You took me swimming when mum didn’t want to. You let me eat sweets on the way home from the park, regardless of what time dinner was. And of course, you told me to never talk to strangers. Or trust men in leather. You are a joker, a prankster, a party animal. You have given me pocket money, happy meals and just this morning you handed me a head torch to take to Glastonbury.
But the best gift of all? You’ve given me The Smiths. Sting. The Cure. Morrissey. Suede. David Gray. Annie Lennox. Van Morrison. New Order. Jamiroquai. The Pogues. Jimmy Ruffin. The list goes on. And on and on. You’ve handed down to me an adoration for music and a belief that a life lived without it is a life half-lived. You took me to see B*Witched at ten and shrugged that Morrissey cancelled his Roundhouse gig that we had tickets to because… well… it’s Morrissey.
Our love of music will outlive a packet of penny sweets or a lift to the pub. We will still be dancing to the same beat even when we don’t share the same dance floor anymore.
Thank you for the music dad. I will probably ring you at some point during The Who’s set on the Pyramid Stage next Sunday, no doubt slurring all of the wrong words down the phone to you. So apologies in advance.
Happy Father’s Day.