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.
“Those can’t be real teapots,” said my ten year old son, proving that the money we’re forking out for those cynicism lessons is not going to waste.
“Sure they are, look, I’ll ask that lady at the cash register…excuse me…yoo-hoo!”
“No Dad, don’t…”
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 “Stewpot” Stewart’s name came up, as did the music of T-Rex.
“Of course, you might have to strain to hear that,” I said, turning to my son in triumph… but he was long gone. He was out of the shop and half-way to Hadrian’s 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’s when it dawned on me. My days as a credible Children's Entertainer are over.
Instead, I have become the Embarrassing Dad.
Now I’m 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’d fallen into the trifle. Try the same gag today and I’d get tuts, sighs, groans and more eye-rolling than an explosion in a taxidermist’s workshop.
Of course I should have spotted the signs. Like last week in that café when we ordered desserts and the waitress asked if we wanted our cream whipped.
“Hasn’t it suffered enough?” I retorted as my family disappeared beneath their laminated menus.
This must be what it feels like in show-business. One day you’re top of the bill at the London Palladium, the next you can’t 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.
