Fact is, I’m morphing into my dad. Whilst every female dreads the day when she will wake to find her mother staring back at her in the bathroom mirror, it seems I’ll successfully evade that problem…by turning into my dad instead. I mean, I looked far too much like him for it to ever be a good thing in the first place, so the rest is just disastrous.

For example, I’ve found myself a few times listening to a CD of his and doing that strange head-tilt thing that says “I quite like that. Don’t want to say it.” I’ve been converted to many a band from his young era, namely The Cure and Jam to name but two. They’re alright because it’s more than likely that I’d have stumbled on them anyway, but it’s when I can’t help but harbour a secret liking for The Pogues that it starts to go a little wrong.

Let me also point out that this trait itself, my stubbornness, I inherited from said father. He refuses to support England in anything, despite them being the only British team that ever really achieves much, sadly. I refuse to listen to bands such as Brand New, even though they may have the potential to become my favourite band of all time. You get the idea.

However, since I wrote that, there has been progress on this front in that the father dragged me to see The Waterboys last week. Ignoring the fact that I had an exam the following morning, he informed me that “amputation of limbs” would not be accepted as a suitable reason for not going and sat us down in the music hall a full 45 minutes early. When they finally graced the stage, I swear they were there for 3 hours, and an Elvis medley in the encore just tipped us over the edge; we hastily exited the building at around 11. Needless to say, I was so bored I could quite effortlessly have slipped into a coma, but…the band was actually very good, although it pained me to admit this to him.

Anyway, then there’s the comedy. I inherited his attraction to bizarre humour in the form of The League of Gentlemen and adopted his Eddie Izzard as my own. There’s no-one funnier than my dad when it comes down to it though, and I feel like a big person admitting this. But who could resist a small chuckle when your dad looks at your pork-free plate and asks, “what, you don’t dig the pig?”