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Dissent of man
07 March 2010 By Stephen Price
I’m peeling potatoes at the kitchen sink .The Little One sits at the table, nose buried in her Nintendo DS.
Since my Better Half is a busy professional and our other sprog a busy teenager, myself and the Little One spend a lot of time together. Blondie croons on the iPod, an acceptable alternative to Lady Gaga. The Little One is still young enough not to loathe my taste in music.
‘‘Daddy. You’re in the paper." I look up from the spuds. Sure enough, the Nintendo spell has been temporarily broken. Relieved from killing aliens, her forefinger hovers over a newspaper that I’ve left open on the table. I grunt; I’m not proud of my byline photos, but like the weather, they can’t be helped. ‘‘No, Daddy - it’s not one of your little pictures," she insists, ‘‘this is a bigger one - come and see."
I write for the Sunday papers, but I realise it’s not a Sunday, so I drop a half-peeled spud and wipe my hands on my jeans, wondering what grim secret has been trawled up from my past. I look over her shoulder. Her darling little finger is firmly squidged on Bertie Ahern’s nose.
‘‘See? I told you."
‘‘Err. . . pet, that’s not me."
She adopts her dealing-with-an idiot tone. ‘‘Yes it is! Look, Daddy - it’s you!"
She returns to her DS, blithely unaware of the bombshell she has just dropped. I know I’m no oil painting, but how could anyone confuse me with Bertie Ahern?
I stagger into the downstairs bathroom and there he is, staring at me from the mirror. The same potato-shaped head; the same silver scalp, like the remnants of tinfoil.
The same half-baked complexion; the same air of defeat. Bertie Ahern is in my bathroom, only wearing a stained white T-shirt, instead of his usual tie and jacket. How has it come to this? Sticks and stones may break my bones, but nothing cuts deeper than the casual honesty of a six yearold child.
Women are allowed to worry about losing their looks. A global cosmetics industry caters to their every anxiety, and they can patch up their faces at any time, in public or in private.
Men, on the other hand, are not supposed to think about their looks, not after passing 40.They can never wear make-up to cover the cracks, unless they are movie actors or Boy George. There is nothing more risible on this planet than male hair dye. No amount of jogging can stop us from going Bertie-shaped. It didn’t stop Bertie.
No wonder we middle-aged men retreat resentfully inside ourselves, or better still, to the pub, where we can lie to our equally insecure peers about imaginary fights, flings and football matches.
Although these days, most of us can’t afford regular nights in the pub, so we succumb to the triple tyranny of cheap red wine, the sofa and the TV remote. We watch ancient repeats of Top Gear, while cultivating complete contempt for anyone who drives a Porsche in real life. If we grow truly desperate, we take up golf.
I wander back to the kitchen to resume peeling spuds; spuds like junior versions of my big, Bertie shaped head. The Little One bleeps away at her Nintendo; Blondie moans in the background. I take a deep breath and decide that it could have been worse. She could have pointed to a picture of Jeremy Clarkson, or Peter Robinson.
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