The Embarrassing Dad
I was leading the Zed family on a trek through Keswick the other day when we stumbled into a quaint little shop that sold nothing but teapots. Luckily it was only a slight stumble so there was no immediate bill for damages. But this shop had teapots in all shapes and sizes including two that looked like old-fashioned radio sets. For a moment I contemplated starting a collection of either teapots or things that resembled radios and then I suddenly realised I would have more fun slapping myself about the head with a cheese-grater.
鈥淭hose can鈥檛 be real teapots,鈥 said my ten year old son, proving that the money we鈥檙e forking out for those cynicism lessons is not going to waste.
鈥淪ure they are, look, I鈥檒l ask that lady at the cash register鈥xcuse me鈥oo-hoo!鈥
鈥淣o Dad, don鈥檛鈥︹
But it was too late. Not only did I elicit confirmation that these radio look-a-likes could also be put to practical use but I also made one or two hilarious remarks about the kind of programmes you might be able to receive on a teapot radio. Naturally Ed 鈥淪tewpot鈥 Stewart鈥檚 name came up, as did the music of T-Rex.
鈥淥f course, you might have to strain to hear that,鈥 I said, turning to my son in triumph鈥 but he was long gone. He was out of the shop and half-way to Hadrian鈥檚 Wall while I was still conjuring up teapot puns and wowing the audience of shop customers like an amateur magician pulling suffocated rabbits out of a hat.
That鈥檚 when it dawned on me. My days as a credible Children's Entertainer are over.
Instead, I have become the Embarrassing Dad.
Now I鈥檓 not sure when this happened because it seems like only yesterday when I could start a family giggle-fest by covering my head in shaving foam and pretending I鈥檇 fallen into the trifle. Try the same gag today and I鈥檇 get tuts, sighs, groans and more eye-rolling than an explosion in a taxidermist鈥檚 workshop.
Of course I should have spotted the signs. Like last week in that caf茅 when we ordered desserts and the waitress asked if we wanted our cream whipped.
鈥淗asn鈥檛 it suffered enough?鈥 I retorted as my family disappeared beneath their laminated menus.
This must be what it feels like in show-business. One day you鈥檙e top of the bill at the London Palladium, the next you can鈥檛 get a booking at the Beach Hall in Carnoustie.
Still, these things come in phases. My material will come back into fashion. All I have to do is wait.
For grandchildren.
