Is it hard-wired into us, as parents, to get on our children’s nerves? I watched the Brit awards with my daughter and resolved not to make tart comments, because I remember, as a kid, finding my parents’ contributions on such matters excruciating. I was only eight when Bohemian Rhapsody came out. Even though I found the video a bit bewildering, I was still appalled when my mum said, “What’s this about killing a man? That’s rubbish that is.”
As a massive Led Zeppelin devotee in my teens, I was agog when their concert film The Song Remains the Same came out on video. With only one television in the house, there was no privacy in those days; kids today don’t know how lucky they are. Sure enough, in came my dad, asking what exactly it was that Robert Plant had stuffed down the front of his extremely tight jeans, and why Jimmy Page was playing his electric guitar with a violin bow. Yes, I knew it was all a bit ridiculous, but these men were my idols and I couldn’t bear having the suspension of my disbelief dismantled so brutally.
