Nose, meet Grindstone

I'm back from a long weekend in Ireland, celebrating my father's 70th birthday.  And very life-affirming and jolly it was too.  Family gatherings are minefields of course, but everything on this trip worked a treat, from the choice of hotel to the dining and day trips.  Even the weather wasn't too bad, which for Ireland in July is little short of a facking miracle.

The irony of the trip for me was the fact that The Tour de France passed about twenty feet from my front door during the my absence.  Me, who's been following professional cycling for a quarter of century, when it was about as popular in England as kabbadi or bull-fighting.  I suppose it's probably just as well I wasn't there; I don't suppose I could have resisted the temptation to headbutt some Johnny-come-lately at the roadside as he held forth to his missus on why Chris Froome would probably win the bunch sprint on The Mall.

Mrs O and I arrived home literally as the stage was finishing on The Mall.  We watched the highlights last night, and I have to say it was amazing watching the streets that I know like the bee of my aitch full of world-famous cyclists.  Former Tour winner Andy Schleck had the misfortune to crash at a bus-stop at Waterworks Roundabout, which is about a mile from my house.  That bus-stop has already taken on cult status among local road men.  I myself will be visiting it this evening on the way home.  Wish I brought me camera.

A Plate Accompli

My dad has a significant birthday looming soon.  To mark the event I asked an old friend, who's a ceramicist, to produce a tankard.  This she's decorated with photos I took of places from the auld fella's past that have especial meaning for him.  It's a particularly nice gift as my potter friend's parents lived three doors down from mine when we were children, so her making the thing will be a surprise and a delight in and of itself.

I'm normally pretty good at coming-up with gift ideas, but I sweated cheddar over this one.  I could not think what to buy him.  The problem is that I usually just fire over a sporting biography to him in the post.  The low-key nature of the thought and the relative inexpense of the gift doesn't trouble either party; we're men.  Also, I know he will genuinely enjoy it.  But a book, even a hardback one, wouldn't suffice for this major life event.

But when the idea crystallised, the whole thing came together remarkably easily.  Until today that is.  I've been asked to come up with a pithy and moving legend for the base of the tankard - ten words, tops.  My temptation is these circs is to be profane, but you need to consider the object's future.  It  might well end-up in the hands of one of his great-grandchildren in 50 years' time.  And by then, no doubt, the legend "Goodnight, goodnight and eat me shite" might have lost some of its currency and charm.

The second notion was to have a stab at profound.  But profundity descends into sentiment if not very carefully rendered, and no-one wants that.  Furthermore, I don't think my relationship with my father could be said to be profound in-any-way-at-all.  Close, yes, but not profound.  I could just picture his rictus grin as he read my cack-handed pensée for the first time, his eyes mouthing the words What the feck is that supposed to mean?  No, that would not do.

I shall probably just end-up plagiarising one of his maxims.  He's got more catchphrases than Bruce Forsyth, my old man.  They have the twin benefits of brevity and a vaguely-scatological sledgehammer charm.  And what says "happy birthday" more than that winning combination?  My thoughts exactly.