Dad rocks

I’ve lost sight of my feet and my belly button’s not far behind. Any day now said button will pop out, most probably when you wave your arse in the amniotic air, giving it no place else to go.

And these days my stomach moves all by itself, depending on whether you’re doing star jumps, line dancing or just plain old run-of-the-mill kicking. Despite what any mother earth type might tell you, this is not all altogether pleasant experience. It’s like something out of Alien. I keep telling you as you press your face up against my skin: there’s only one way out, son, and it ain’t through my belly button…

Despite my increasing rotundity (how did my thighs get so big??), I’ve decided to get myself to The Aftershow later. It’s a new club night that launches at Sankeys this very evening. That hippy hairy band are playing (The Magic Numbnuts or somesuch) as well as The Ting Tings and about a thousand other bands. Clearly, the youth will poke me with a big stick for a) being old b) being preggaz and c) being there, but I don't care! I can still pretend I'm with the kids, even when I’m, er, with kid.

Last night, Simon (AKA ‘Dad’) was reading about this year’s Mercury Award winners.

‘I’ve no idea what the Klaxons sound like, I’ve not a clue who Bat For Lashes are and only the vaguest idea about Amy Winehouse, and that’s only because she’s always in your magazines.’

He looked up, shrugged and said, ‘Dad rock rules!’

I think we may as well embrace our parental status now. I mean, we need to get in some serious practice if we’re to humiliate you with our crap dancing, misuse of slang and attempts to wear skinny jeans/leggings/braces/jodhpurs/clown hats or whatever else is in fashion come your teenage years. Now hang on while I dance round the living room to the latest sounds from the Hit Parade…