What was the
first thing my dad said to me today when I walked up the street toward him as
he chatted to one of his neighbours? Was it, “Hi Dave”, “Hello”
or “How are you?”
No. It was, “You’ve put on weight”.
Who cares if it’s something I'm self-conscious about, that general etiquette dictates you don’t point out? With my dad, you head straight for the nub of the matter: do not pass go and do not collect £200. So it was that I was thrown headfirst into a conversation about the side-effects of the tablets I'm taking; so thrown off-kilter by the inappropriate observation, all I could say was, “Thanks for pointing that out.”
When it comes to this stuff, my dad has form. The most legendary example of unfiltered Barry Ephgrave among my friendship group has to be the time we went on holiday with a few of his workmates and my friend Chris, when I was a teenager. We were eating in a chip shop when I accidentally put so much ketchup on my food I wondered out loud if should get some cutlery, to which my dad muttered under his breath, “You can’t even wipe your own arse.”
I was so shocked by the overreaction i could only manage a "What?” to which he replied, “YOU HEARD.”
That little interjection has gone down in the annals of Barry Folklore to regularly be quoted whenever it’s appropriate. The amount of times someone has whispered the first line to then bellow out the second goes beyond counting. I could almost be forgiven for forgetting the conversation actually happened if it hadn't been seared in my memory; I never knew using a knife and fork would be so shocking. But that’s how my dad rolls; this is the man who, minutes after proposing to my mum said of the large barmaid who walked past, “I bet she smells when she farts”; my mum should have run while she still had a chance.
No. It was, “You’ve put on weight”.
Who cares if it’s something I'm self-conscious about, that general etiquette dictates you don’t point out? With my dad, you head straight for the nub of the matter: do not pass go and do not collect £200. So it was that I was thrown headfirst into a conversation about the side-effects of the tablets I'm taking; so thrown off-kilter by the inappropriate observation, all I could say was, “Thanks for pointing that out.”
When it comes to this stuff, my dad has form. The most legendary example of unfiltered Barry Ephgrave among my friendship group has to be the time we went on holiday with a few of his workmates and my friend Chris, when I was a teenager. We were eating in a chip shop when I accidentally put so much ketchup on my food I wondered out loud if should get some cutlery, to which my dad muttered under his breath, “You can’t even wipe your own arse.”
I was so shocked by the overreaction i could only manage a "What?” to which he replied, “YOU HEARD.”
That little interjection has gone down in the annals of Barry Folklore to regularly be quoted whenever it’s appropriate. The amount of times someone has whispered the first line to then bellow out the second goes beyond counting. I could almost be forgiven for forgetting the conversation actually happened if it hadn't been seared in my memory; I never knew using a knife and fork would be so shocking. But that’s how my dad rolls; this is the man who, minutes after proposing to my mum said of the large barmaid who walked past, “I bet she smells when she farts”; my mum should have run while she still had a chance.