Father’s Day

On the morning of 11th March 1996, I stumbled from Poole Hospital Maternity Unit in a maelstrom of exhaustion, elation, bewilderment and sheer terror. Having done a singularly poor job of looking after myself for the past 24 and a bit years, I was now responsible for the wellbeing of 6lb 8oz of mewling conehead. Objectively speaking, newborn babies are not overly attractive things. Nothing fits yet, everything is bruised and battered, and a faint smell of an abbatoir lingers. In my confusion, however, I managed to retain two certainties. Firstly, that this alien beast I had just left with his beaming mother was the most important and wonderful thing that had ever happened to me, and secondly that I should probably go and buy some music…

Back in those halcyon days of the music industry you were spoilt for choice for record shops in Poole. Woolies, Smiths, Boots, Our Price, HMV, all flourished profiteering from the Britpop wars. Falcon Records in the Dolphin Centre was my choice. I didn’t know what I was looking for, I just knew that this had to be a significant purchase – Babylon Zoo wasn’t going to cut it. Like one of those prodigal pianist children honed by a Conservatoire to be a terrifying keyboard machine, my fingers danced across the racks, flicking at lightning speed while mentally processing each title in turn “Got” “Too expensive” “Uurgh” “Too mawkish” “Doesn’t have the bonus tracks”. As I began to doubt I could find anything that was worthy of such a momentous occasion, seemingly unbidden my fingers stopped mid-rack and rested on the perfect choice. A classic record that I somehow had never bought. Not subject to the vagaries of fashion but full of nostalgia and reassuring old certainties to anchor me in this utterly changed world that I had suddenly become part of. Within the space of a few hours I had acquired a son, and a copy of The Kinks Are The Village Green Preservation Society.

We are the Village Green Preservation Society.
God save Donald Duck, vaudeville and variety.
We are the Desperate Dan Appreciation Society.
God save strawberry jam and all the different varieties.

Preserving the old ways from being abused.
Protecting the new ways, for me and for you.
What more can we do?

In songs like the title track above and ‘The Last of the Steam Powered Trains’ there is a yearning nostalgia coupled with an awareness that things are changing irrevocably. It’s hardly suprising that in my state of fear it was a comforting choice.

I’ve been thinking about that day a lot as recent weeks have seen arguments of fear played out on a national scale, with both sides of the Euro debate focussing on what the threats to us are, rather than what opportunities await. What do we fear most? Uncontrolled immigration? Economic collapse? Being killed in the street by IS? Being killed in the street by Britain First? An unelected European superstate? A Tory/UKIP/Murdoch cabal finally free to do whatever they wish unhindered by international control? The feeling of helplessness is almost suffocating as, whichever way the Country decides, we are heading into an unknown future. The Farage endorsed bucolic vision of cycling past the village green for a pint of traditional British bitter in a thatched pub is an undeniably attractive one – but it’s rooted in ITV Sunday Evening Drama portrayals of a world that had already permanently disappeared when Ray Davies was writing ‘Village Green’ in 1968.

Undoubtedly we must ‘preserve the old ways from being abused’ – so let us make those ‘old ways’ those of tolerance, community, compassion, creativity and courage, the virtues that have made Britain truly Great, rather than the insularity, aggression, mistrust and arrogance that have contributed to the more shameful parts of our history. Just as important is ‘protecting the new ways’ of vibrant multiculturalism, freedom for everyone to enjoy their own sexuality, religion, and opinions.

Back in 1996, it didn’t take long for my fear to vanish. A few days of living with our new arrival made me realise that this was exactly how things were meant to be. I knew there would be challenges ahead but also knew that with support of those around me, everything would turn out just fine. The past was gone. I’d always cherish the best bits of it, but it was time to move forward. I didn’t need Ray’s comfort blanket to cope with this.

Fast forward 20 years and I look at my sons Jake and Tom, their group of friends, and the children of other family and friends, and I’m filled with confidence that, whatever decision Britain makes in the next few days, we’ll be fine. They are a generation of intelligence, compassion, openness and creativity and, whether we are part of the European Union or not, they will help to make this a country that we can continue to be truly proud of. They’ll learn from the best and worst of our national and personal pasts and ensure that this tiny island continues to contribute massively to the wellbeing of the world.

So, on this Father’s Day, I don’t need the reassurance of a vanished past. But I just might listen to what is a bloody fantastic record anyway.

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