Friday, 11 pm. I’m doing stand-up comedy in a pub in Andover. There’s a pillar in front of the stage. The bar staff are talking. I’m losing confidence. I try for a big finish, then get offstage. Afterwards, the MC says: “I thought you were doing 40 minutes. You did 13.” That’s bad. That’s woeful. I apologise to everyone, I refuse my fee, I go. 11.45, I’m driving round Andover’s 49 roundabouts thinking: I screwed that up . . . I earned nothing . . . as a comedian, I’m DEAD.
Saturday, 10 am. Everyone’s off to the woods, but I’m reluctant. I find Saturdays hard. It takes a while to get into playing, and you can’t always say: “Sorry, Daddy’s tired.” Sometimes you must forget your troubles, and dive in. I say: “You go ahead. I’ve got to call BT.” Then I go to the garage to smoke a pipe.
I catch up with them as they’re walking into the woods. Grace runs towards me. “Daddy!” she shouts “Let’s start!”
“Right!” I say, putting on my Play Voice.
“What are we playing?”
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“Pirates!”
“Brilliant. Who are you?”
Her answer is a classic. “I’m Mr Firebeard!” she announces. I’m so pleased I kiss her. Firebeard is wearing wellies, red duffle coat, and a sparkly hair clip.
“Who are you, Cass?”
“I’m a sailor,” says Cass, “but I don’t have a name.”
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“You’re The Sailor With No Name.”
She’s pleased. My kids aren’t actors. But their favourite bit, in all games, is the moment of casting. The bit where you imagine being someone else.
“Who am I?”
“You are a wicked pirate,” says Grace.
“You’re the prince,” says Cass. “You are called Deedee Locomachio.”
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“I’m Deedee Locomachio the pirate,” I say, “who’s really a prince.” I feel like Errol Flynn. “Who is Mum?” I shout.
“She’s a princess who you love,” says Sailor. Sailor finds sticks we can use as guns. We run. We shoot. We shout pirate insults. Firebeard, cackling horribly, announces I must be burned to death.
“Hold on,” shouts Sailor, running over, “I will rescue you!” But Sailor gets her wellies caught in her dress. Sailor falls but gets up and gloriously rescues me. We run off swearing eternal friendship. Then I’m shot by Firebeard. BANG.
“Sailor!” I gasp. “Fetch Princess. I must kiss her before I die.”
Princess arrives. She kisses. She whispers: “Cafe in 10 minutes”. I die.
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“I am Baby Wolf!” shouts Cass. “You are Daddy Wolf!” I’m thinking: “Oh Lord . . . Couldn’t Locomachio be mourned?”
Just then I get a text from Jeff, who arranged Andover. It says: “Want gig in Bognor?” I text back, “Bugger Bognor.”
dadrules@sunday-times.co.uk