BITS OF DAD

When dad isn't there, taking the 'best bits' from the men who step up will do... Right?

Before reading… a little context. Hit play for a quick overdub below.

Below are the first words from ‘Bits of Dad’. Please share your thoughts in the comment section… Keen to hear your take.

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Shall we play a game?

Okay…

Imagine your five-year-old self. Stop right there. I’m not asking you to picture the framed school portrait on your grandmother’s wall, take yourself back. Remember the details… the bunny ear laces on your sneakers. The Kit-Kat crumbs in your pocket... Can you see that kid yet?

There they are...

Now here’s the fun part and its only fun if you’re honest... tell that child that tonight’s dinner is entirely up to them. Can you picture the meal? Even better, can you picture that child’s face? Well, if your past self is anything like my bony ass at five, dinner would’ve been a ‘Happy Meal’ from McDonalds. A sugar filled, carb dense ‘meal’ with enough salt to season the Beef for fifty Bagels. Let’s not forgot it came with a toy too. Fucking heaven.

In my case, we’re talking about a five-year-old raised by a mother who’d pride herself on the meals she’d prepare. Her response to any fast-food request was the inevitable “There’s rice at home” …So, on the rare occasion we’d be treated to take out, the celebrations could’ve easily been confused with news of a cure for cancer.

So why the game?

Well, at four my parents divorced and by five they’d agreed on a schedule for visitation. My mother would take my big sister and I to the ‘meet point’ and my father would collect us for a day in his care. It’s worth noting that this was the eighties, a time before mobile phones so if someone was late, you waited.

On our first arranged meeting we waited for about an hour before recognising the no-show and returned home. The second time my mother’s patience had run out after twenty minutes. I remember begging her to wait just five more… but once again, my father never made it. That ‘meet point’ was the Holloway Road McDonalds… making my love for the golden arches die before I was six. From that day forward, if we ever drove past, I’d close my eyes...

The child you pictured and the meal they chose should bring a smile to your face. That child carries an innocence worth protecting and this is about them. For the reader whose child and meal didn’t trigger the happiest of memories, I encourage you to read on. This is about that child too.

If memories are essentially the stories we tell ourselves, what story do you choose to define your childhood?

The five-year-old waiting outside of a North London McDonalds is only part of my story. That child quickly learned that his dad might not be all the things he’d hoped for, making a father something he’d need to find… or create.

Who I am is the result of a lot of people. My village isn’t limited to one locale, race or gender, it’s bound to a particular kind of person. A person best compared to the most abrasive honesty sandwich you can imagine. The type made with a ‘scrape the roof of your mouth’ reality bread.

The need for reassurance or gentle delivery was never my experience. The clinical truth has always served me best no matter how bitter the pill might be to swallow. This stretches back to me as a five-year-old questioning my mother as to where my dad was, and why he’s not been home for a week now...

The part of that upbringing often skipped during those war story sessions with friends, or in the midst of the shitty stand-up comic’s stream of consciousness is just how hard it makes you. How thick your skin becomes.

That learned resilience has actively encouraged a skillful stashing of the tough stuff. For years the hardest things from my childhood became a pile promptly kicked behind a closed door. How the boy finds himself while avoiding so much is anyone’s guess. How the boy approaches manhood and what that means in its full, ugly entirety is the wickedest kind of sudoku.

Tiny violin back in its box, this isn’t a sob story nor the predictable overcoming adversity ‘tell all’, unfortunately, my normality is common.

Missing, not having or needing dad is more usual than not in 2025 and the relevant statistics to support that statement can be found should you ask any three people in your phonebook.

That fear of being like every other Schmo might just be the core of my ongoing return to theme. If I’m not defined by my fatherless life, why do I keep returning to it? Why does it keep showing up in therapy? in conversation? in my work?

That dirty word ‘dad’ is just that. A word unused, not punishable, but evocative due to its rarity of use rendering it just as problematic. If there were a wearable neural scan, just saying the word would light up the room. My friends would call it a ‘spicy word’, a tiny chilli with the power to wake you the fuck up.

People who’ve had a couple of therapy sessions become obsessed with talking about ‘doing the work’ but what exactly is the work because the last thing I need is another job. I’m tired. Fully dressed in bed tired. Numb thigh on the toilet for too long tired…

For me, the work lies in recognising my shadow and actually getting to know that prick, making note of his stink and what triggers him. Now I hear him coming particularly as one of his greatest hits is fear which happens to be thankfully very noisy. He has a talent for killing confidence with his sidekick ‘doubt’ and they’ve got a decent little racket going.

Beating the shadow isn’t inevitable, but I think I’ve got his number. Rather than submitting, I lean in.

At its core, the work done with my expensive but helpful friend (see Therapist) pays dividend. So, is this the moment where the chin stroking shrink nudges the box of tissues closer?

Or is this the start of something tougher?

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