Remembering Dad

Tomorrow, it will be 22 years since I last sent my dad a Father’s Day card.

Twenty-two years since the first Father’s Day after his death passed with a gut-wrenching sobbing and feeling of resentment towards children buying cards and gifts for their dads. 

This year, as every other, those celebratory images in shop windows do not lose their impact. The Interflora phone service from which I once ordered flowers still reminds me every year to send something to Dad, despite my having told them, as the first Father’s Day approached after his death, how much their automated prompt had upset me. Even the online Apple Store suggests Father’s Day gifts. The iPad, for example, currently being touted as “The gift Dad won’t take his eyes off”. Everywhere, I see the promise of things one’s father is going to love.

    

The things my dad might have loved - but I doubt it. Because what my Dad loved most was his family. My mum, my brother Nigel and me. And now, every Father’s Day, I try to put aside the immense sadness I still feel at his not being here and celebrate the fact that I was blessed with such a kind, thoughtful, strong and loving man who, all these years on, continues to have such a huge, positive impact on my life.

    

The last birthday party he attended would be his last. I was 30, living in London and working as television critic on the London Evening Standard. I still went home regularly, and even more so when Dad first went into hospital in the January of 1987. I was used to him being ill; he had been a smoker and had always had a weak chest. But he had always come through and we expected him to again. 

The moment I knew he would definitely not was the Christmas before he died, when a doctor at the hospital told me that he had suffered three “small” heart attacks that week. “But no one can survive that, can they?” I asked. “Well, no,” he said.

    

Until that moment, I had not thought of a life without Dad. Although I was very busy in my new job and having problems settling in an alien city, we were in constant touch, either through visits or on the phone. Then, as always, Dad was a huge part of my life, and even the thought of him not being there left a hole that left me gasping for breath. 

This was what people meant when they talked of the parent becoming the child, and I felt ill equipped for my new role. 

Feeding Dad his supper one night, when he was too weak to hold the fork, was a moment of grown-upness too far.

    

Both my mum and dad gave my brother and me a good, fulfilled and joyous childhood. There was not a vast amount of money, but we lived a comfortable life in which we felt no deprivation. 

Our holidays were spent at Butlin’s, where we enjoyed late nights drinking hot milk and watching the doughnut-making machine sugar our supper. On summer weekends we went to the beach, where Dad really came into his own packing the car (and unpacking it at the other end) the essentials Mum deemed necessary for a day at the sea - wind-break, Lilo, Flotina, deck chairs, table and chairs, cold-box, hamper, sun umbrella, Tupperware for sandwiches and squash, flasks for tea and coffee, dog bowls, towels and swimming costumes, eight gallons of Calamine lotion. 

By the time we left the house, dusk was falling and our day out became 40 minutes. But as with everything, Dad bore his lot with equanimity.

    

Dad’s calm nature was in stark contrast to that of Mum, Nigel and me, whose rather wacky humour put us in tune with each other in rather more obvious ways. Where Mum had me dressed in psychedelic dresses and wearing cowbells to school when I was 11, Dad practically needed oxygen when I wore my first pair of platform shoes with a bright red plastic heart on the sides. His views on fashion were, as his values, old-fashioned by today’s standards, but I remain grateful for them.

He taught me manners and respect; the importance of hard work and being driven, but not to the point of negating the people closest to you. Despite his intellect and enormous success in his work, his family came first, ambition second. I doubt he ever thought of it as a sacrifice, but it is one that I believe he made in order that his children might have better lives. 

Mum still lives in Bristol and works as a therapist. Like my relationship with Dad, it is a very close one, and undoubtedly Dad’s goodness and love live on in the special relationship I have both with her and Nigel. Every year, on Father’s Day, we call each other.

    

In celebration of my dad, I this week uploaded a short book on Amazon Kindle called, simply, Dad (available in their store, £1.99). It is another reminder of how very lucky we were to have him.

Addicted To The Chase - And Possibly in LA Soon?

Don’t phone your mother at 5pm on a weekday. That’s a given among all my friends. If you do, you’re likely to be met with a cold, ‘But you know I’m watching The Chase’ – that’s assuming she can tear herself away from the TV to answer the phone in the first place.

The quiz show has been running since 2009 on ITV1 and is such a hit it’s just been made as a pilot for Fox TV in the US. Here, it regularly attracts audiences of over three million and has become the must-see show in ITV1’s daytime schedule, beating its rivals in the same slot.

It is totally addictive television, and so much more than your average quiz: it’s a nail-biting race against the clock, in which a contestant and a quiz expert, called The Chaser, go head-to-head answering general knowledge questions.

The contestant is given a head start and it’s The Chaser’s job to catch and eliminate them by answering more questions correctly while a scoreboard keeps track of their progress. Successful contestants bank money as they go along, but to keep it they must play ‘The Final Chase’, when the Chaser invariably annihilates them!

The show’s appeal is in no small part due to the brilliance of host Bradley Walsh. Quick-witted, kind and sardonic without being condescending, he is perfect in the role. How he manages to keep a straight face is a miracle in itself (although his occasional giggling fits only add to the fun).

Take this question. ‘What was the Christian name of the education pioneer Montessori?’ Primary school teacher contestant: ‘Kevin.’ Somehow, Walsh managed to hold it together.

Don’t ask me how.

Undoubtedly, much of the appeal lies in the personalities of the Chasers - four brainboxes who take turns on the show and whose nicknames lend them a sinister presence that is played upon throughout. Mastermind winner Shaun Wallace is The Barrister or The Dark Destroyer; Anne Hegarty, who holds the rank of Master in the UK quiz rankings, is The Governess; Paul Sinha, ranked 20th in the quiz rankings, goes by name of The Sinnerman or The Sinner Winner; and Mark Labbett, runner-up on Brain Of Britain, is The Beast or Beastie Boy.

Much of the excitement rests on the moment when Walsh announces ‘It’s time to bring on the Chaser’, and the identity of that episode’s expert is revealed. At 6ft 7in and built to scale, Labbett is easily the most terrifying and by far the toughest on contestants who do not match his breadth of knowledge.

Then there’s the suspense element, as contestants move up the illuminated board with each question they answer correctly, only to find the Chaser hot on their heels.

It’s unpredictable, fun, a brilliant format, and perfect TV that could easily play in a primetime slot (are you listening, ITV?).

Until it does, just don’t call me between 5 and 6pm, OK?

Diamond Jubilees Are Not A Girl's Best Friend

Everyone said it was an occasion that made one proud to be British.

Presenters and guests in studios across the world extolled the virtues of a country that is able to put on such a great show, claiming that it set a wonderful precedent for the forthcoming Olympics. People over-ate, over-drank and partied long into several nights, as they celebrated Queen Elizabeth’s 60-year reign.

I felt nothing. Zilch. Nada.

I went to Spain where, for professional reasons only, I watched some of the pageantry on the telly. I wanted to feel something. A glimmer of patriotism, a hint of belonging, a sense of having come home, where I belong, after several years spent living mainly in other countries. I dug deep. And all I found was a longing to leave these shores once more in search of sunnier climes, cheaper utilities, better service – and, most importantly, leave a country that purports to be a democracy, when the head of State is where she is purely by virtue of her birth; likewise, the rest of the Royal family. That defies the very essence of democracy.

The joke is that the many thousands who gathered to catch a glimpse of the Royals this week are where they are by virtue of their birth, too: Down There. They are Her Majesty’s subjects: every one of them poorer, less privileged, and with not a snowball’s chance in hell of ever rising to Her Majesty’s position. The only way they can even get close is with neck bowed or a curtsy. I recently saw a list of DOs and DON’Ts for Joe Public meeting the Queen – it disgusted me.

I back Plaid Cymru leader Leanne Wood, a staunch Republican, who refuses to attend events at which the Queen turns up – and she was once thrown out of the Assembly for referring to the Queen as “Mrs Windsor”. Good on her. And for any dissonant voices out there venting their fury at this – Plaid’s membership has gone up 23% since she took the reins.

The Royal family is one of the most dysfunctional ones in the country. Her children grew up shaking their mother’s hand rather than receiving a hug. Charles went on to marry a beautiful, young but vulnerable woman, whom he treated appallingly from day one, continuing his affair with Camilla Parker Bowles and, on his honeymoon, even wearing the famously embossed CC cufflinks she had given him.

 Both Anne and Andrew are divorced, and Edward revealed himself to have the business acumen of a dead stoat in the film business, despite people throwing chances at him purely because of his lineage.

Thank heavens for Diana in this mix, and the joy that William and Harry have turned out to be – and, also, for Fergie, who has brought up two rather fun-loving daughters, even if they sometimes leave a lot to be desired in the fashion department.

On November 4^th 2008, on the even of my 50^th birthday, I stood in tears, watching TV, as America stood on the brink of electing its first black President. He has not proven himself to be perfect by any stretch of the imagination, but I felt proud of a country taking such a monumental step where, not so very long ago, black people had to give up their seats to white on public transport. Racism is still rife in the States as, sadly, it seems to be everywhere, but Obama has surely given hope to millions of young, disenfranchised Americans – yes, they can do it.

The Royal Family is a smokescreen for the real problems underlying British society – our failing education system, immense poverty, struggle on a daily basis for millions, as they find themselves falling behind on mortgages and bills. Waving your little flag might enable you to forget for a couple of days, but come the hangover, the problems are still there.

As for me: I’m out of here. Again.

  

  

  

  

My Horse And I 6/1/12

Don’t rent property from a private landlord. 

That’s the number one piece of advice I would give anyone arriving for the first time here. 

You may not get as much  square footage for your money from an established organisation in a block, but provided you have not violated any rules, you will get your money back at the end. 

With many private landlords, you may just have two choices at the end of your lease, when they are holding on to a chunk of your money on whatever pretence they choose. You can walk away, or sue. I sued. And I won. Californian law is very strict. Suing is a hassle, but well worth it. 

This time round, I have been far wiser and also been able to steer many people away from people I know to be bad landlords. Spread your experiences; it helps your friends, and LA is a very small place where a bad name counts for a lot – if you see what I mean.

   

 Another valuable piece of advice I wish I had been given when I first arrived three years ago is: never, ever, ever go to a post office. Unless you want to have three birthdays while standing in a queue for a stamp, do your business by any other means. 

In fact, hiring a horse and sending your letter by hoof will take considerably less time than organising it through the mail.

   

 Returning to any country for a second time when you have left it reminds you of just how naïve you were when you first arrived. Hopefully, you have learned lessons; unfortunately, you will just make different mistakes. It’s as true of life the world over as it is here.

    

For example: when I came here from the UK, I was naïve enough to think that cup cakes might be better than they were at home, where the experience was like sucking on a box of sugar cubes (that would have been better served being fed to the horse who delivered your letter). 

Having seen the queues outside the cup cake shops in Beverly Hills, I was optimistic. Big mistake. Had I bought a sugar cane farm and sucked on it for a week, I could not have been prepared for the massive hit of the sweet stuff that sent me rushing for the rest room. Gross. Now, you would not find me queuing for a cup cake any more than you would find me taking relationship advice  from a Kardashian. 

Learning such things is . . . well . . . the icing on the metaphorical cup cake.

   

Back in 2009, I was also naïve enough to think that there would be an LA hairdresser who knew how to cut hair in a style other than anything that makes a woman look like The Addams’ Family’s Morticia – or, if you’re a man, Lurch (and heck, I’d had enough of that look from my landlord’s entourage). 

I had such bad cuts, I would have been happier emerging looking like Uncle Fester.

    

They just can’t do short hair here, not least because they hardly ever see it. Long hair is as de rigeur as Botox and lip implants, and unless you are a poodle, you can forget coming out of a salon with a short haircut and looking like anything other than a lesbian trucker or a serial killer. 

When I returned to the UK after a haircut here, I risked arrest as children ran for cover.

   

 The main thing I wish I had known in 2009 is that no one area is Los Angeles: especially not Beverly Hills which, for the most part, I found to be an enclave of narrow-minded, humourless, not very well travelled people who believed themselves to be the centre of the universe. 

Don’t get me wrong: there were and are some wonderful people, especially in the five star Beverly Wilshire and a select number of restaurants; a huge number of people working in the film and television industries are also among the brightest you will ever meet, and it is always a privilege to meet them and learn from their very varied experiences.

   

 Santa Monica is not the centre, either. While it has among the best sunsets in the world, it feels miles from any working environment and a magnet for lots of people who don’t want to do very much in life other than hang out at the beach.

    

West Hollywood is a vibrant, working environment, but not a great place for a woman to stand a chance of meeting a bloke.

    

The truth is: whatever you want, the city has it all. Outside TV and film, it’s still a cultural wasteland compared to New York or London, but there are worse wastelands on the planet.

   

Anyway, that’s enough for now. 

I have to see a man about a horse.

  

    

   

Me And My Misopohonia 5/19/12

Last night, the American television network ABC aired a programme about 19 year old Emma Riehl, who suffers from misophonia – literally, a hatred of sound.

The neurological condition means that sufferers endure high states of anxiety triggered by certain sounds; their inability to tolerate them often forces them into a life of solitude.

  

I have suffered from misophonia all my life – I just didn’t know it. In recent years, my tolerance to particular noises is so low, it has drastically curtailed activities that most people take for granted.

  

Take eating. Many of my friends think I have an eating disorder because, when we visit a restaurant, I rarely eat anything.

It’s not that I don’t like my food – I eat like a pig at home; I just can’t stand the sound of other people’s noises, and the tension in my stomach makes it impossible to consume anything other than several drinks to calm my nerves.

  

I can’t stand the sound of a fork twisting pasta at the bottom of a plate or, worse, the scraping of a spoon at the bottom of a yoghurt pot. So bad is my response to the latter, I can no longer eat breakfast in a hotel restaurant when I go away.

 

My brother, to whom I am very close, drinks coffee at very high temperatures. I have to leave the room when he drinks, as the tension while waiting for the slurp as he descends upon the liquid, makes me feel not just annoyed but angry – and I am not an angry person.

  

Tapping, chewing, scraping – many people find these noises irritating, but I really cannot be around them. Last week, I had to ask my cleaner to stop chewing; to me, the noise was like a hurricane, and I felt like hitting the gum out of her mouth – and I am not a violent person, either.

  

My life as a television critic is spent with the remote control permanently in one hand, as I have to hit the mute button if anyone is eating or drinking on screen. Characters or presenters tapping at a keyboard is another sound that drives me to distraction, just as it does in real life.

A few weeks back, I appeared on Radio 4’s Today programme and, while waiting for my item in the studio, John Humphrys’ sidekick was tapping at her keyboard. My palms started to sweat and I dug my nails hard into them, so extreme was my feeling of fury.

  

“Excuse me, but are you going to be doing that throughout?” I asked. I knew I would not have been able to carry on through what felt like a hailstorm coursing through my every vein.

  

I can move carriages up to ten times on a train if I can hear somebody texting – which they are allowed to do in the quiet carriage. Indeed, I once became involved in a row when somebody objected to my intense sighing and mumbling about the noise. Long-haul flying became a nightmare, with the sound from other people’s headphones – another personal hatred.

They say that misophonia is a rare condition and little understood. It is also very different from hyperacusis, which is the over-sensitivity to the loudness of a sound. Alas, I have that, too, and spend the little social life I have asking staff to turn down the music in bars and clubs.

  

Alas, there is no known cure. Ear-plugs are a no-no for me, as the sound of my own breathing similarly drives me to distraction. Some recommend therapy – but I am sure that whatever noise the therapist made would counter any effectiveness of the treatment.

  

So, for the moment, I just have to live with it, as I suspect my misophonia will only stop when I am six feet under.

Even then, I wouldn’t rule out the earthworms getting on my nerves.

  

Dying Is An Art 5/12/12

There are many things I was told throughout my childhood that turned out not to be true.

If you swallow chewing gum, it will wrap around your heart and YOU WILL DIE! for one.

If you don’t go to sleep, the Bogey Man will come and get you (subtext: AND YOU WILL DIE!).

If you don’t look right, look left and right again (I think that was the order), as the road expert Tufty tells you, a bus will come along and YOU WILL DIE!

Small wonder I didn’t die of a heart attack caused by fear, long before I reached adulthood.

  

I am convinced that the reason I, and so many of my friends, never experimented with drugs was because of a very effective poster campaign during our teens. It was, basically: if you take drugs . . . yes, you guessed it . . . YOU WILL DIE!

  

I was brought up with a fear of dying from a very early age, not helped by a church background that instilled in me a fear of the afterlife – heaven, if you were good; hell, if you were bad. Good meant have to take eternal afternoon tea with all the old fuddy duddies from church, and hell was just being very hot. I didn’t fancy either much.

  

Then, at Durham Road Junior School in Newport, on the last Friday of every month there was a roll call at the end of assembly, listing the pupils who had met a bad end for not adhering to Tufty’s road safety instructions.

  

“Steven XX, stepped out from behind a parked vehicle. Dead. Jane XX, ran into oncoming traffic. Two broken legs.”

  

The headmaster saved up the broken limbs and fatalities as if they were our reward for good behaviour: look what might have happened to YOU, had you not listened to Tufty! Be grateful, give thanks, you are ALIVE!

  

My secondary school, Brynteg Comprehensive in Bridgend, did not deal with death much better. Musical instruments were allotted to pupils for just one year at a time, and I was in the clarinet queue.

  

One morning, the headmaster announced in assembly that the lead clarinet player of the orchestra had been killed on his mo-ped on the way into school. There was barely a beat of breath between that announcement and his next sentence: “Would Jacqueline Stephen please go to the music room at break.”

  

The music teacher handed over the box containing the clarinet as if it were the Crown Jewels. When I opened it, the reed was still damp, evidence that the poor lad had been practising even before he took his fateful journey. I didn’t want the instrument anymore, and every time I put it to my mouth after that day, it was as if all I could taste was the dead boy’s spit.

  

I’ve been thinking a lot about death this week, as I have many friends who have lost their parents in recent weeks, and I have had my fair share of friends die recently, too. There is a sense that for every one who goes, I am taking another step closer to that final gate, and it doesn’t feel good.

  

I’ve also been thinking about it because on Monday, the next part of the brilliant series Seven Up hits our screens. I was just a year younger than the participants when this brilliant documentary series first aired in 1964 and I have followed their fortunes and disparate lives every seven years since.

  

The original experiment was to bring together working class and middle class children and see how they interacted; it was a social experiment – nature versus nurture – and the results were often surprising, and sometimes less so.

  

As the group moves towards their sixties in 56 Up, there is something desperately poignant about those early years that saw them so full of hope, excitement and joy, and something equally so desperately sad about knowing that they, too, are next up to the gate: arriving, as Shakespeare’s Seven Ages of Man speech in As You Like It says, “sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything”.