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The interview
I did with the Guardian last July, that I have little to no memory of doing, finally appeared today. It’s an interesting article (I particularly liked the revelation form Linehan that the change in status wrecked his and Arthur Matthews writing partnership). Like I say, I can’t really remember what I said in the interview, but the article includes nearly all the negative things I said and none of the positive. I am sure I would have been more critical of myself and my own failings and much more upbeat about post double act life. It’s in there a bit, as is the acknowledgement that seeming bitter about it all was part of a comic schtick. It’s something I don’t really do much any more, because it’s a bit harder to pull off the idea that things are going that badly for me. Hopefully Stew will continue to be successful so I can be in the unenviable position of still being able to take the piss out of him without looking like a bully. Status is everything in comedy and I am annoyed that the joke is already less funny due to me doing OK. Not that you’d know that if you read the comments on the article.
I don’t need to look at the bottom half of the internet for criticism though. My daughter is a never ending barometer of my apparent awfulness. This morning I went in when she woke up and as usual she said, “No Daddy. I want mummy. I don’t like you.” The brutal honesty of children. But I don’t understand it. I am brilliant and let her get away with everything and her mum is much stricter and quicker to lose patience. “Why don’t you like me? I’m brilliant.”
“No daddy, you’re not my friend. Mummy is my friend.”
“You can have two friends,”
“No. I don’t like you. Go away.”
I can take it. Mainly she doesn’t mean it. Sometimes it’s a joke. But first thing in the morning she is grumpy (I wonder where she gets that from) and there is no levity in her voice. And the tragedy is I know it will only get worse. Having kids is the punishment for being a kid. The payback has taken a long time, but they always get you in the end.
My niece bought Phoebe face paints for Christmas, which was an excellent and thoughtful present as Phoebe loves being painted to look like a tiger. But the face paints have dominated play for the last couple of days and the game consists of Phoebe smearing her face - often in brown or black which I don’t think she understands is somewhat insensitive - and then making me up too. It’s very messy and we’ve been doing it in our nice lounge which has new cream carpets and curtains and (admittedly now pretty old and dirty) cream sofas. Usually kids paints are water based, but I think these might be based in oil or glue or unwashable slime.
But I am not going to start covering up all the furnishings with plastic like a serial killer and my lackadaisical attitude to mess is what makes me the best parent and should hopefully buy my child’s respect.
These days have been fun though. After insisting she can do her own face paint (today she gave herself quite an impressive beard, I don’t know if that was purposeful or not) she then goes to work making me up, smattering my face in all kinds of colours and then deciding to apply glitter paint as well. There are only tiny pots of that and I worried that she should keep that for herself, but she gleefully scooped it all out and smeared it on me. Catie came in, looking somewhat unsure of the sanity of playing this game. “Mummy, daddy looks wonderful”, said Phoebe with arrogant glee. I looked like someone who had been smeared in glittery shit, but my daughter was happy. And we’d had real fun. Like we always do. The kind of fun you’d think would make her realise what an ace friend I am.
I don’t care about the mess. I am not sure the spots will come out of the carpet or the cushions, but every time I see the ghosts of those smears I will think about this happy time with the girl who doesn’t have to do anything to make me love her, but for whom I will be forever trying to make love me as much. And there’s no way she can. And there’s no way she should.
Tonight I put her to bed. I got her into her nappy and pyjamas relatively quickly by threatening to put them on myself. “You’re too big,” observed my daughter, but she was still worried enough not to take the risk. We read some stories together and then she did her nightly routine of getting out of bed and pretending to fall asleep on my legs so I have to lift her back into bed. She is insane.
“Am I your friend?” I asked her.
“Yes,” she said.
“I love you,” I told her.
“I love you too.”
I know tomorrow morning that she will be telling me how mummy is her only friend again. But hey. You’ve got to take it where you can get it.
