Party Fashions

My father had a gift for humour—sharp, innuendo-laced, and often just a little too pleased with itself. He came from a decent family, trained as a teacher, and later became an antiques dealer with a particular fondness for mid-Regency mahogany. Imagine Bob Monkhouse with a touch of Terry Wogan and John Cleese, and you're close. For a time, he and my mother were like the real-life Briers and Kendal from The Good Life—trying to live as eco-warriors in suburban Surrey while still very much appreciating central heating and proper plumbing.

By the mid-90s, after the collapse of his second marriage, he’d begun to resemble more the forlorn protagonist from Dear John—right down to watching the show during his own divorce proceedings. The timing couldn’t have been more on-the-nose. Still, even then, his humour held firm. Smutty limericks, laboured spoonerisms, suggestive puns—his personal arsenal of charm and defence.

He often drove up to East Peckham to visit his eldest son, Mark. Mark has Asperger’s and had spent time in and out of The Maudsley. At that point, he’d been granted his own accommodation—a flat with just enough structure to give a sense of independence.

I accompanied Dad on one of these visits. We parked up outside a tired-looking parade of shops. Just across the road from Mark’s block was a costume shop with a fading sign: Party Fashions.

Without stopping, Dad turned to me, eyes bright.

“Ah,” he said. “Farty Passions.”

And that was it—that was the headline of the trip, as far as he was concerned. Farty Passions—another real-life example he could add to his repertoire, alongside the story of his aunt going into a sweetshop in anticipation of her grandchildren’s visit and enquiring, “Do you smell farties?”, or his favourite anagram: how Finsbury Park backwards becomes Crappy Rub Sniff.

The flat was a chaos of trailing wires, tea-stained mugs, overflowing ashtrays, and stacks of salvaged stereo equipment. The Rolling Stones’ Jumpin’ Jack Flash or Bowie’s Let’s Dance played at full volume, looping endlessly. The carpet was barely visible beneath magazines, broken furniture, and a thin film of ash.

Mark, shirtless, lay on a stained mattress—what could loosely be described as a bed—rocking continuously. He moved as if shadowboxing while lying down: elbows up, fists twitching. He had rituals—shielding his eyes from the sun to prevent plane crashes, murmuring “The grass is green, the code is green” at traffic lights to turn them green. His disability cheque went on Coca-Cola, fags, and whatever stereo components he could scavenge from the streets.

Visiting was hard. Shocking, really. But even then, there was something oddly stabilising about it. Mark had constructed a system. Mad and noisy, yes—but a system. And the more you stopped by, the more it became expected. Almost reassuring.

Dad never moralised. Never pathologised. He didn’t tidy or counsel. He cracked jokes, asked for tea, and did his best to make Mark laugh—often with limited success. But he kept showing up. That was his way.

And Mark loved Dad. No judgement. Dad was his rock.

When Dad died of Motor Neurone Disease, in the midst of the COVID epidemic—with all the added complications of restricted access and animosity from the step-family, incomprehensible to Mark—he fell into a deep depression. Withdrew totally into himself. Wouldn’t talk. Didn’t look after himself. Was hospitalised to the point where we feared he too might die.

Fortunately, he’s back. Though not the same. Quieter. And less sure he’s saved the world from nuclear devastation by telekinesis.