I haven’t said much about the teenager in recent weeks because, frankly, there hasn’t been much to say. Trust me, this is a good thing. Aside from the occasional collapse into primordial whinging, the occasional ‘I am the world and nothing else exists’ space-out plus a little too sister-ribbing at the dinner table, he is a rare bird. The non-problematic teenager. Even his hair has calmed down. Compared to the horror stories I’ve been told, his is a tranquil teenage existence, and whilst I know he’s only going to be 17 in May and there’s plenty of time for it to get worse, I’ve been fearing such decline since 13 and it hasn’t happened like ‘they’ said it would yet.
We took off to the home of the San Francisco Spurs Supporters Club the other day to watch the boys in action along with a stack of other people. Dirty songs were sung and there was liberal use of Anglo-Saxon English throughout the match, most of it unfortunately from me but he wasn’t beyond a few choice morsals himself. I’ve always had my own rule on this; IF cursing occurs whilst watching footy, it is fine. IF cursing occurs whilst not watching footy, it is not fine. ‘Watching footy’ extends itself to cover the times before and after a match when you’re either gearing up or winding down.
When we’re in the UK and actually at a live match, I will now share a pre-match pint with him (legal in the UK, well, sort of, I mean as long as you’re not wearing short trousers and a school uniform, most people turn a blind eye). I once shared two with him. He fell asleep on the drive home, but he was also fighting jet-lag it must be said, having arrived that time in the UK only the day before.
I understand that to some people here, bringing your nearly-17 year old son to pubs to watch football, to matches back home, allowing (and indeed, encouraging) the singing of songs which make dirty limericks seem like nursery rhymes and allowing him to drink the odd beer with you would be considered irresponsible. Starting with the US government, for whom as I understand it, some of the above would be defined ‘illegal.’ To which I say, bollocks. Or even, bollocks and could you pass me a beer please? I mean seriously, as long as context is applied, such things are not only FUN times to share with your teenager, but HEALTHY. My son understands that the language used whilst watching Spurs is not necessarily for everyday speech, and further, he is not remotely interested in trying to guzzle alcohol whenever my back is turned. In fact, I’d argue that it’s been an IMPORTANT part of his upbringing. He has, thanks to a couple of beers now and then plus a smattering of four-letter words in the presence of his father, learnt WHEN it’s appropriate to behave like a reprobate/neanderthal/be-a-geezer, versus the alternative which would see the poor lad explode in teenage immaturity whenever beyond my gaze and most likely in the worst of places and at the worst of times.
We also go to the movies. Yes, ’tis true, Jason Statham films are enjoyed by us in all their glorious ‘geezerness’, but equally, films like Polanski’s “The Pianist” and Kubrick’s “A Clockwork Orange” are not only watched, but discussed in great detail. We’ll visit art galleries from time to time, not because I think you HAVE to, but because there’s sometimes something I’m really interested to see, and as such (being that he’s my son) I want to expose him to it too. He’s seen exhibitions featuring Damien Hirst, Matthew Barney, Olafur Eliasson, Gerhard Richter and as recently noted, we went to an Andy Warhol retrospective with his sister. We discuss politics from time to time (although to be fair, we’re more likely to discuss football, but we touch base on world affairs) and as I drive him to school in the mornings, we listen to 92.7 Energy’s Fernando & Greg in the morning, a hilarious morning show with a decidedly gay bent as both the presenters are gay. We’ve also been to many, many gigs, as much because of my work as anything, but nonetheless, major gigs with superb and supremely loud music at a late hour.
He is exposed to many things, a menagerie of material actually, which is why when I think about people who never swear in front of their children, or who never allow a sip of alcohol to pass their children’s lips in their presence, is laughable. In fact, I consider such repression/repressive attitudes to be one of the biggest problems in society, as it breeds a creature literally itching to engorge themselves on what they sadly view as ‘verboeten’ behavior. And when it comes to fathers and sons, it is VITAL that the relationship embraces all angles of being a man, and not just the ‘you-listen-I-tell-you’ dynamic which, if pursued vigorously through childhood, will end with a series of curiously mute ‘exchanges’ between father and son during the later teenage years.
So whatever the government or prudish members of the public might think, I will continue to go and watch football at silly hours in bars with my son, making sure we belt out our usual array of colorful songs and saucy language, and when we go to the UK I will absolutely make sure he enjoys a beer or two before the match (no more). When the opportunity to see a wonderfully shitty yet entertaining movie arises, we’ll be there, equally, if a great piece of cinema presents itself, count us in. Good art? Not an issue, let’s go. And thus, as he makes his way further into the world of independence, I can feel comfortable about the man I’ve helped raise who’s going into it. Balanced. Kind. Aware. Sensitive. Funny. Loving. Occasionally a pain in the arse of course, but overall, great value for any social event, and generally a credit to himself. His manners and personal conduct are, as I would expect, decent with me but more importantly excellent when he’s not around me. I know this because I hear it from others, and they’re not the sort of people to blow smoke anywhere, trust me.
So in closing, a few words of advice to young fathers with their sons. Enjoy the pleasures of music together. If you enjoy sport, get out there and play, sure, but also GO TO SOME LIVE GAMES and watch games on the TV when you can; it’s your biological right. Don’t be bullied into thinking otherwise. Make sure you bring your boys to the cinema a fair few times, if only so as they appreciate the big screen over small, and if there’s a painting or sculpture you like, make ‘em go with you and explain WHY you like (because none of them really LIKE it at first -unless you’re looking at a Damien Hirst pickle- but in the end they find full appreciation of it)…and for fuck’s sake, DO NOT BE AFRAID OF SWEARING ONCE IN A FUCKING WHILE!!!! They WILL survive so long as they understand the power of context and the necessity of gauging situations.
You might well receive opposition to some of these activities from your other half, but it’s OK…this is part of the deal, and quite simply, you must force the issue for the good of everyone. Not the least your boys. Because believe me, when your old and grey, the memories you’ll share with your boy(s) by the fireplace will include times such as when you went up to Leeds following Spurs and sang “Fat Aussie Wanker, he’s just a Fat Aussie Wanker!” as much as that family picnic on 4th of July.
“Dad? What’s a slapper?” he once asked me after an extended chorus of ‘here for the slappers’ rung around St.James Park four years ago, Spurs about to close out a 1-0 defeat of Newcastle*….those are the moments, and those are the questions, you’ll laugh about forever. In order to do so, however, you have to share them in the first place. So be sure you do.
*As we walked to get dinner in the early evening, dozens of young women tottered around in high heels with micro-skirts, clearly out-numbering the young blokes and seemingly up for a fun evening. “Remember that question you asked?” I said to the boy. He nodded. And I simply pointed at a gaggle of the young women who had congregated outside a wine-bar. He looked at me and nodded again. Not another word was spoken. We both knew he’d understood. He was 13 years old. I reiterated the ‘phrase & context’ speech, and he understood.
Here, here.
There’s nothing like a repressive childhood to ensure you go totaly off the rails as a young adult. Just think about all the Catholic school girls you have known.
Ok, I’ll think about all the Catholic school girls I have known and then I will feel slightly uncomfortable as the father of two innocent little angels.
Sounds like you have done a grand job with the boy Steff. There is much to be learnt from your musings.