MY STEP DAD
He came to us aged thirty three, the sun was high, the village quiet
He parked his brown Passat outside, he wasn’t strictly on a diet
We didn’t know, we didn’t think that Blondie here was made of drink
That standing by our Mum, this lad, would soon be known as our Step Dad
But what he didn’t know was this, Mum’s children weren’t the sweetest sort
That eggs weren’t just a breakfast dish, that brother Charles was always caught
The easy way to Mother’s heart, beyond the endless cards and flowers
Was siding with our sister Mops and Ping Pong til the early hours
Was picking up at way past late, at parties forty miles from bed
Her boys and drunk assorted mates, who parked their suppers on his head
But none of this had put him off, his form was made of grape and steel
And eight months since that Ascot day, young Clarkie here had nailed the deal
We met his friends, great friends they are, Le Blanc and Rose and Joe Sherrard
There’s Burghley, Ricky, Dawny Little, the much lamented Ian McNicoll
And many more not mentioned here who’ve helped to fill these happy years
And to those not and those now here, we raise a glass and raise a cheer
So let’s move on to ’83, May thirty one specifically
A date that means the world to him, the birth of his own Cherubim
Alexa Rose, I know Dad’s tears are flowing now for all the years
Of happiness you’ve given him and strife and all that lies within
The role of being a daughter’s dad, I’ll soon know how it drives you mad
But love and worry walk the line as one; they make the finest wine
And Lord knows how I’ve got this far without a nod towards the bar
To Petrus, Merlot, Chardonnay, the grape the glass, to Clarkie’s way
To Claret, Cote de Rhone, Chablis to Harry, God, HH & C
For Nick was put upon this earth to help good friends encourage mirth
With vintages that can’t be missed for all his mates that he’s got pissed
According to some book on wine you’ll be here when you’re ninety nine
But sixty, that’s a noble mark, the light’s still on, it isn’t dark
And so I stand as your step son to honour one son of a gun
For Charlie, me and Mops and Bun, we’re lucky that you found our Mum
©Henry Birtles