One of the funniest things I have seen this year.
"He's like a little furry Chilean miner!"
Sunday, 17 October 2010
The Musician
My Dad is 96 years old. No, really. Most people - after working out how old he was when I was conceived and calling him a stud - react by timidly asking how he's doing. "And is he... you know."
Short of a few marbles? Bedridden?
I like to answer with stories, so they can decide themselves. For example a few weeks ago he had a little camera pushed through a hole in his abdomen with no anaesthetic. The next day, because my Mum wouldn't let him go shopping, he did pull ups on the kitchen door frame to annoy her.
In short, yes to one and no to the other.
Anyway, he's awesome. He was hauled in and out of school from the age of 11 to travel the world and sing on stage with his father. He played drums and piano and sang in bands. He has brilliant stories to tell. He grew a fantastic moustache.
1962. Judging a beauty contest in Great Yarmouth.
He lead his own big band from the 1940s until I was born. Then, 25 years later, he got up on stage again and conducted to cheers that echoed through Birmingham Town Hall. He was brilliant.
He's the one with the cumulus cloud of white hair. And the moustache.
Now and again I may blog about him. Because he tells me stories that I need to write down somewhere. But more because he is by far the coolest man I will ever know.
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