Whatever happened to fathers? Once they were stoic, withdrawn figures you were meant to respect but quite possibly hated. Or they were inspirational and encouraging, without lacking in dignity. Sometimes they were drunks and occasionally they were absent. They’re still all of these things and more but in the world of advertising they are “Dads”. And what is “Dad”? Dad is basically Neil Morrissey manning a barbecue. He’s drinking ale in a bottle and he’s wearing a “Don’t blame Dad!” apron. He’s a hapless idiot who dreams of being a "Ledge" but needs Mum’s permission to go to the toilet. Mum, another horrifying character concocted by advertisers, raises her eyebrows as Dad winces at a lettuce. She gives the kids a look; they all face-palm while Mum chops the vegetables up for him. Oh Dad, you can’t do anything!
Father’s Day is upon us, which means that Dad is all around us. He needs you to tell him that you’re his “number one fan” or that the greatest gift you’ve ever had “came from God” and is called “Dad”. He’s in constant need of reassurance and the only feelings you will have towards him are ones of love tinged with pity and wry condescension. He wants a tie with a golf club on it, or an outdoor patio heater that doubles as a meat cooker. Most of all, he wants lots of booze to help him forget about his miserable existence.
“Treat Dad like a hero!” roars personalised gift card behemoth Moonpig, like the “hilarious” E4 announcer who does all those funny bits before The Big Bang Theory. How can you treat Dad like a hero? By buying him the kind of beer Dads like (ale) and then sticking a personalised label on it – suggestions include: “Father’s Strength: A strong beer for a strong man” and “Dad: The Man, the myth, the legend”. Ah, the legend of Dad. Off he strides into the grey suburban morn, a bottle of ale in one hand, his golf clubs in the other. What destruction will he wreak out there on the local 9-hole with his friend Geoff? If we’re talking about destruction of fairways then the answer, my friend, is “unprecedented”. No doubt he’ll return from the local with Excalibur in one hand and the head of a giant orc in the other. Either that or a copy of the paper and a slightly rumbly stomach from that scotch egg he ate.
On the same, “legendary” note, Not On the High Street offers “Gifts as original, rockin’, classic, fanatical and legendary as your Dad”. Brushing aside the odd inclusion of the word “fanatical” – Dad just loves staying up late, reading the Bible/Qu’ran, getting really worked up about all the “filth” in the world – it’s worth noting that the way you can pay tribute to your ledge of a Dad is by buying him a keychain for his car keys that says “Dad cabs”. There he is again, the put-upon Dad, not a real character but a glorified servant, a hilarious mule so starved of human interaction that he’ll gratefully clutch at his personalised key ring before chuckling and saying, “That’s me, eh? Just a bloody cab driver!”
On a more upscale note, outfits like Debenhams and M&S seem to equate being a father with polo shirts, cargo shorts and sailing. In M&S’ Father’s Day promotion, a casual guy who looks like he preys on divorcees at upscale barbecues held near the ocean, chills big time in a striped polo shirt. For Debenhams, a bro in a sailing outfit aboard a yacht, who’s clearly been an extra in Made In Chelsea and obviously has no children, sails on into a glorious future of paternal recognition (recognition from his own father, who might finally free up the rest of the trust fund). But the sickly need for recognition remains. Here’s Jamie Redknapp, mouth agape as he tries to wrench a box of M&S goodies away from his son. The matching cargo shorts are depressing but they’re probably not as miserable as Aston Villa Football Club’s Father’s Day gig and that, in turn, is no match for Ipswich Town Father’s Day offer.
You don’t need me to tell you that it’s a sham day designed to sell cards and polo shirts and you don’t need me to tell you that if you love your parents you should show them you love them rather than buy them a Hammer of Thor replica that says “Hammer of Dad”. At least Mother’s Day – or Mothering Sunday – has been around for centuries, and was a small piece of recognition in societies in which women were treated as second-class citizens, their role as mothers going largely ignored. Father’s Day, by contrast, was invented in America at the beginning of the 20th Century. In this marketing concoction, the complexities of human relationships (and the parent-child relation is probably the most complex) are reduced to such a banal and infantile level that all you can think about doing is taking the CEO of one of these companies and glassing him with one of his personalised Dad beers, while simultaneously strangling him with a golf club Dad tie.
If I ever become a father I might change my mind. I might end up being pathetically grateful when my blue-eyed boy runs up to me with a personalised card that says “Dad= Number One” over a picture of a Spitfire. I doubt it, though. I don’t think it’s stupid to show appreciation for the people around you. I just think this whole thing is demeaning and misplaced, and I know that neither my father nor me will ever be the prick at the party drinking the beer that says “Dad: The Man, the myth, the legend”. We’ll just be the pricks at the party.
Follow Oscar on Twitter: @oscarrickettnow
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