Americans, schmaltzy? Never.
This would of course be the favourable depiction of this sacred bond. A rites of passage, if you will. Whats a bit of cold-blooded killing between father and son, eh? Mano-o-mano. This scenario is one that is positively promoted in the media on both sides of the pond-a mutual respect, as the old man knows that one day the young man will be responsible enough to take care of things for himself.
As an English male, and indeed, a son, I can safely say things are a wee bit different around these parts.
I wish I could say I remember a time when me and my pa could be found on any given Sunday throwing a pigskin around like we just didn't care, swapping manly stories about the 12 pound monster carp we hooked back in the Summer of '69. The fact that I didn't make an appearance until 1983 is irrelevant, but you see what I'm getting at.
Sadly, me and my own Dad didn't have the kind of relationship that Hallmark dreams up for a thousand or more cards each Father's Day. And this is no fault of either myself, or the old man.
- My dad has as much interest in organised sport as Billy Elliot had in boxing. Even to this day, conversation strands to avoid are 'did you see the match last night?', or 'how about that ref? He was a ruddy idiot now, wasn't he?'.
- Which leads quite nicely onto the point that those are conversations are ones I would never even start in the first place. I feel as uncomfortable making any kind of comment, statement, or even a vague enquiry regarding the sporting world ( Having said that, there was a period circa 1993-1995 where I quite gleefully incorporated 'they think its all over... it IS now!' into as many playground scenarios, speech therapy sessions, and on one occasion a Bah-Mitzvah, as possible). My sheer discomfort at any kind of verbal exchange of this kind could be compared to the awkwardness a boy feels in the sex education class where rubber johnny meets banana for the first time, after looking around to find that for some reason your banana is the smallest in the class, and the fucking thing still wont go on.
Sport isn't of course the be all and end all of male bonding pursuits. I believe, possibly more relative to my particular growing pain, that my lack of interest in anything practical, such as shelves, wood chopping, bear wrestling, punching another man in the head, and cars. Ah yes, nothing like the feel of oil and sawdust coursing its way through the follicles, whilst hands, and strangely the bits underneath the fingernails, bare the greasy pinch marks that remain from that stubborn disc brake, or that unrelenting coolant tank cap.
It was of course cars and engines that were sent from the gods for Daddio and I, as if prompting, 'Adam, grab ye your tool and bond like no man and boy have bonded before!'. Though I think if you heard a sentence like that in conversation, more than one or two swift steps out of the room would be taken to the nearest broken woman's shelter.
It was almost too perfect. I wanted to learn, and even had some crazy idea that a father/son garage might be the perfect replacement for the many pets I lost in all of those mysterious fires that to this day hold no explanation....
So imagine the joy, oh the sweet joy, as Dad came in from his current project. A 1987 Triumph Acclaim. Cool for several reasons, but to me just one.
Electric. Freaking. Windows. It didnt matter that they only functioned when 30-40% of one's body weight was gently pushing down on top of the glass. They worked, Godammit. It was the closest thing to real magic I had ever seen, even to this day.
"Ad?" came the enquiring cry up the stairs, along the landing, and around the corner of my bedroom. "Come down here a minute."
I'm not gonna lie. I was a fat, bookish, socially-redundant child. I didn't even smoke my first cigarette until I was 22. Some kid's on the block were having cigarette breaks on level 2 of Sonic The Hedgehog.
But that day, I knew it would be different.
I would breathe air like a real man, tooling around under the bonnet of a classic automobile while the gentle breeze gently encouraged the confident use of such expressions as 'righty-tighty', 'that'll be your tracking', or 'well the job itself is straightforward, but its just the parts that's so costly!', whilst hitching up my best pair of chords and using the big boy voice.
I dropped my Osborne Book of Ghosts quicker than you can say 'Mary-Celeste-is-a-kick-ass story-about-a-boat-but-it-lacks-a-Celine-Dion-soundtrack and got my ten year old ass(could you tell) down those stairs and out to the front driveway.
Gazing over the innards of the engine compartment, I was looking for a problem. A problem so simplistic and fundamental that a mechanic of my Dad's experience and calibre would have just glossed over it. My fresh eyes and total inexperience would of course render the problem obvious, in the same way that someone with no grassroots experience of what it is to be in a modern classroom can then go on to become State Head of Education.
Then came the words that stopped this then would-be greasemonkey in his tracks.
"Hitch this hold a minute," he said,in all his glorious Cornish-ness, whilst handing me a FUCKING TORCH! I was just the monkeygrinder it would seem. I was effectively the spotlight operator. He who doesnt get a mention at the final curtain-call, or even an honourable nod at the Royal Variety Performance.
"Not there, THERE!", came the words, accompanied by a gentle clip around the ear.
Why was I relegated to torch-carrier (insert passing of the torch gag) when I know for a fact my 7 year old brother was all over the pissing Black and Decker workmate the previous weekend.
FAST FORWARD SIXTEEN YEARS
Alot has happened since my torch-bearing days. Being 26. I have owned a number of cars, each with their own little quirks, and indeed fatal flaws.
On this particularly fatal day, car number six, a silver Toyota Corolla, bit the dust. There was steam, spluttering, and some fiercely held back tears, as dreams of putting that beast into retirement gracefully went up, literally, in smoke. I always think euthanasia is the most humane way, in circumstances such as these.
Dad to the rescue.
By the side of the BP garage forecourt, it wasn't looking so good. Not even the musty but oddly alluring fragrance of the Ginsters cabinet could ease the suffering felt by all.
The old man was straight into action. The bonnet went up, and poised, rubbing my hands together, I was ready.
Today, I was gonna show how we fix a car in Adamtown.
Population- Me (and whatever piece of crap car I was courting at the time).
"So dad, I mean, just going by the temperature gage rising at a rapid rate, and then the decrease in actual power driving the car forwards I experienced just a short time a go, I think there are a number of possibilities at play right now which have ultimately led to......"
"Hitch this hold," came the words, as the torch of yore was once more thrust into my hand.
"I.Dont.Fucking.Believe.....," I was cut off by a familiar transfer of kinetic energy, right across the back of the head.
"Not there. THERE!"
Twenty Six Years Old. Some things will never change.
I guess now is a bad time to tell him I just wanna dance.
I might take a leaf from the yanks, as I wonder how my dad might react to me leaving a fully grown dead moose on his front lawn.
Whaddya want, a cookie?
