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I believed the little boy in me was dead. I was wrong. This is the true story of the day I found him again, and everything that changed after.

The year was 1986. I took my lovely new girlfriend Alison to meet my dad, not to his house, he didn't have one. I took her to a park in Thornhill Square where we walked straight up to a bunch of tramps sitting on the benches. She shied away and said maybe we should go the long way around and avoid that nasty bunch of tramps. I said don't worry, that's my family, that's my dad, and I could often be found sitting with these people and people like them for the last 10 years, d

Did you hear the one about the dustman who had dreams of being a writer? An author. A blogger. A man of letters. I did. I heard it every single time my inner monologue took the piss. Every time I sat down at a keyboard to write a story – a memory, a little slice of life – he’d pipe up. “What on earth are you trying to do, you thick cunt?” “Ooooh, look at you with your big fancy words. I’m pretty sure there aren’t 28 letters in ‘monologue’, mate.” “Pack it in, Phil. No one’s a

My dad was a bastard. A vicious bastard. A friend to very few people. A man’s man. An alcoholic. A mistreater of people. Everything I vowed, very young, I would never be. When my kids were born, I was sure it was going to be different for them. And it was. No violent rages. No smashing the place up because I was pissed. I never once put a hand on their mother Love and respect reigned supreme in our house. So how did I end up realising I wasn’t as different from him as I thoug

A message from the blue opens a journey of reflection — from childhood friendship to love, illness, ageing, and the quiet shock of losing a friend. Let me paint you a picture. I’m downstairs in my living room on a Friday night, a glass of single malt in my hand, half-watching YouTube videos of skateboarders falling off things. Just another ordinary evening, killing time thinking about going to bed. Then a message arrived on my phone. A very old friend of mine, someone I’d los

One wet, tired evening in front of the telly. A five-second clip of Albert Tatlock giving Ken Barlow grief – and suddenly a lifetime of thoughts about fathers, sons, class and progress comes tumbling out. I got in from work the other day wet, exhausted, fed up and tired. Nothing new there. Just a normal day at the office — which is actually a road sweeper. I changed into my comfy afternoon lounging-about clothes, put the kettle on, and settled down with the cat to watch som

It's 3 a. m. The fridge is open, and willpower is negotiating with a packet of chocolate....