french tarts
Things my dad has said:

In a loud voice when walking down a very crowded platform:

There's a new French tart shop opened on the high street. Its great. There's nothing I loke better than to pop in and get a French tart on my way home from work.

----------

Round the dinner table:

Dad: this is he best roast pork I've tasted in years.
Mum: The butcher said he gave me a bit extra for free.
Kids: The butcher fancies you mum.
Dad: Well if he keeps on giving you such good pork I don't mind.


-------

After clearing out the garage:

I've been humping engines all afternoon and I'm knackered. Do you want to do some humping with me as well?

-------

Which is all because (unlike his children) he is still without a cynical or jaded bone in his body.
(woodchopper likes chopping wood, Sun 28 Nov 2010, 13:54, 1 reply)

The birds & the bees
Back in the late 70's & early 80's when I was around 10 / 11 my Dad & I got a hobby for long distance walks & back-packing around the countryside of England. During the term time at boarding school I'd plan out the route (I think these walks where partly educational) and read up beforehand on all the places on the trail, things to see and all the supplies bits of kit etc and turn it into my own boys own adventure.

Off we'd go with our tent, sleeping bags, de-hydrated ration packs, compass and ordinance survey map. We'd walked the Ridgeway (from High Wycombe to Avebury & Stone Henge). But this particular year the plan was to walk the Dorset coastal path from Bournemouth to Lyme Regis. Mum dropped us at the railway station and arrange to pick us up in a few weeks time.

After a rattly railway journey, we tramped our way to the Chain ferry at Poole harbour, for the start of our big adventure. It was a scorchingly hot summers day (the kind you remember from your childhood), families where overheating in the back of Morris Marinas waiting in the traffic queue for the ferry, but being foot passengers we wandered to the front and where soon across at Studland Sands. Perhaps we got the odd look from people, somewhat contemptuous of our boots and back-packs, or just the sight of a middle aged man & young lad walking slap bang through BRITAIN'S BIGGEST NUDEST BEACH!

Now in my research of the route this particular piece of information must have been redacted from the encyclopaedias available from the Library, so it was a bit of an eye opener, but for my Dad it must have been worse as his stride obviously quickened as we walked down the beach with happy naked people popping out from behind the dunes like some episode of meerkat manor and the odd couple heavy petting (and then some).

Dad imagining that he was going to be arrested at any second for corruption of a minor (or worse), thought that it was time to fast track some information to his son (& being the practical person he was) took it on himself to explain the birds & the bees to me. Perhaps the impromptu demonstration and examples where a little more than you'd get at school, but I learned something that day.
( rwbthatisme is on holiday this week, Sun 28 Nov 2010, 13:23, Reply)

This is he.


I love him dearly, but with potential like this in my bloodline, I fear to breed. Thanks Dad.
(jennymnemonic, Sun 28 Nov 2010, 12:25, 4 replies)

Daddy or chips?
When I was a wee Scouser, my dad would frequently tell me that there was a tiger in the garden, I would run excitedly to the window, only to be told that it had just run off. When I returned to the table, feeling a little disapointed, some of my chips would have mysteriously dissappeared.

Definitely chips...
(ScousersPet, Sun 28 Nov 2010, 10:59, Reply)

Cookery
My dad has been an electrical engineer for almost forty years now, and in the past it was always he who had gone out to work. However, a few years ago he was made redundant for a spell (he's since returned as a contractor with better hours and more money) and he ended up looking after my sister and I. This meant that he would have to... dum dum dum... cook.

Cooking is an activity best suited to those who can recognise their mistakes and patiently figure a way out. This statement does not apply to my father, a man who refuses to ever turn around and go back the way he has come when driving somewhere, no matter how lost he is, on the grounds that doing so would be admitting failure.

As such, we were treated to various gastronomic delights - the homemade crisps we dubbed the crippins as they were utterly black and likely to have the same effect on you as the good doctor would have done. There was his attempt to make giant chocolate buttons by melting the chocolate then frying it, there was the steamed chicken that was so tough we physically couldn't eat it, the meatballs he had cooked until it actually required a hacksaw to open one to verify he had not, in fact, served us bits of wood, and the "ready steady cook" dish he attempted to recreate that ended up with him serving up a large dish of potato halves floating in cooking oil. Nothing else.

But the best effort was after he had started to get the hang of things. He was in the kitchen, pottering away, while my sister was in the front room. Suddenly she heard a slight *whomp* sound and a worried shout of "Charlotte..." (for such is her name). As she tells it, she opened the door to be confronted with the sight of dad standing in front of a blazing pan of oil with a look of panic on his face. What to do, what to do? Then he realizes. He doesn't go for a damp teatowel, oh no. His face lights up, he grabs the pan, rushes past my sister to the front door, which he opens before hurling the pan through and slamming the door shut again. With an expression of mingled satisfaction and worry he then turned to my sister and made her swear not to tell ANYONE about what happened. That went out the window when mum got home and asked "MatJ's dad... why is my pan in the front garden and why is the grass all singed?"



Edit: I forgot about the time he accidentally washed the dishes in paraffin and tried to pin the blame on me...
( MatJ LOOK, Sun 28 Nov 2010, 10:45, Reply)

Dads? Never had much use for 'em
A story my dad tells about the joys of being a father to a small me. Wavy lines:

Imagine us walking through the park together, hand in hand. A bearded philosopher in his mid-thirties with his first child, a blond, blue-eyed two-year-old skipping along beside him. She (me) stops, looks up at him with those big blue eyes and informs him:

"You're old my Daddy. You're ugly my Daddy."

Twenty-three years later I still haven't lived that one down. And somehow it always comes up when I need a loan.
(WordsMeanThings, Sun 28 Nov 2010, 10:30, 3 replies)

Peapeapearoast
Apologies for the pearoasting.

Some of you know the backstory to this, Emily is my G/F's daughter.
One night, some time ago now, when watching TV she asked "Does it bother you when people think you're my dad?"
I replied "Not at all munchkin, I'd be proud to have you as my daughter".

She thought for a bit.

"Sometimes people ask if you ARE my dad, I don't like telling them you're not, 'cos I really wish you were."

Doesn't get any better than that.
(Captain Placid 24/7 ball gags, brownie mix and clown porn, Sun 28 Nov 2010, 10:03, 1 reply)

Curriculum Vitae
I used to watch Countdown every day after school with my Dad. He thought it was good for my vocabulary and numeracy as well as keeping me quiet. I just enjoyed the games and having a special time. I wasn't best pleased when my older sister interrupted us one afternoon during countdown wailing for Dad to help her make a C.V. for a school project. My dad left the sofa and got up to help her, whilst I stayed watching Countdown and sulking a bit because I didn't even know what a "seavee" was but I was sure I wouldn't miss out. Finding some paper and a pencil the next afternoon I immediately pounced on Dad during Countdown and demanded to have one too. He told explained that it was the letters C and V which stood for Carol Vorderman and that my sister was writing a letter to become a number-lady like on the television. He encouraged me to write my letter but to put it aside for when I was a bit older as you had to be oh, at least 14 to be allowed on Countdown.......

I wish I could still find the letter as I happily wrote out my CV and had great plans to send it to the woman herself as soon as I was old enough. It would be great to read again now as an adult.
(Mrs Ballunatic counting calories, not votes., Sun 28 Nov 2010, 9:34, Reply)

At the Oche
When I was a young girl my dad used to play quite a lot of darts. He won small, cheap trophies in local tournaments, so I could presume he was also a fairly decent darts player (as an impressionable 6 year old who thought even small trophies were made from gold)

He also looked like Eric Bristow the on/off world champion darts player. Similar nose, size, hair, accent...

Therefore it made perfect sense to me when he told me he was Eric Bristow.
(birdwoman pissed herself at least once on, Sun 28 Nov 2010, 8:45, 2 replies)

My dad really loved baseball
and I hated it. However, I do fondly remember one day when I was maybe 6 or 7, and he was trying to make me into an awesome baseball batter. We were standing in front of the house, and he'd pitch the ball to me and hope that I'd hit it over the house. In retrospect, considering the number of windows/automobiles in that area, this is only one of many ways it could have gone wrong.

Anyway, he lobbed the ball over towards me, and I swung the bat as hard as my little six-year-old arms could. BAM! Hit my dad right in the balls. Both of us fell over, him in pain, me in hysterical laughter. I've done that a couple of times since, and every time it was just as funny to me.
( Ithyphallophobia, Sun 28 Nov 2010, 6:24, Reply)

Rites of passage
We don't really have rites of passage any more. I don't count first beer, first kiss, first driving drunk or first sex. They're transitions, sure, but not rites of passage. I was thinking of through-hiking the Appalachian Trail with my son, in 2 years when he'll be 15. But he's blown hot and cold about it (he's currently hot, which is awesome, and I hope it remains this way.)

But when he was cold on the idea, he came up with an awesome alternative. One that I will move heaven and earth to have happen, assuming he's still into the idea when he's 18. He wants he and I to ride up to Alaska on motorcycles, and spend a few months wandering around the state. I can think of no better way of noting and celebrating his passage into adulthood, and I'm just praying he keeps wanting to do this.

Getting divorced sucked the big one (except for the 4" off my waist and 40lbs lost in a year), but becoming a parent, and making it the central pillar of my life has been, without doubt, even more grounding than I could have begun to imagine.
(Large Hardon Collider Bah Bloody Humbug, Sun 28 Nov 2010, 5:28, 6 replies)

My AP
Aged Pere. Ancient Papa. Call him what you will - I know I do.

My mom died when I was just about school-starting age, leaving 3 boys. My dad went a little off the rails at that, and for a year or two I thought the world smelt of dettol, as we lived in kind of an antiseptic bubble. Never allowed to use public toilets, for instance, which created one or two nasty incidents.

Wavy lines.

My son was born when I was in my 30s, and being older gave me a real laissez faire attitude. Whereas for years my AP wouldn't let me jump in puddles, I actively encouraged my boy to jump in them (and I would too), even going off on puddle hunts with him. What's a little mud and a pair of wet pants to the unencumbered joy of a child finding their own way in the world? Carry a spare pair of pants and some dry socks, and you can't go wrong.
(Large Hardon Collider Bah Bloody Humbug, Sun 28 Nov 2010, 5:20, 1 reply)

My oldest, again.
Last summer my daughter was staying the summer with her aunt in New York, which meant that I had to get her and her car up there from Virginia. I enlisted the aid of her older brother, who rode up with her in her car as I followed in mine.

On the way back my son spotted the wind farm that was off of Route 12 south of Utica and started taking photos of the turbines on the horizon. I thought about it for a moment, then said, "You want to see if we can get a bit closer?"

We took about an hour or two out of our trip home to try to figure out how to get up the hill to these windmills. We made it, and we both took pictures from up close of these gargantuan things as they roared over our heads with blades the size of God's own machete slicing the wind into small gusts.

As we drove home and he raved about how cool that was, I thought back to how my own parents would never have stopped, let alone tracked the turbines down, on their way from one place to another. I felt proud that I had taught my son that it's the journey that matters more than the destination.

Now if only he'd show up on time once in a while...
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Sun 28 Nov 2010, 4:07, Reply)

Santa shenanigans!
It was about fifteen years or more ago when I told my kids of my relationship with Santa.

"Yeah, I know him. I used to go to school not too far from him when I was studying forestry. Remember I told you that I used to work with race horses? Well, reindeer aren't that much different. I used to help Santa take care of them."

They listened, eyes the size of saucers as I described hanging out with the elves and watching them make toys or having dinner with the big man himself. I used to warn them, "You'd better behave or Santa's gonna go to the reindeer stalls to fill your stockings!"

I used to revel in the howls that would arise.

So on Christmas Eve, after a final warning about reindeer poop, I finally got them to sleep. I put the usual toys and candy in the stockings, then pulled out the piece de resistance: a box of Raisinets. I dumped chocolate covered raisins in each stocking, then headed to bed with many a chuckle.

Christmas Day they woke us up at some ungodly hour, and I stumbled down the stairs with their comatose mother to blearily watch them rip into their stockings. They pulled out candies and toys, and then my oldest held up a brown lump. "Dad, what's this?"

"I told you not to fight with your brother the other night, didn't I?"

"EEEEEEEEWWWW!" The thing was flung across the room. (The dog was happy to clean up.)

I chuckled to myself and went to the kitchen to make coffee. As I listened to the coffee pot make obscene noises my oldest came racing into the kitchen. "Dad! You gotta come quick!"

"What?"

"He's eating reindeer poop!" And he dragged me to the living room where his younger brother was happily eating Raisinets.

This has been a treasured memory ever since. (Well, by me, anyway...)
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Sun 28 Nov 2010, 3:52, 1 reply)

Dads and joking about...
As a kid, whenever my dad showed me some little trick or technique, which always seemed amazing, or imparted some seemingly fantastical nugget of wisdom, he would usually tell me:-
'Son, I learned that from when I lived with the Indians before you were born.'
Now I took this to mean Native American Indians, the only knowledge of which I had was from old cowboy films he used to watch. As such I was mightily impressed that my dad had lived such an exciting life and always regaled these tales to my friends.
I never doubted him for a minute in 11/12 years and he never even hinted that he might be joking.
So you can imagine my sense of horror, disappointment and betrayal when, having brought some friends home and bugging him to perform a little magic trick, I proudly proclaimed that he had learned that from 'the Indians' and he couldn't contain himself any longer. All the years of keeping this secret joke running erupted in to tear streaming laughter and I was left humiliated and disillusioned. Took me years to live that one down.
Although having said all that, god forbid I ever have kids, they're going to get EXACTLY the same story...
(Megamoss, Sun 28 Nov 2010, 3:25, Reply)

oh right
i'll have to do this.

i'll be back
( spimf ™ is whoever you want him to be, Sun 28 Nov 2010, 1:18, 2 replies)

Being a dad
*
(Strump striving for imperfection since, Sun 28 Nov 2010, 0:28, Reply)

I loved my dad,
he was like a father to me.
( Mr Nerdy-Speccy-FuckNuts Ouchy ouchy wa wa!, Sat 27 Nov 2010, 23:48, Reply)

Packing for a holiday
Before a holiday to Cypres, the whole family is packing, under the paniced instruction of my mum. We soon realise we haven't seen my Dad in a while. A quick search of the house and we found my dad happily watching Tom and Jerry with a glass of squash. He had a big grin on his face, enjoying the children's television.

Definately taught me a valuable lesson, when a woman is going mad, sneek off and hide.
(Mong goose, Sat 27 Nov 2010, 23:11, Reply)

sob story
sob story, blah blah blah.

The end :) xx
( FIEND, Sat 27 Nov 2010, 23:05, Reply)

Dad's a lovely bastard
The relationship I have with my dad is one of opposites. He's the one person who pisses me off more than any other in the world. He's also the one who shares my sense of humour to a tee. If we're both in a good mood everything will be raucous and jolly. If either of us are in a bad mood we'll be tearing each other apart within minutes. He's a cunt or a bigger cunt, but I still love him.

Two things he's done that stand out:
He likes to freak me out. When I was 13 he asked if I could imagine him & my mum getting it on. Um, no. Urgh. "So you can't imagine your mother crawl around the floor exhausted?" Arrrrrrrggggghhhh! La, la, la! Can't hear you!
I ran from the room with his cackling ringing in my ears. Unfortunately it's a mental image that won't go away.

The other thing epitomises how lovely he can be. When I was 5 I came home from school distraught. My wobbly tooth had come out at school & had been put on a filing cabinet for safe keeping. Somehow it had managed to fall behind this cabinet which was screwed to the wall. How was the tooth fairy going to collect my tooth now? I was going to lose out on 10p here (this was the 70s, 10p was a lot). Disaster. My dad rang the operator and asked if she would mind being the tooth fairy to cheer up a disconsolate child. She did. I was delighted and totally convinced that I had spoken to the tooth fairy. I told all my friends that it was far better speaking to her than just leaving your tooth under the pillow anonymously. You got 5 times more money. My dad was gutted to have had to cough up the 50p she promised me instead of the usual 10p, but he didn't let on until I was well into my teens.

I think that makes up for the hundreds of horrible arguments we have had since. He can be a shit too. But he's my loveable shit of a dad.
(crustyonion, Sat 27 Nov 2010, 22:24, 1 reply)

My Dad feels no pain....
I've got lots of tales about my Father injuring himself whilst doing DIY, but the best thing is his medical DIY.
My personal favorite was when he was chopping up a pigs leg (that he got cheap down the pub as I recall) so he was a tad tipsy, he was swinging and hacking at the leg trying to split it up when there was a clatter and an "oh bloodey hell"
The cleaver had slipped from his hand, missed the pork, missed the sideboard (we didnt have a fitted kitchen at the time and it was a fridge, cooker and a freestanding cupboard) and he was stood in a rapidly expanding pool of blood with the cleaver stuck in the top of his foot.....
Calmly he pulled the cleaver out and placed a tea towel on what I can only call a gaping wound..... picked up a roll of duct tape and wrapped it round his foot and continued to hack away at the pork.
He didnt limp, wince, cry or even blink at it....
( tim1701 I have no board signature!!!!!, Sat 27 Nov 2010, 22:13, Reply)

My Dad is great
I've posted before a couple of times, but here's a couple of little ones.

My dad gave me my first real cup of tea to calm me down after I fell in a nettle patch wearing only shorts and sandals.

My dad let me stay home from school when the Viking I lander relayed its first pictures from the surface of Mars.
( Amish Information Systems hates misplaced, commas, Sat 27 Nov 2010, 21:09, Reply)

Dad
Mum left when me and my sister were 7 and 4. She went off with another bloke and didn't want us around.

He worked shifts, double 3 out 5 days a week and both Sat and Sun mornings alternately. Never saw the old bugger, (Nan did a cracking job of bringing us up) but there would be those weekends when he was off, where whatever we wanted to do we did. Swimming twice at 2 different pools on a sunday - check. As long as I babysat while he went for a pint on Saturday night, his world was complete.

Then mum decided to come back, and take us away. She applied for full custody, and due to a complete wanker of a soliciter confusing my little sister, the judge moved us to my mums. Saw dad once every other weekend, he would be in bits at the end of sunday. Mum then went to the CSA and did him for more money, even though she was marrying a millionaire.

Nearly did for him. But he just got on. Worked his arse off to pay back every penny of CSA/Legal aid. I lost it with mum, and moved into a mates; dad would drive a 20 mile round trip just to chat for 10 mins.

I went away to Uni and mum and my sister moved away. Dad was there for everything.

About 7 years ago I fell in love, and went to tell him I was getting married. He had gotten re-married and was happy, but he cried like a baby; he was late for the bloody wedding but Dad has never been ontime. He cried at the wedding, during his speech. This bloke I'd never seen shed a tear was so happy.

I have 2 small kids now, and he was there for both births, in tears at his grandsons. He only ever said one piece of advice "now you'll know why I love you, no matter what"..

Best.Dad.Ever.
(Strump striving for imperfection since, Sat 27 Nov 2010, 18:52, 6 replies)

My dad was the captain of a supertanker (Ship's master)
Fucked if I know what that involved. I've since resolved to visit the places he went to by any means available.
(mymilkshakebringsallthemongstotheyard poison hearts, poison minds - joining hate, Sat 27 Nov 2010, 17:40, 2 replies)

There are many many stories I could tell about my dad
but here are a few memories that leap to mind:

The first time my best mate AJ ever came round to my house, we were watching Bottom live 3 in my bedroom when this sort of "Neeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeyoooooooooooooooooooooown!" noise came from downstairs.

Aj looked at me: "What was that?"

"What was what?"

-"Neeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeyooooooooooooooooown! Neeeyown! Neeeeeeeeeeeeyown", it came again -

"That."

"Oh, my Dad's downstairs, watching the late night F1 highlights..."

On his own. Drunk.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

We were staying with a friend of his in Brighton for the weekend, and had gone for several beers around town. We were quite drunk by this point, and had found our way to a pub in Brighton that used to be a church (don't know the name of it. Anyone care to enlighten me?).

The pub was a horseshoe shape with a kind of balcony that went all the way round, looking down into the bar below. On the back wall of the bar were a load of plaques for different beers, screwed into the wall. We got to talking about them. Jeff, my Dad's mate who we were visiting, pointed one out for Boddingtons:

"They've got a Boddies, Manchester one there..."

"Oh yeah..."

"That'd look good on your wall..."

"Yeah, it would..."

Then they got up to go to the toilet. Or so I assumed.

40 seconds or so later I see them, dangling over the balcony precariously, trying to unscrew this plaque from the wall about 15 feet above the barmans head. My Dad was about 48 at this point.

I have no idea where they got the screwdriver from.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

We used to have a caravan in the Lake District that we would go and stay at occasionally on weekends. I remember we were driving up the motorway, when my Dad decided to pull in for petrol. He turned off the motorway, onto the road leading to the service station, when another car that almost missed the turning also, pulled sharply off the motorway and into the back of us.

My Dad lost his rag. Which, believe me, is a sight to behold. He's basically a bigger, angrier, swearier version of me.

"Oh for fucks sake!! That fucking idiot just went right into the fucking back of us!!! Fucking tosser!!!" etc..

My Mum is saying to him "calm down, it was an accident. Don't do anything stupid".

But he's raging. He's about ready to clock someone I'm thinking.

He jumps out of the car, slams the door behind him, and marches over to the other car to yell at this prat thats gone into us.

The door of the other car opens, and this tall, slim, young and attractive blonde girl gets out:

"Oh God, I'm so sorry!! I missed the turning and I didn't see you on the road!!!"

My Dad, who is red in the face, fists clenched, teeth gritted goes, suddenly as jovial as could be:

"It's fine love, it was an accident. Couldn't be helped!"

He then returned to the car and sat back in the drivers seat. My Mum looked over at him and went: "Pathetic."

"Shut up."

----------------------------------------------------------------------

I have many other fond memories that aren't violence or alcohol related too, just to clarify...
( PMGT -Bacon., Sat 27 Nov 2010, 17:16, 1 reply)

I just dug a great big trench
with my dad and brother. It's an epic trench the likes of which the land has never seen. And I got to break the soil hymen that got the flood rolling from our overflowing overflow to a local stream.
( dazbrilliantwhites has been meaning to change this..., Sat 27 Nov 2010, 16:11, Reply)

I told my eldest kid....
...that if you can hear the jingle on an ice-cream van, it means they've sold out.

Worked a treat for a couple of years! I 'fessed up as soon as she called me on it, though.
(CADmonkey rollllllllled another one, just like the other one, Sat 27 Nov 2010, 15:29, 3 replies)

bum sex
My son, when about 6, made a wormery. He followed the instructions in a book - cut the top off an old lemonade bottle, fill it with layers of soil and sand, stuff some worms in it.

Anyway, he went on to take an interest in woodlice, spiders and other such creatures, and decided to make somewhere for them to live, announcing to us "I've made a buggery". We convinced him he should call it a 'bug house' just in case he mentioned it to anyone and they got the wrong idea.
(TolstoyTheCat, Sat 27 Nov 2010, 14:18, 3 replies)

My Dad was an enigma
Or just barking, I was never sure. He started a Charity, (which I now run) because he had a genuine love of people. Then he spent the next 20 years being rude to them. He was awarded the MBE for his work, but declined picking it up from the Palace because he was 'too busy'. Elton John dropped in unannounced for some event and Dad asked who he was, to his face. George Micheal was told 'You'll have to hurry, I have a meeting in 10 minutes' when he visited.
At events, he would usually give a speech, go red at the applause then head for the kitchen to help with the washing up.
He died last year, from the big C in terrible pain. But his last words still make me smile. The Morphine in the Hospice had taken away the man i knew, he hadn't spoken in a few days. But he came back for just one second.
I said to him: 'Dad, the doctor is here'
And he replied:
'I can see that, you bloody fool'
He died that afternoon.
( TheSundaeLunch I'm a fucking shrub, alright?, Sat 27 Nov 2010, 13:55, Reply)