Many people have written books about their fathers. In doing so, they have set out to celebrate their fathers’ heroism or achievements or fame – or even notoriety. I’ve written this short book about my father. He wasn’t a hero. Apart from fathering seven children, six of whom are alive and kicking to this day, he didn’t achieve anything noteworthy in his brief life. He wasn’t famous in any way. Nor was he remotely notorious. On the contrary, he was respected and loved by all who knew him. He was an ordinary, working-class man; a gentle soul, who loved his family and toiled day and night for them.

So why did I want to write a book about him? The answer is simple. Dad was also a downtrodden man; one of life’s losers. His experiences – the events that came together to destroy him – are important to me. They shaped my outlook on life. They made me who I am.