Back in October 2014, I wanted publicity for my comedy pop album Beautiful Filth, and a friend suggested I approach a blogger called John Fleming. So I got in touch with John, who asked me to meet him at the Soho Theatre bar for a chat.
‘How are you?’ I asked him when I arrived.
‘Old, fat and bald,’ he deadpanned, making me laugh immediately.
John, who would later become known as Grandad, is all of these things. But first and foremost, I would say he is funny. Secondly, he is kind. Thirdly, he is generous. Lastly, he is annoying.
We did the interview in the bar, which you can read here. And he took this lovely flattering photo of me in the booth. Oh, to be 34 again.
Meeting Lily
A couple of months later, Grandad met my then-three-year-old daughter Lily for the first time. We went to the Natural History Museum and, to my horror, Lily ran off and we lost her. I was panic stricken, but Grandad came to the rescue: he searched for and found Lily, and brought her back to me. It was the first time he helped out our little family: the first of thousands, as it would turn out.
Grandad and Lily soon became firm friends. My relationship with Lily’s dad - my ex - was acrimonious, so Grandad would always collect Lily from his and drop her to mine, and vice versa. Over the years, he must have done nearly 1,000 collections and drop-offs. He would tell her jokes and make silly comments and faces. He would also rattle his dentures at her and make her laugh.
I remember when Lily turned six and he turned 66.
‘I’m twice your age,’ he joked to her.
‘No you’re not,’ she said, frowning.
‘I am,’ he retorted. ‘Six and six is sixty-six!’
Lily became very frustrated, as she knew he was wrong - but, being so young, she couldn’t articulate exactly why.
Soon after, she became obsessed with photo apps with filters, and Grandad gamely suffered the indignity of being photographed with bunny ears, etc.
Both of Lily’s biological grandfathers died when she was very young, so it’s nice for her to have a grandad figure in her life.
When Lily’s in a good mood, she accepts John as Grandad. When she’s in a bad mood and I call him Grandad, she snaps, ‘My grandads are dead!’
These days, she constantly lambasts him, as she is super-woke and he has the views of a 73-year-old white man. Her: ‘Don’t assume my gender, I could be gender fluid.’ Grandad: ‘I don’t like the idea of gender fluid, it sounds messy!’
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