It has been exactly a year since I launched What’s a Daddy For? It seems a fitting time to reflect on the past 12 months in the life of the world’s least likely blogger……

AUGUST: As the blog gains a small but devoted following it becomes clear I can no longer be described as merely a socially awkward, reclusive middle-aged daddy. Now I’m a socially awkward, reclusive middle-aged daddy who blogs.

SEPTEMBER: My son starts school, providing a rich source of new material. The long struggle to find healthy snacks to put in his lunchbox begins. With my boy working hard in the P1 classroom I can finally watch He-Man in peace.

OCTOBER: My first experiences with trolls occur after I blog about mental health issues. Unwisely I decide to engage. I ask one anonymous critic why he keeps sending me abusive messages when he’s never met me and knows nothing about me. ‘Because you’re a fucking arsehole!’ he quickly responds.

NOVEMBER: By now I find myself in demand on radio as a commentator on parenting and social issues. My newly found sense of self-importance is quickly punctured when I stroll into the Evening Extra studio and Seamus McKee asks me to bring him a cup of milky tea and two Fig Rolls.

DECEMBER: The joy of Christmas is largely wiped out when the three of us are laid low with flu over the holiday period. I have to bite my lip when my wee man says: ‘Daddy, Santa got me lots of toys but you got me nothing. Santa must love me more than you do.’

JANUARY: My first and only attempt at attending a bloggers’ networking event starts badly when I’m asked at the door for my Instagram handle and I answer that I’ll have to phone my wife. My verbal presentation ‘Apostrophes – Your New Best Friend’ is poorly received.

FEBRUARY: Penury forces me into the position of having to look for work. I make a mental note to try to use the the word ‘penury’ more often in conversation.

MARCH: My wife begins a new job working for UTV. I’m confronted by a very excited woman in our local corner shop, ‘Your missus is on the telly!’ she breathlessly exclaims. As I nod my assent she continues, ‘I don’t know how she does it, if I had to do that I’d shite myself!’

APRIL: My hopes of a major publishing deal are dashed when my debut book ‘1001 States of Depression To Experience Before You Die’ is rejected.

MAY: I endure a prolonged period of writer’s block and creative drought. What’s a Daddy For? blog enjoys it’s most successful month yet, with record numbers of visitors and views.

JUNE: Family emergency as my son is rushed to hospital with breathing problems. At one point, lying helplessly on the hospital bed, he peels off his oxygen mask and says ‘I suppose you’ll be writing about this then daddy?’

JULY: Family holiday in the sun. Three hours in a plane to discover it’s actually colder than the weather back home. Every mosquito on the Adriatic coast feasts on my blood, leading to a series of grotesque elephantine swellings on various parts of my body. At the airport on the way home the man in passport control glances at me, then at my passport photo, then back at me again. His eyes betray both suspicion and pity.

Looking forward to another 12 months of blogging……

The perceived parental wisdom about kids’ cinema is that we hope the movie we’re going to see has something for the grown-ups too.

While it’s assumed that the young will have a good time regardless, we’re left praying for little titbits of witty wisdom which go over the children’s heads but which acknowledge our world-weary state.

It almost seems to accept that adults and children are different species with entirely different requirements. As if we can’t both enjoy popcorn.

I suppose there’s some truth in this.

But there’s a bigger truth. A bad film is a bad film. A good film is a good film. And just occasionally you get the chance to see something which is really incredible.

Granted, I don’t get to go the movies anywhere near as often as I once did. And, as a parent, the range of pictures viewed is not what I would prefer.

And the recent narrative seems to have been that Hollywood has pretty much hoisted the white flag. Producing countless, drab and mindless special-effects laden superhero ‘epics’ while leaving it to companies such as Netflix to produce proper drama which makes you ponder the very nature and condition of the human soul.

But then Pixar produces The Incredibles II.

It’s a family film in every sense. Parents and children can enjoy it together. But more than that its whole ethos is concerned with the nature of family. What does it mean to each of us?

No single entertainment experience has made me laugh or brought me to the edge of tears so often in several years.

And, as a father who constantly is finding new ways to juggle parental and employment responsibilities, the sight of lantern-jawed Mr Incredible looking after the kids while yearning for the glory days of heroism was stirring.

This is not a movie review (I’ll leave that to those who genuinely know what they’re talking about), but the scene where the faded hero is desperately trying to feign excitement while his delighted wife Elastigirl recites her latest adventure on the other end of the phone is close to heartbreaking.

There are two stars in this film. The baby Jack-Jack, who is beginning to develop multiple super powers, delivers a series of visual gags which maintains the pace throughout.

But even Jack-Jack is overshadowed by the brilliance of Holly Hunter as the shape-shifting Elastigirl. While last year’s Wonder Woman movie aimed high, it is Elastigirl who truly manages to redefine the superhero genre with a feminine touch.

A true superheroine manages to avert disaster and save innocent victims without destroying everything in her path.

Hunter pulls this off while simultaneously seducing every father in the cinema by drowning us in her creamy southern drawl while her character straddles a motorcycle in thigh-high boots.

And there’s another, even more personal reason why I love The Incredibles II.

Until this weekend my little boy had not been to the cinema in more than a year. He had developed a terror of the noise and darkness which, his mother and I feared, was turning into a phobia which could plague him throughout his childhood.

We had aborted several attempts to get him inside a cinema with my son reduced to tears and distress and mummy and I not far behind.

Then The Incredibles happened.

My boy has watched the first movie several times on my iPad. He was desperate to see the sequel but hampered by his fear of the picture house.

But the draw was just too strong and, brilliantly managed by his grandmother and aunt, he went to see the movie on its first day of release.

Then, flushed with triumph and excitement, he insisted on taking mummy and me to see it on its second day of release.

I suspect we’ll end up going to see it again. That’s just fine with me.

He’s had a breakthrough and a whole new world of adventure and magic has been opened up to him.

And it’s all down to The Incredibles. They truly are superheroes.

I was at the play-park with my son this morning. Soon I found myself in the middle of a small group of parents, awkwardly trying to make conversation.

Two subjects were up for discussion. First was the untypical weather (A powerful spell of heat. We’re not built for this. Have you ever seen the lawns so yellow?).

The second topic was the World Cup. Or to be more specific, England at the World Cup. And just like the weather, everyone had an opinion. The theme was consistent. They’d better not win the bleeding thing. It’s not the players, it’s the media I don’t like. We’ll never hear the last of it if they win.

To be clear, it was me automatically mouthing some of these remarks without thinking, just to fill the uncomfortable silences when other people expected me to say something.

But there were a couple of things I took away from the chat with a group of middle-aged women. First how inescapable the World Cup and England’s success has become, as ubiquitous as the summer sun. Second the almost universal desire for one of our closest neighbours to fail in the global sporting contest. Perfectly moderate and reasonable people were telling me that they are now fans of Croatia.

And it’s been far from a unique experience. I’ve found myself having this conversation over and over again in the past month. Last week I was in a bar in Italy watching a large, red-faced Irishman yell at the top of his voice over and over ‘Come on Colombia! Fucking come on!’ When Colombia scored a last minute equaliser against England I found myself leaping out of my seat in excitement.

When passions cooled and we tried to reason our behaviour through, the explanations were always the same. It’s not the players – it’s the way the fans and media react. The fact that they insist on shoving it down our throat.

It works as an explanation in the pub (or even the play-park), but does it retain any credibility when subjected to proper thought? I found myself, as an exercise in self-analysis, trying to examine my attitude to the English football team and my explanation for it.

I should start by pointing out straightaway that there will be a fair proportion of people on this island who will always side against the English on political grounds. That’s their right. But in my experience the antipathy I’ve described towards English sporting success goes deeper than this and spreads to those of all political persuasions and none.

Looking at what has happened in Russia, the team itself seems to be intrinsically likeable. The manager comes across as thoughtful and modest, the players work as a unit without any stand-out stars and they have been among the least guilty of the horrible play-acting and simulation which has blighted many games. In this tournament the antics of Neymar turned me off Brazilian football for the first time. There’s also a pleasing anonymity to the squad. I’m a casual football fan but there were three members of England’s starting XI who I’d never even heard of before the tournament started (Maguire, Trippier, Pickford). The fans have been well behaved in Russia, with none of the ugly scenes of alcohol fuelled violence that many had feared.

Which brings me to the most often repeated accusation, it’s not the players, it’s the media. The smothering blanket of uncritical adoration which turns the rest of us off.

Well, yes. The English are guilty of it, just like the media in every other country which competes in major sports. RTE are just the same with their coverage of the Republic of Ireland when they have competed at major tournaments. I’ve seen similar treatment in the Italian, French and Spanish media.

Yes, there have been parts of the English adventure which have been annoying (the dreary banality of hearing It’s Coming Home chanted again and again, Piers Morgan), but these are surely sins of humanity rather than of Englishness.

I remember two summers back listening to a couple of Northern Ireland’s matches at Euro 2016 on BBC Radio Ulster and it was clear that any attempt at impartial analysis had been completely abandoned in favour of jingoistic cheerleading. It didn’t bother me at the time and I don’t remember anyone else complaining.

I worked in the print media here when Northern Ireland were on their wonderful Euro adventure. In the paper where I was then employed we wanted to own it, to celebrate every little part of it, to indulge that indescribable magic which had been created in the hearts of so many people.

It’s rare for the media to be able to be part of an event which makes so many people feel good, to be associated with the hypnotic escapism. We had a little bit of it at the Euros. Twenty million people watched England play Sweden at the weekend. Any media organisation which didn’t want to wrap that particular flag around their pages or broadcasts would, honestly speaking, be bonkers.

As I probed deeper into my own psyche it occurred to me that the ‘it’s just the media’ argument sounds like a feeble excuse. An explanation which can be mechanically parroted because it sounds reasonable, but which truly conceals something a little bit more unpleasant.

I think that following sports is defined by emotional reactions rather than logical thought. An Irish Tottenham supporter could idolise Harry Kane and Deli Alli when Spurs play at Wembley but boo them when they play for England at the same ground just days later.

In a similar illogical vein I’ve always been conflicted about the English football team. Part of me recognises that the World Cup is more fun when they’re in it, wanting them to maintain that interest for just a little longer. But then there’s a bigger part of me which doesn’t want them to do too well, God forbid certainly not to win it. I know I have no political antipathy against the English so I find this hard to understand or to justify.

Perhaps the best explanation is simple jealously. They are just too close and familiar and I don’t want them to do too well because it’s a reflection of what I know I’ll never have. Better to have some far off exotic country winning the thing, rather than a neighbour who will flaunt it in our faces.

I was in San Marino last week. It’s a stunningly beautiful country, which makes a virtue out of its tiny size. There’s virtually no crime, the standard of living is high and there’s no national debt. In every logical sense it’s an enviable place to call home.

But, perhaps because I was influenced by the World Cup, I found myself thinking what it would be like to be sports mad growing up in the tiny country. Knowing that you’ll never qualify for a World Cup or any major tournament. Knowing that the sheer logic of numbers means that successful home-bred sports stars will always be a rarity. It made me a little sad.

Coming from Northern Ireland we are lucky that our sports stars have massively over-performed on the international stage. In footballing terms, whether you support north or south, there is even the odd major tournament adventure to excite the senses.

The World Cup is the biggest show on earth and winning it is surely the ultimate achievement in sport. There’s nothing else (with the possible exception of The Olympics) which makes the mummies in my wee village stop to chat about sports as if it was the weather.

But Ireland, north or south, will never win it. That’s the Everest we can never experience. We will never have a 1966 to talk about.

But there’s always a slim chance England will. They might even do it this week. Through gritted teeth I’ll even wish them good luck.

After winning rave reviews for his first experimental foray into the world of somnolent photography (https://whatsadaddyfor.blog/2018/06/30/holiday-snaps/), our young hero returns to his theme today.

While daddy is enjoying a well-earned siesta the wee man flexes his artistic muscles, expanding his range to include self-portrait, post-modernism and gritty realism.

But while his confidence in the medium continues to grow, he never forgets his roots, making daddy look plain daft while trying to nap.

I might never sleep again….

The story so far…..

Two exhausting days in a hospital ward watching our wee man brilliantly fighting back against respiratory problems.

Two magazines hurriedly edited in the time in the small hours while he slept.

A panicked hour of packing followed by a gruelling day of travelling by plane and bus.

Which brought us to Italy where we made it through till early afternoon when we all decided we needed a nap.

All except my wee man.

So while mummy and I slept I gave him my phone to play with.

What could possibly go wrong?

I let the wee man loose on my work computer this morning.

My thinking is that it will keep him occupied with an educational hint while I run around getting ready, trying to calm the early storm.

I’m brushing my teeth when I hear him.

‘Daddy, come and see what I’ve made on the computer’.

I walk in. There it is on the white screen, the three numbers flickering at me.

My son is staring, his innocent, angelic face waiting for my approval.

Eek….