A Reactionary Dad Humbled

They say that as we get older, our views become more conservative. That accusation can certainly be levelled at my father, who morphed from rebel to reactionary.

As a youth, the old fellow had been a punk rocker. Every year over Christmas dinner, his tongue loosened by the combined effects of grape and grain, he regales the table with tales of those days.

One such is that on the eve of a Ramones gig, he and his friend Alfie set about dying their hair blond in the latter’s bathroom. While Alfie’s hair came out almost white, the dye hadn’t taken to Dad’s mop, which had turned a dull orangey colour. The punchline to Dad’s annual yarn is that he had visualised himself as Billy Idol, but he looked more like Billy Bremner. I have since googled that name and found he was a Scottish footballer from Dad’s era with wiry ginger hair.

Dad rescued the situation with a black hair dye kit and went to the gig looking — in his own words — for all the world like the fifth Ramone.

So I reacted with surprise and irritation when Dad had a go at me about the appearance of my friend Luke.

Luke and I are members of the Cricketer’s Arms pool team, and it was via that body that we became friends. He came to seek me one evening, and his physical appearance caused dear Pater no end of irritation, which he vented on me when I got home.

Luke’s hair is quite long, and he has several facial piercings that house what my dad derisively calls facial furniture. These include a bolt through his eyebrow, a pair of silver studs in his upper lip, and a black barbell resting on his septum. But top of the parental button-pressers are Luke’s ear spools — holes in his ear lobes — each about an inch in diameter.

“I hope that lad isn’t going to be a regular visitor, Tom,” Dad said.

“What’s wrong with him?” I asked, already knowing Dad’s answer.

“The neighbours will talk.”

“Says the former punk rocker.”

“Who wore jeans, a motorcycle jacket, and Doctor Marten boots. I was still presentable.”

“And what makes Luke unpresentable?”

“Well, all that metal on his face for a start. And those huge holes in his ears. What on earth is the point of that?”

“I don’t know,” I said, now as annoyed as he was, “maybe he portions spaghetti with them. You’ll have to ask.” Then, after a pause, I added, “Next time he calls.”

My mother, a shrimp at only five feet three, looked up from her knitting and chimed in. “I wish he’d been sitting in front of me at the cinema last week instead of the great hulking brute who blocked my view,” she said, “I could have watched the film through his ear.”

Now, there are two things my mother can be relied upon to deliver. One is a fantastic Sunday lunch, and the other is taking the heat out of family arguments. My laughter at her observation did just that, and even Dad had a chuckle. Five minutes later, Mother fetched in a tray of tea and biscuits, and all was right in the world.

A few days later, I called to seek Luke at his home on the way to the Cricketer’s. He was in the shower, so his dad showed me into the living room, where I sat on an armchair. My unease at the strange environment caused me to fidget and Luke’s dad, a portly bespectacled gent in a checked shirt, struck up a conversation, I suspected, to put me at ease.

“Are you from these parts?” he said.

“Yeah,” I said.

“We only moved back recently. My job took me to Nottingham, and we lived there for years. What’s your surname?”

“Hendry,” I said. The fellow gave me a puzzled look.

“Don’t tell me they call your dad Eric,” he said. I nodded.

“That’s his name.”

“Well I never,” he said, “Eric Hendry. We were good friends back in the day.”

“Really?” I said as Luke entered.

“Wait there,” the man said, and he left the room.

“What’s all that about?” Luke said.

“It would appear our dads were friends back in the day.”

“Cool,” Luke said. His dad returned clutching a bulging envelope, which prompted Luke to say, “Here comes a relic from the past, printed photos.”

“Have a look at these,” the man said. He pulled out a photo, which he handed to me. That’s me and your dad.” I studied an image of four young punk rock types, none of which looked remotely like my dad.

“Which one’s he?” I said. An elderly finger pointed at the most outrageously dressed of the quartet. I gasped at the image of my father sporting a bright red Mohican haircut that looked like it may have been pressed into place with an iron and which spiked up for a good eight inches. He wore a studded leather dog collar tight around his throat and a white shirt with several rips held together with safety pins.

There were many more photos in the same vein, and Luke’s dad allowed me to take a few with me to show to the latter-day beacon of moral righteousness.

When I arrived home, Dad was occupied on the computer, no doubt composing an angry letter to the local newspaper, that being a pastime of his these days. I laid the envelope containing four beautiful photos on the keyboard, patted him on the back, and said softly, “Physician, heal thyself.”

He took out the photos, and his eyes widened. “Oh, my giddy aunt,” he said.

“Such dress sense,” I said. “Very presentable.” Dad laughed.

It turned out that Luke’s dad is the very Alfie from Dad’s tale about the hair dye incident. The pair met up after many years apart, and their friendship was rekindled. They go for a few beers together at the Cricketer’s on Thursdays, and the reunion seems to be doing Dad a world of good.

When the Christmas fancy-dress party came around at the Cricketer’s, Dad and Alfie decided to hark back to their punk rock days and dress like they used to in their teens. Dad went all-in with spray-on temporary scarlet hair dye, a jacket festooned in badges and chains, underneath which he wore my Ramones t-shirt — The Ramones transcend generations. For a finishing touch, our dog Butch went without his collar for the night.

When Dad’s taxi arrived, I watched him walk, no, strut down the path in his punk get-up. “What will the neighbours think?” I said to Mother.

(Originally published in Medium)