Thread by @garwboy

Today would have been my father Peter's 60th birthday.

But he died of #Covid19 last year. So, the big celebration we'd have had is never going to happen. And that'll always be painful.

However, the best possible tribute is to share more tales of his adventures

#DadsAntics

/1

As landlord of a valley pub, Dad, a gregarious larger-than-life sort, was always putting on community fundraising events with the guys from the bar. They were often sporting events, usually rugby, but one time it was a charity tug of war match.

/2

It took place by the nearby river, next to the (now disused) railway track. Dad and all his mates from the bar on one team, a load of guys from a 'rival' pub on the other. The river between the two teams, so whoever loses gets dragged into the river and soaked. What larks.

/3

Can never be 100% sure of the details in my Dad's stories, but he told me that the other team had set them up. Drafted in a load of the biggest, heaviest ex rugby players and bouncers they could. Was like a herd of buffalo gathering on the other end of the rope.

/4

But as landlord, therefore team captain, Dad reassured his team to not be worried, they'd still win this. So, both teams grabbed the rope, and pulled.

/5

And sure enough, despite their obvious mass advantage, the other team couldn't seem to budge dad's mob, no matter how hard they strained and heaved. Eventually, they were exhausted, and Dad's still-motivated team to drag them into the river. Much hilarity ensued.

/6

It was all for fun and charity, so the other team took it in good spirits, and went to congratulate dad's team on a game well played and surprisingly won.

They were somewhat less jovial when they finally spotted that Dad had tied his end of the rope to the railway track.

/7

You know, the solid iron railway track, which had endured decades of full sized trains hauling hundreds of tons of coal on an hourly basis. Was a bit much to expect a dozen heavyset blokes to shift it, admittedly.

/8

Another example of #DadsAntics

One of the regular drinkers in the bar was, unfortunately, something of a bigot. It was a former mining community in the 80s, so was inevitable really. Most people just ignored that aspect of him.

Most people.

/9

One day, it emerged that this racist guy's daughter was dating a guy who *wasn't white*. He may have been part Chinese, or something. In any case, it was enough to enrage this guy. Because of course it was.

/10

In the pub, on the evening when the 'news had broken' of this guy's daughter mixed-race dalliance, he walked in and the whole atmosphere just went frosty, as happens when everyone's trying not to mention a sensitive subject that everyone knows about.

/11

The tension was broken by my father, who joined the racist guy at the bar. With a stocking over his head and a giant Rastafarian wig and hat on. And, in the worst possible cod Jamaican accent, bellowed "HEY, IT'S ME FATHER IN LAW! YOUR DAUGHTER'S HAVING ME BABIES!"

/12

Not the most progressive approach I admit, but it was certainly effective.

Thing is, the racist guy only had one leg, the other was a prosthetic one. In fairness, that didn't stop him vaulting over tables to try and catch my laughing father.

/13

Another of #DadsAntics

For some reason, the mental hospital in Bridgend once decided to take a bunch of long-term patients on a day trip, and ended up at the pub we lived in. Somewhere to go, I guess.

/14

Wasn't a problem. The patients were, as you can imagine, not especially 'with it', but they were no harm. Most were just highly medicated and milling about, enjoying the change of scenery.

/15

After they'd eaten and got some fresh air, the two supervisors [nurses? Orderlies?] started to round them up. But they'd wandered off quite far, in various different directions. So, they asked my Dad if he could help get them on the minibus. He said absolutely.

/16

To his credit, Dad, an eternal mischief maker, just ushered the patients he could see onto the bus. The nurses gathered up the rest, said thanks, and set off back to the hospital.

/17

The problem was first identified when they arrived back at the hospital. Someone, presumably the immediate manager, checked the returning patients and promptly collared the two nurses to flag up a serious issue. Apparently, it went like this:

/18

Manager: "I've just checked the bus, and we've got a big problem"

Nurse 1: "Oh, god, did we leave someone behind?"

Manager: "No, doesn't look that way. There are 16 patients on the bus"

Nurse 2: "OK. So, what's wrong?"

Manager: "YOU ONLY HAD 12 WHEN YOU LEFT!"

/19

Turns out that my Dad, left unattended, had rounded up four of his drunkest regulars, and sent them to a mental hospital. They were so out of it, nobody noticed.

Purely for a laugh.

/20

When dad got his first mobile phone, the classic brick-sized ones from the early 90s, it opened up way more scope for #DadsAntics. Particularly because he was the only one in the pub who had one, and most of the older regulars didn't even know they existed.

/21

Case in point.

I've tweeted before about Wacker, our pubs Barney Gumble. He also worked for us too, though. He's the one from the classic tale of a deeply unfortunate incident at the side of the M4

https://twitter.com/garwboy/status/1258872760341876743

One sunny day, he was minding the bar...

/22

On a bench outside were sat my dad and several of the regulars. Dad was showing off his new mobile phone. And the best way to demonstrate it, he figured, was to do something ludicrous.

So, he called the pub. Our home. That he's sat next to.

/23

Wacker gets up, and answers it. They can see him doing so from outside, but he's oblivious. So, once he says "Hello, Royal Hotel" (the pub name), Dad talks back in a cartoonish Irish accent.

/24

Apparently, he said:

"Hello 'dere, I'm looking for a Mister Barry Bigknob"

This *wasn't* a joke. Barry Bigknob was a real bloke and pub regular. Why did he have that nickname? Why do you think. He was one of Wacker's best friends, and a known 'player', as they say.

/25

Hence, when asked where Barry Bigknob was, Wacker replied perfectly seriously

"Barry? He's not here right now sorry, he's normally here at the weekend if that helps?"

Again, if Wacker just turned his head slightly, he'd see my Dad is the one talking to him. But he doesn't.

/26

So, Dad, in his ridiculous Irish accent, replies thusly

"Ah, de weekend is it? Grand. You see, da thing is, Barry was over here in Ireland a few weeks ago, and he gave me wife a baby. And I'm in the IRA, so I'm gonna come over dere, and kill him"

Wacker starts gibbering

/27

Upping the ante, Dad adds:

"And you know what? Because you're his friend, if I can't find Barry, I'll kill you instead"

Wacker, a loyal and stoic friend, IMMEDIATELY gives away Barry's home address and work schedule. He was, it's fair to say, panicked.

/28

"You can't talk me out of this, I'll come to kill ya on Saturday", says Dad, really ramping up the accent. Then hangs up.

Seconds later, Wacker runs out of the pub, white as a sheet.

"Boys! We need to get the heavy mob here on Saturday, I'm going to be done over!"

/29

Predictably, all the assembled guys laugh at him, given they know what's just happened. But Wacker is too drunk/gullible, he doesn't twig that it was a joke at all. They try to reassure him, but he's not having it.

/30

In a surreal twist of fate, that weekend there's rugby on, and the pub is busy. And Ireland are playing. So, at some point, while Wacker is in the bar, a 6ft4 heavily muscled bloke in an Ireland jersey walks in.

Wacker almost fainted, then locked himself in the bog

/31

Dad's bravado didn't always pan out well, though. Once, when he was in his 20s, recently married to my mother, the guy with the barrow selling seafood and shellfish went to the pub my dad was in, and he insisted that he could down a pint of cockles. A pint!

/32

And when I say 'a pint of cockles', I don't mean Cockles is a name for a lesser known brand of bitter. I mean cockles, as in the seaside shellfish snack, traditionally eaten raw with vinegar and pepper.

A pint. Of these things.

/33

And, true to his word, Dad did indeed manage to down a pint of cockles.

Unfortunately, he threw it back up, in explosive fashion, along with everything else he'd eaten/drunk that night, as soon as he arrived home.

It's amazing my parents stayed married as long as they did

/34

Then, in the early 80s, there was a tour of darts champions, including Jockey Wilson, that played against all the valley club sides. For whatever reason.

My 21yo Dad was a prominent member of his local team. And he was adamant that he could win a round against Wilson.

/35

Of course, it quickly became clear that this would never happen. However good you may be in the local pub league, a literal world champion is going to be blatantly better. And Wilson was destroying everyone. As you'd expect.

/36

So, when it got to my Dad's turn to play against him, he leaned in and said

"Jokey, you see that pregnant woman over there? [Points at my heavily pregnant mam] That's my wife. If you let me win the first few throws, if it's a boy, I'll him after you"

Wilson, amused, agreed

/37

My mother, later, wasn't so keen. So they settled on the middle name instead.

And that's why my middle name is John. It's for John Thomas "Jocky" Wilson. Because my dad offered up my name in exchange for bragging rights during a darts match.

/38

Hence I have the most unremarkable middle name, for the most ridiculous of reasons. Thanks to my #DadsAntics. And on his 60th birthday, I miss him as much as ever.

/39

Losing Dad so young & unexpectedly was a horrific experience
Being kept away from friends and family made it worse again
Having thousands of strangers, and world leaders, insist his death was irrelevant/warranted/a conspiracy and I'm lying about it, that was often unbearable

/40

But, I feel it's a testament to my Dad's strength of character, larger than life personality, and the impact he had on the world, that, having gone through all that horrific stuff when he died, thinking about him still makes me smile more than anything.

Happy 60th, Dad.

/end

Once again, a thread about a heartfelt tribute to my late father results in losing a load of followers

It would sting more, but presumably it's the media types who told me 'people are bored of Covid now' when I pitched a piece about grief during the pandemic 1 year after he died

Tweet thread tribute to my Dad on what should be his 60th birthday. Please enjoy #DadsAntics, it's genuinely what he would have wanted

https://twitter.com/garwboy/status/1446094001493446660