It’s Father’s Day and my children cooked for me.
Happy Father’s Day, Father, said my son.
Happy Father’s Day, Father, said my daughter.
Here’s a special Father’s Day dinner we cooked for you.
It’s beer, I said.
We know, they beamed. Your favourite. Packed with all the nutrients and vitamins necessary for a healthy, happy life.
I was touched. So thoughtful, I managed, choking back a manly tear.
Not at all, Father, said Bullet. We looked it up on the Internet, didn’t we Sister?
We did, Bullet. We did indeed.
It’s a tradition, Bullet explained. This is the feast of Saint Father, the patron saint of beer and also of driving around aimlessly at night collecting teenagers from discos. A mediaeval drunken ne’er-do-well.
I know that guy, I said.
So anyway, said my children, in close harmony, we also made you this great roast-beef dinner to go with your beer meal.
We bought it in Spiderquinn, said Bullet. As a homage to Fatherman.
Thank God you didn’t say an homage, I replied but my surprise was genuine. I always found the Batquinn stuff pretty good.
Ah, it’s ok, said C#1, better than Bananaquinn anyway but that’s where we got it. I was meeting my friends there to collect my ticket.
In Thomond Park, tonight?
Yes. Any chance of a —
Lift? Glug-glug-glug-glug-glug. Ooops, sorry, now I’m over the limit.
Saint Father’s Day, muttered Bullet, is a day for football and beer.
That’s my boy, I told him. No fucking Pink for you.
No indeed, Father.
Son. Have a beer.
Why thank you, Father.
Did I ever show you how to roll a spliff?
You certainly did Father. I was nine, and it’s a skill that has stood well to me over the years.