I often see people on Facebook and Twitter post a few words about the anniversary of a relative passing, normally their mother or father. I don’t do it, because it’s chuff all to do with anyone else really. Today is the anniversary of my dad’s death. Most of the people I’m friends with on Facebook didn’t know my dad, even fewer on Twitter, so why would I post about it on a blog?!
Well today it’s the tenth anniversary, so I thought I would. It’s a special one isn’t it. Double figures and all that. And also the sudden realisation that IT’S TEN YEARS!! Jesus that flew by like a fart in the wind. The thing is, I don’t do that sentimental routine on the anniversary. To be honest, it’s bloody inconvenient. You have new year *yaaaay/celebrations/party poppers/blows comedy horn etc*, then the anniversary of his death, then it was his birthday on the 6th, then my birthday on the tenth. It’s a ten day period of misery dodging. My sisters and my mum always text me on all these days to say “Hope you’re okay”, which I used to hate, because I was okay til they text me. I like it now though, it’s nice.
As I say though, I don’t get upset any more, not really, not on the day, and the reason why, is that I’m more happy now than I ever was that ten years on, I still occasionally think “I wish I could tell my dad that”. In a way it’s incredibly sad, but I see it as a definite positive that even after ten years, I think about him as often as I do.
I often hear people say “there isn’t a day goes by without I think about them”. Well, I don’t. There are sometimes many days, mainly because I’m a man, and my brain has limited thinking capacity beyond what the car in front is doing, who is making that noise, and where my next biscuit is coming from. If I’m out somewhere, miles from a toilet and I need a wee or a poo, that trauma can affect my thought pattern for a good week. So no, I don’t think about him every day. Then again, I don’t think about people that are alive every day either. It doesn’t make me a selfish person. You see? Man. Simple.
It did change me though, his death, and in a few ways. Most notably in the years after, in a terrible way thinking about my own demise. Miserable thoughts. Took me a while to stop that to be fair, but it did make me quite miserable for a long time. Secondly, it made me angry, and it still does, when I see bastards walking the planet when he isn’t. Murdering bastards. Extremist bastards. Evil bastards. Bastards that harm children. All colours, all creeds. All over the planet. I’ve no time for them, and I’ve no time for people that bang on about their “human rights”. Todays bastard is more blatant than ever before, often bereft of remorse, and basking in their level of bastard. Then some do gooder pops along and says “well they have rights”. Nope, not in my eyes. Cancer ripped through my dad, he’ll never have the chance to see most of his grandchildren, he never hurt anyone. He was great. It killed him slowly over seven years, agonisingly, so no, I have no tolerance for anyone at all bastard nowadays. Big hole, in you go, bye bye.
But on the flip side of that quick and perhaps puzzling run through of my inner hate (I left names/groups out as I don’t want this to be a political rant), his death made me more tolerant of everyone than ever before. For a man born in the 1930s, my dad was an incredibly open minded man. I never heard him judge anyone on their race or sexuality, honestly I didn’t. I never noticed at the time, but I do now. It’s almost as if an old man’s right to “amusingly” call someone a “puff” or a “paki” is to be protected, as they come from another era, but I don’t need to personally, because I never heard him say such things. Refreshing that. I never heard him say anything sexist or misogynistic either. He might have, I’m not 100%. A man says different things to his mates than his kids. But I never heard him threaten to smash my mum’s back doors in after tea if she’s lucky. And while I was never one to be intolerant, his death made me more willing than ever to accept people for who they are, and this makes me oddly proud. I don’t judge people, I very rarely have, except people on Jeremy Kyle, and I love talking to people from all walks of life.
This difference in us all is wonderful. It’s to be embraced. I like listening to people, even if they disagree with me, I listen, I may learn something. It’s great.
And so I am here in this little blog to thank my dad (and my mum who is still here bless her), for doing a spanking job in bringing me up with an open mind and heart for all things and all people. I’m grateful for you getting jiggy with it in 1971. I’m not grateful for my fat fingers, but I am grateful for not yet being bald. All good things.
PS I’m not for one second insinuating I’m perfect. I’m a right arsehole in many ways.
PPS I hope my dad has access to WordPress, as I know he’s not on Facebook.
PPPS I know he can’t read this, I did it because I feel better for doing it, because I miss him. And I’m a bit selfish. Needy bastard.