Dads of Lancaster! If you didn’t do this on Father’s Day last Sunday then you missed a trick.
Burst into your children’s bedrooms at 4am and ask if it’s time to open your Father’s Day presents yet.
Yours truly awoke on Sunday after spending Saturday night watching England get their arses handed to them on a plate by the God-like Andrea Pirlo’s Italy to a novelty card the size of a roof slate and a lovely gift of a big mesh bag full of logs.
The real present, it turned out, was in the shed. A huge metal piece of garden furniture that you can burn things in. A chiminea.
And boy did it look impressive; with the shape, bulk, mobility and positional sense of your average England centre-half.
It isn’t often that the boss indulges me in macho pursuits like drinking beer, watching football and producing chicken tikka-flavoured farts seemingly at will.
But there’s nothing more caveman and manly than setting fire to things and watching them burn.
After spending a frustrating hour trying to make logs catch light with a smouldering toilet roll and that free copy of The Sun everyone got shoved through their letterbox last week, the boss read the instructions, bought some firelighters and kindling and in two shakes of a lamb’s tail the thing went up like Bonfire Night.
But the fun didn’t stop there. Oh no. Almost a year to the day that I took the boss to Glasgow to see The Stone Roses we made the short trip to Blackpool’s Empress Ballroom on Monday night for the magnificent Pet Shop Boys.
Unlike Glasgow Green there was no mud, no rain, no plastic cups full of steaming urine being thrown Olympian distances and no toilets that stunk like a mass grave.
Anyway, the Pet Shop Boys were as wonderful as two fiftysomething blokes standing on a stage can be, when one literally just stands stony-faced behind a keyboard all night while the other sings like a robot.
They belted out hit after hit and during Always On My Mind cannons shot out a ton of orange tickertape over our heads. Happy Father’s Day to me.