cast unicorn that was squashed behind the Annuals.   By now their room was much sprucer, and the toys-that-had-made-it were looking enticing.  The surviving bears looked proud on their pillow.  Monopoly and Cluedo called enticingly from the shelves.  “The room looks refreshed,”  she declared. 

             “If the kids were here,”  I said,  “they would kill us.”   “Yup,”  she said.   “But they’re not.   So let’s cull some Rainbow Fairies.”  “Lauren the Puppy Fairy hasn’t been read,”  I said.  “She doesn’t deserve to die.”   “She deserves to go in the canal,”  she said,  “in a sack filled with concrete.”

            I laughed.  I looked at my wife.  I thought she was getting weird, but I found it attractive she was being funny.  “What shall we do now?”  she said.  “”Go upstairs?”  I replied.  “Good idea,”  she said.  “I could do some damage to your sock drawer.” “Be my guest,”  I said.   And I followed her upstairs. 

Our guests are due any moment now.  Our electricity just got shut off.  I know why… It’s because of that old lamp Livy just plugged in.  She wants me to change the fuse.  I want to unplug the light and ignore the problem. 

She says:  “Your phone’s ringing.”

I pick it up.  It’s a strange number.  I figure it’s the American guests who are wanting directions.

“Hi”, says a voice.  “It’s Dave.” 

Brilliant.  It’s a wrong number.

“Dave Blair.”

I’ve only known one Dave Blair, and the last words I said to him, 21 years ago, were:  “Listen, man.  Have a great time in Bristol.”

“It’s your erstwhile school chum,” says Dave Blair.

Oh My God!  It’s Dave Blair!

“I rung earlier.  Did you get my message?”

Oh shit.  He rung earlier as well?  And I didn’t know because my phone was down the back of the sofa.  But he doesn’t know what.  He assumes I’ve ignored his message.  And he’s probably also getting the impression that I dislike him which is why I’m pretending I don’t know who he is.   I must act friendly.  Must act friendly.

“WOW!”  I shout.  “Dave Blair!”

I am boiling with embarrassment.   I am so embarrassed I can feel the skin peeling from my body. I have an overpowering desire to get away.  I open the front door and I hurry out into the street in my socks. 

So he says:  “So… how ARE you?”

Erm… I’m feeling slightly better now I’m outside, but my socks are soaking up the rain.  Can I say that?   What can I say? “Yeah… Good.  Great!” 

For some reason, I’m sounding a bit camp.

“What are you up to?”  he says.

Oh God. I suddenly have an image of myself:  the person they were hoping to speak to:  their crazy old school friend. Last time I saw Dave Blair, we were getting pissed, snogging girls, and wearing traffic cones as hats.

“I’m waiting for friends to arrive for a Christmas party,” I say.

Is that good enough?  What is good enough? I don’t know what the rules are in this friendship. 

“Kevin,” he says.

Oh dear.  I’ve not been called Kevin in 21 years.  I can’t be called Kevin.  I must change the subject. 

“What are you up to?”  I manage.  My voice has gone squeaky.

“I’m on a roof top in Mumbai with Max Fysh.”

They’re calling my mobile from India?  Who’s paying for this call?

“So… how ARE you?”  He asks again.

Please don’t ask me that again.  Jesus, my guests are due here right now.  This is such a bad time to call.  But he’s taken 21 years to call me.  I can’t really ask him to call me back tomorrow.

“I’m good,” I say again.  “You’re on a roof top with Max Fysh?”

“Yes!”  he says.   “I’ll pass you over.”

I feel myself being passed over, like I’m some kind of prize.

“Andrew!” says Max.  “What are you up?”

“I was just about to change the fuse on a light.” 

He laughs.  He spends two minutes talking about lights and fuses.  To be honest, I’m happy with that.  I’m not really listening, but my embarrassment is subsiding to more manageable levels. 

“I’ll pass you back to Dave,” he says suddenly.

DON’T DO THAT!

Now I feel more like granny, being passed around at Christmas time.

“Dave,” I say, “it’s great to hear from you.  Would you call me when you come back to England?”

“Sure.”

He realises I’m winding up.  He senses the rejection.

“Oh God.  What do I say now?”

“Happy New Year!” I say, with sudden fervour.

That’s it.  That’s the thing to say.  For a moment I feel good.

“Happy New Year!” he replies. 

“Happy New Year!”  I say again.   I’m like a missionary who’s here on earth to wish people a happy new year.  “Happy New Year!” 

Hello.  I’m still getting messages from people who are wondering why I stopped the column.  It’s been very warming.  You may have noticed that the new Style offered an address style.letters@sunday-times.co.uk so people could comment on the new rebranding.  Do feel very free to write in pleading for my reinstatement.  If enough people do, it could work.  Of course if you want to read more pieces, you can get the Dad Rules book, which offers you loads of stories that were never in Style, plus cartoons and photos and lots of comic strangeness, all arranged in a surprisingly page-turning narrative.  And you could watch My Almost Famous Family on BBC2 on Saturday mornings at 10 am, in which I shall be looking a bit camp and a bit tired, although I’m mainly saying “let’s talk”, rather than telling you my best story of the week.  I’ve now finished writing the new book, Learn Love In A Week, although I’m polishing it relentlessly till I dare show it to anyone.  Also I’m still adding love tips, and am very much open for you to write in and suggest yours.  Today it occurred to me that magazines always offer the same love tip:  ”Give ten compliments, for every negative.”  I used to know a posh society lady who offered ten compliments for every negative.  She was fucking patronising.  ”Oh you got yourself a drink,”  she’d say,  ”well done.”  By the ninth I was ready to smack her in the botoxed face.  No one gets ten compliments for every negative.  We get passive aggression and the odd mumbled thanks:  the Low Barb Diet.  That’s what we’re on.  Get used to it, I say.  That’s my latest love tip.  But you may have others.  Andrew x

Once again, Wendy Joel has emerged as the finest communicator.  I’m not trying to set her up a teacher’s pet.  You’re welcome to try and overtake her in my affections.  I’m the crushiest kind of teacher, easily moved by displays of work.   She offers a list of Things I Like, including…

my children’s faces when they are asleep, avocados, the smell of skin in the sunshine, date nights and laughing. I also like finding humour in children’s programs/films that the children don’t understand like when someone said ‘more tea vicar’ in Postman Pat. 

Wow.  I’m still getting messages from people who are saying they’re upset the column has finished, including one which was forwarded from Tiffanie Darke at the Sunday Times who’s the Style editor.  This was delicious, particularly as the lady in question - I think she’s the one some of us know as The Amazing Pixielady - had had to find Tiffanie Darke’s actual e-mail address at the Sunday Times.  Something I’d dearly love to tell you all, but I can’t be seen to be anyway connected with people petitioning, on my behalf, to get my job back.  I also really like Tiffanie Darke at the Sunday Times, she’s very cool and stylish and also she’s good fun.  In a way it was a bit telling though, that she only forwarded one.  That implies she’s only got one, which is a bit embarrassing, a bit like when someone makes a speech, and then just one person claps.   Or maybe it shows you guys are philosophical and balanced.  You’re less concerned with railing at Style for losing my bit, but more keen to tell me how much you’ve enjoyed my sensitive work, especially the one about the cat in the freezer.  Do you know a strange fact?   In the time I’ve done the column, I’ve had hundreds of e-mails, but I’ve literally only had 4 bits of hate mail, and one of those was very mild, and another one sent a parody of one of my pieces.  It was actually really good.  I knicked a couple of ideas from it.  It almost restores my faith in human nature, although not my faith that people can get me my job back, by sending flip-flops in the post to Tiffanie Darke at the Sunday Times.  Still, well done Wendy Joel, the Amazing Pixielady.  You are Mum of the Month, to rival your man, who’s been Dad of the Month for the last year now.  I must work out how to work my own website.  OK.  This has been fun but I must get on with work.  I finished the book last night.  80 000 words.  Dad Rules is only 60 000.  I think I need to snip it right right down to keep it funny, unlike this piece, which sprawls.  Also I need to insert two new passages.  One must be a neo-death experience.  Another must be a list of Things I Like.  You know - my wife’s arms, sun shining through leaves, smell of coffee, warm strawberries…  Please contribute.  Your details will become literary history, especially if you can describe a neo-death experience.  Have a good day xx

OK I didn’t actually blog last night.  I’ve gone a bit manic with writing this book.  Last Friday I did more than 11000 words in a day.  Didn’t leave the room till midnight apart from getting some cereal in the morning.  But that’s when I was excited by it, certain I was writing new things about love, in prose that was more electric than Hunter S Thompson’s.  But then I stopped for the weekend so I could taste the pleasures of Dad Work - repeated 6 30 starts, having all three kids around me, simply refusing to speak logically or one at a time - and now I’ve returned to the book, I seem to be saying old things about love, in prose that’s electric as Marian Keyes’s.  So now I’m asking you to write my book for me.   I want you to describe what you consider the most common mistake is in your relationship, giving an anecdotal example, and then maybe you could also suggest how you might cope with this.  Anyway, I shall await your responses with excitement.  In the meantime, I have to finish writing a big set piece sex scene, that occurs in a Festival.  I’m also after Festival stories.    Have a good day.  Andrew x