Facebook as ever, was fair fizzing with fulsome tributes to the best dads in the world. Don’t it make you sick?
With so much competition about I felt reasonably satisfied with my ‘World’s 1,232,817th Best Dad’ mug.
Can’t complain. I’ve moved up four places from last year.
Since they were young, I’ve always told my boys not to waste money on expensive cards and gifts. (Maybe I should have clarified what I meant. Don’t waste money on expensive cards and gifts … for your mother!).
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But at the time, it made sense to keep costs down.
The main reason being that, since they didn’t work in paid employment between the ages of four and nine (damn those pesky child labour laws), it would be me paying for my own Father’s Day gifts.
To that end, it was lovingly-crafted hand-made Father’s Day cards only. And by lovingly-crafted I do, of course, mean knocked up in a panic on the morning of Father’s Day using a hastily cannibalised cereal box, coloured Biros and a pot of glitter. It’s the thought that counts.
Turns out those were the good old days.
My eldest, Bradley, 20, has now got himself a job so naturally, I was rubbing my hands in anticipation of a decent gift for once.
I received a lovingly-crafted, hand-made text message.
Son, two, Isaac, 17, at least went as far as getting me a card. And a big one too (All hail Morrisons). And by big, I mean bigger than the present.
On the gift front our Isaac did push the boat out. He bought me lettered chocolate bars spelling out my name.
Except Richard is a bit of a long name so, as his miserly dad’s traditional Father’s Day rules dictated, he cut corners and shortened my name to save money.
Four chocolate bars spelling out the word ‘DICK’.
“I thought you’d like it,” he said.
“Well,” I told him. “Full marks for using your brain to keep the cost down. I guess I should be grateful you knew that Dick was short for Richard in the first place.”
“Is it?” he replied.