A New Hope...

I’d said no and I’d meant it. Every year when Maurice’s birthday rolls around we go through the same rigmarole; he asks me if he can invite people over for a proper birthday party and every year I say no. He then goes and asks Natalie, she says yes, I buckle but lay down some pretty thorough ground rules for the event which everybody then not only ignores, but drives a bloody great truck through.
I’d said no again this year and again I’d meant it so naturally the party was planned for the Saturday, three days after the actual birthday itself. To be fair, I have a history of spineless capitulation dating back years, previous proclamations include ‘I don’t think it’s a good time to get a mortgage’, ‘I’m not sure we need to get married’ and ‘I don’t actually want children’. I’ve said before that I’m treated like a Constitutional Monarch but in reality I’m less than that, I’m more like Chemical Ali, forced to make obviously barmy statements just for show while the real movers and shakers operate behind the scenes, making all the important decisions.
The portents for this year weren’t good though. These birthday parties, chaotic and fraught enough as they are, were always more tolerable because they took place mainly outside so that the dozen or so gathered children could operate like a vicious swarm of African bees, travelling en masse and at speed attacking one area before moving on to the next. The atrocious spring weather didn’t look like letting up though and the frightening prospect loomed that the entire party would have to take place indoors.
At lunchtime though, on the day of the party, the sun nervously started to poke through the clouds and for what seemed like the first time in weeks the garden was bathed in fine spring sunshine. Could it be? Could it really be? Might the Gods of children’s parties and fragile indoor knick-knackery be smiling on us? It really seemed like they might and as the start of the party approached the sun gained in confidence and the dark, ominous clouds began to scuttle away like bullies who’d finally been confronted.
Things were looking up and as the assorted seven and eight year old guests began to arrive a certain, and let’s be honest alien, composure began to set in within me. I didn’t even react when two of the young partygoers arrived and as well as actual presents, promised, respectively, a baby gerbil and a kitten, both to be delivered upon delivery, as it were. ‘I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it,’ I thought as I watched the children who, all happy to be outside for the first time in ages, ran around the place and about four different football matches started at once.
This was the first of Maurice’s parties that Natalie and I had hosted without the help of her parents but also the first of these parties where the kids themselves pretty much supervised themselves. There was no need to arrange games or diversions, largely we were just on hand as a kind of superannuated St. John’s Ambulance Brigade as firstly one little girl twisted her ankle (she was back up and trampolining within minutes, like ALL girls frankly) and one Dickensian waif of a little boy managed to cut his hand.
“It’s nothing.” He said, dripping blood everywhere.
Our other role of course was as event caterers and just as we called everyone in for their gouter the Heavens opened. It didn’t bother us inordinately as the sun was still stoically shining, it’s just a shower we thought, it’ll pass. Then came the one moment of dissension in the whole afternoon when Natalie insisted that while the revellers were indoors it was perhaps inappropriate to have the cricket on the television.
“What is that?” Asked one little boy, pointing at the television.
“It’s cricket.” I replied, pleased to see that this most sedate of Test matches was piquing his interest.
“What?” He asked, perplexed at the sight.
“Cricket.”
He looked at me, “what?”
“Cricket.” I tried again, and he looked at me like the strange foreigner I am, “Cricket. Crick. It. Oh, bloody hell. C’est comme le baseball.”
I switched the channel over to some generic MTV rubbish in the vain hope that that would appease the anti-cricketing hordes but they ignored the writhing, frankly even more inappropriate, ‘dance’ tracks with equal fortitude. They were too busy getting on with each other, talking, laughing, having fun and without the need for outside encouragement. They were utterly delightful. They said ‘please’ and ‘thank you’, they were polite to us and each other. Any disputes were sorted out quickly and amongst themselves, and they sang ‘Happy Birthday’ to Maurice in three languages, although the third, Portuguese, was just unnecessary showing off frankly.
Now many of you might be thinking, so what? Our kids are like that, most kids are – and maybe you’re right, but to me it was something of an epiphany. I am a cynic, not only have I always been a cynic but for the last fifteen years or so I have carved out a fairly successful career as a professional cynic. I get paid to go all over the world to be cynical. On the rare occasions I try and be sincere I get stared at like I’m not well.
But until recently I’d never seen any reason not to have a fairly bleak outlook about the future; I’d always happily joined in the ‘honestly, kids these days...’ diartribes, largely concluding that they were getting the future they deserved. Maybe I’m changing. Until a few years ago I was a deadpan comedian, a purveyor of sardonic gloom until it got to the point where I didn’t enjoy the job anymore. I lightened up, I’m a long way from hope and optimism don’t get me wrong, but at least I look like I’m enjoying it now and mostly I am. I’m never going to be ‘happy-clappy - anyone who ever saw my TV warm-up efforts will know that (yes I’m looking at you David Bowie and Morrissey), but I’m a happier person and these kids made me happy too, genuinely so.
I settled back into a garden chair as the dust settled and the last of the children left, tired yet contented.
“Daddy...” Maurice said, as I closed my eyes to the warm evening sun.
“Yes, my love.” I replied.
“Did you let the goats into the orchard?”

There’s always bloody something though isn’t there? Always bloody something...
The book, A la Mod... about how this whole circus started is out now on papaerback, kindle and audio download. Click here to buy.