When my dad died, I really cried.
Nothing unusual in that, of course, but it happened to an extent that I didn’t think was possible for me.
Great goblets of snot and tears. Eyes red. Shoulders sore from the constant muscle tension. I’d get hit by waves of them. Like waves, they’d come in sets, the impact of each one compounding the one that went before it. Sometimes, just like waves at the shore, there would be a little one that just lapped at the ankles but then had a deceptively strong pull. Then, out of nowhere, there would be the unexpected monster that would wipe me out.
What’s left behind
I was crying for a number of reasons: for my own grief and loss, of course, but also the grief I felt for my sister, the grandkids and – most importantly – for my mum who, we knew, had a really tough road ahead. How do you make a life without the bloke who’s been by your side for nearly 50 years?
Of course, these feelings were wrapped up in a ball of emotional contradictions: the relief that I guiltily felt – for him no longer being wracked with pain (FUCK Cancer) and relief that we could get back to thinking about him as he truly was – a fine, kind, unfailingly generous, hard-working gentleman. Relief that the most harrowing experience we’d been through was now at an end.
But this relief was undercut by overwhelming and constant sadness. For the things that he would now not see: the holidays, his granddaughter’s West End performances, his grandsons playing football, learning to drive and becoming fine young men. And the sadness of him not being there when I needed his advice on the big things (career crisis!) and the small (I’m a hopeless DIY and car-er). Barely a day goes by when I don’t need his advice on something.
Why don’t you take my hands?
Graham had many, many qualities. It’s fair to say, though, that he wasn’t the most emotionally expressive man.
He had a ‘keep calm and carry on’ pragmatism that didn’t really provide space for ‘feelings’. One of the few times I can genuinely remember seeing that side of him (and it completely buckled me because it was so unexpected) was when he spoke at my sister’s wedding.
He was never one for the limelight and pretty far from a public speaker. But when he stood up and spoke so eloquently about the past year (which had been a rough one) and what my sister, and this wedding really meant to him, it was an ethereal experience. He never discussed the speech with me beforehand so I had no idea what was coming. It was magic – a moment, and then it was gone.
This ‘buttoned-up-ness’ is a trait (not sure it’s a quality) that I seem to have inherited, just like my love of Carole King’s Tapestry. I am my father’s son and, like him, most things tend to be tackled with a stoic shrug. There are too many things left unsaid because we (I?) can’t/ don’t know how to get them out. Fodder for a therapist, probably.
So when I saw Saatchi and Saatchi’s John Lewis Christmas for the first time this week (Yep, I really have avoided it for this long), it was these feelings that were tapped in to and, in all honestly, it made me catch my breath.
Come away, come out of your blues
I’d heard it was good but didn’t actually know anything about the ad itself. I think I checked out of watching it when I heard it get dragged into culture war debates. Then, for work, I did. And then I understood what the fuss was about.
Sure, we all know its purpose is to make you buy your last bits at John Lewis rather than anywhere else but within seconds, that cynicism was swept away by the first piano chords of the ad’s central music track.
I’m a man of a certain age – similar to the dad in the ad, with kids similar age to his. His music memories are my music memories and when the track’s opening bars transport him back to a 90s club, they took me back there too. It was note perfect.
This ad’s appeal wasn’t just nostalgia for a better period of dance music (don’t @ me!). For me, it was the emotional connection I wasn’t expecting.
Because in the presentation of the dad and his son, I immediately recognise the highs, the tribulations and the challenges of parenting teenagers. I see how I was with my own dad and now how I am with my own kids. I recognise, because I feel it, the search for a way to communicate when words aren’t enough, or you can’t pick the right ones or the best way to share them.
The two characters’ pregnant glances, when they finally face each other, are full of the words we think but do not say. They connected with me in a way I haven’t experienced in years. Yes it’s a Christmas ad and has been carefully crafted to resonate and all that. But set that aside. This advert has soul.
Where love lives
Its genius is that it feels like it’s exactly telling my story, and of course, I’m only able to talk for myself, but judging by online reaction it seems like millions of other ex club-heads think that it was made just for them too.
Has it made it more likely that I’ll buy stuff in John Lewis than I already would have done? No, but that’s not what it’s about.
What it has given me is pause to think about how I might be able to communicate better with my own teenagers. And it’s made me think about my dad some more – and I’m always happy for an opportunity to do that.
This Christmas’s John Lewis ad is a love-letter to the power of music, memory, growing older, parenthood, relationships and connections. It’s a gift.
