How to fail as a father

Spectator, The, Nov 27, 1999 by Reid, Stuart

The joys of being a middle-aged father are intense, but so is the pain. Remember what fun it was to swing a boy up on to your shoulders, Tony, and feel his trusting palms pressing against your sweaty forehead? Well, it's still fun, but you won't be able to walk so far, and the ache in your shoulders will be more pronounced than it was 16 years ago. Rough stuff can be exhausting, too, and don't believe you are the athlete you were in your twenties.

When my boy was five and I was pushing 50, I decided to show him how to do a cartwheel. I'd always been good at cartwheels, but had not tried one for maybe 15 years. I ran forward, sprang on to my palms, twisted my body as it reached vertical, and collapsed on my back. I got up feeling sick, and feeling my age. My cartwheeling days were over. I think there may have been permanent damage to my large intestine during the twist, and I have since suffered occasional dizzy spells.

A little while after the cartwheel humiliation, for example, I was at a posh dinner in Washington when I turned the colour of soiled bed-linen and fainted. I was lashed to a stretcher and rushed to the nearest ER unit by paramedics. So take great care, Tony. Don't overstretch yourself in the adventure playground. You wouldn't want to end up being carted unconscious out of the Palace of Versailles.

Schooling will be a problem for the Blairs. They seem to have cracked it so far with the London Oratory, even if relations between the school and No. 10 are a bit frosty. We went private, not because we were convinced that the boy would get a better education but because we thought it was worth spending the money to have his pre-school glottal stops removed. I enjoyed picking him up on afternoons off, though I am not sure he did. We'd walk through Clapham (then a growth area for prep schools) holding hands. We said little. His replies to my questions were usually 'yes' or 'no', or `where's Mummy?' Once, though, he did vouchsafe this: `I'm glad Mummy isn't a Native American.' `So am I,' I said. `Why are you glad?' `Because if she'd been a Native American she would have been killed by Christopher Columbus.' I froze. It was the 500th anniversary of Columbus's landing in America and they'd been doing 'history'. `Who told you that?' I asked. `My teacher.' Suddenly I snapped. `Stupid bitch!' I shouted. My boy jumped.

Children begin by loving their parents, said Oscar Wilde, then they judge them; rarely, if ever, do they forgive them. I have been pretty lucky with mine. They and I know that I am not a good father, but they make allowances. They even talk to me about films and rock 'n' roll. The truth, it seems to me, is that men don't make good fathers. But don't worry, Cherie: Tony will be brill. He'll be the People's Parent, the Father of the Nation.