We asked Standard Issue contributors what Father’s Day meant to them. From baby toothbrushes to Red Dwarf, grandads to bona fide heroics, turns out it means a lot.
I have zero to do with my dad but my Grandad was a top guy. Everyone thinks their grandparents are epic, obviously, but my Grandad was a true original. A multilingual Nietzsche-appreciator who had a magnificent turn of phrase (I wish I was one per cent as smart). He hadn’t lived in Austria for more than 60 years but never lost one ounce of his Viennese accent. He was brought up under Hitler’s regime and was a member of the Hitler Youth, but following the war became the most unprejudiced, tolerant, progressive man you could ever hope to meet and I’m proud he was my Grandad.
My Pops is brilliant. He got the name Pops after a particularly uncanny League of Gentlemen impression. I’ve also never really forgiven him for getting their autograph while I was away at uni. Bastard.
When I asked my Dad where babies come from he told me I was born as a toothbrush and evolved into a human. I believed him until I was nine. Also, he once beckoned me into his room where our cat (Muffin) sat asleep. He then crouched over the cat, with his arsehole lowered to within millimetres of her and let out a loud wet ripping fart. The cat leapt from the window and genuinely never, ever came back. Think that pretty much sums him up.
“A dedicated follower of my Twitter feed, Dad likes recounting back jokes I have made with a twinkle in his eye.”
Claire Joanne Goodwin
My Dad is awesome. A fireman who was present when the Manchester bomb went off in 1996 and at the Strangeways riots, he is a genuine hero, although you’re not allowed to say that out loud as his modesty knows no bounds. He also used to play circus with me and my sister Katie when we were little. He called us Blondini and Blodwini and would balance us, each on one hand, lifted in the air after he had forward rolled into the room. Usually while Eurythmics were playing.
My Dad is one of the silliest sausages. A well talked about family story is of him changing my (and my sister’s) nappies and making us giggle by holding our little feet and making our legs run and dance while singing a silly song. The song was about running around the garden with our dog and this was the last line: “Big black woofy dog can’t catch me / If I can’t have a woofy dog I’ll have a cuppa tea.”
Dad is my biggest and likely my only fan. Dedicating hours each night to reading the pages that appear when you search for my considerable name, he dutifully reports back his findings. I’ve found out about gigs I’ve been incorrectly booked for and reviews I didn’t even know I was a part of from Dad’s Googling. A dedicated follower of my Twitter feed, he likes recounting back jokes I have made with a twinkle in his eye.
That’s not to say he’s a sycophant. The first time he saw me do standup comedy he declared: “I don’t find you funny but I’m sure what you’re trying to do is very clever.” We’ve moved on since then and he told me last week that he was, “So very, very proud of everything you’ve done.” If only he knew how proud I was to be his daughter. I’ll pop it on Twitter; he’s sure to see it there.1909 Views
Some of Standard Issue's brilliant women's carefully crafted words for your reading pleasure.