Gene Genie

It is Father's Day today in the UK.

If convention were dictated by the goods and services marketed specifically for the day I should be by now, by rights, snoozing in my favourite armchair, half a bottle of whisky already downed, remnants of a steak dinner down the front of my personalised "Best Dad in The World" T shirt, clutching gifts of customised mug and bottled ale, wearing bespoke socks and listening to the CD of the rock anthems that someone has perceived to be those favoured by Dad's across the full age range.

I may even have contemplated getting up out of my potato couch and doing an embarrassing display of Dad dancing or switching on the lap top and in a bleary eyed exercise booking that long overdue trip to Disneyland with my female offspring before they get too big, bored and horribly embarrassed in my company to contemplate it at all.

I have determinedly shunned the disgraceful exploitation of my children by the moguls of gimmicky, tacky and superficial tat and have enjoyed one of, if not the most superb Father's Days ever.

I have received a text from my eldest daughter from the deep south of France in which she attributes her strange sense of thoughtfulness and sense of humour to the genes inherited from me. I call that a result.

My younger daughter, in her early 20's,  made a card with bold letters on the front thanking me for all the bear hunts and I also got an atmospheric CD by a band that was on the radio during our early hours drive back from the Neil Young and Crazy Horse gig in Newcastle last Monday. Both these gifts were beautiful but of course were topped by the sherbet dip dab, a good one at that with the sherbet retaining its fizz and the cherry flavour lolly had not gone soggy in the packet. You would be surprised how much that does happen and it certainly serves to spoil the anticipation of the moment. I put that down to poor storage and display by the nations confectionery retailers.

My son, still on his 18th birthday weekender, proposed a good alternative to a conventional present by offering to ride at the front on our cycle route today to give me a bit of a well earned and welcome breather from my normal pole position. I slipstreamed contentedly for the good part of two hours , most of it into a head wind , before snicking out perfectly refreshed and for only the second time in twelve months managing to reach the top of the steep slope over the dual carriageway flyover before him.

So, I send a challenge to Moon Pig, Tesco and all the other commercial interests for Father's Day for next year.

Forget about booze, fancy foodstuffs, screen printed garments and cheesy soundtracks and follow the fine example of perfection that I received from my loving children.