Nick

Nick is an actor and writer.

His show Dead Dads Club is based on recordings his dad, Wilf, left him after he died in 2017.

“The play is essentially me thinking I can smash grief.

I was like, I’m going to read up on it; I’m going to do the work; I’m going to listen to every episode of Griefcast.

I’d reached 30 without giving death any consideration. Is it better to allow people to exist in a lovely world where grief isn’t a thing for as long as possible?

I don’t have the answers. But I want my play to ask the questions.

“The play is essentially me thinking I can smash grief. ”

We always knew that Dad had a hobby of recording things.

He had a dictaphone. I have vague memories of it being around in our lives. Car journeys, family meals. It was just a thing he did.

When he was dying, he left three envelopes on top of the dresser. One for each of his sons. We opened them quite soon after he died.

In each one, there was a USB stick. That was it. 

When I plugged it in, there were forty or fifty tracks with ominous titles like ‘1989: Planning a Life Story.’

I was a bit soap opera about it at first. I was like, are there going to be other children? A criminal past? Who knows!

They’re a real mix. Some of them are quite prepped monologues; impromptu chats with a glass of whiskey. There’s the whole of my 13th birthday dinner.

There’s something about having just a voice and not an image that makes him feel present. It’s like he’s whispering in my ear.

Of course, my body reacts to his voice. Boy, could he hold a pause. But my brain is protected by looking through that theatre lens. 

He was philosophical about the cancer. “Don’t rush up to see me, I’ll see you at Christmas.”

We tried to organise a couple of things, but he didn’t want to stay in a cottage with a hot tub and extended family, you know?

But over that last Christmas and last New Year, we went out for a meal and Dad started singing a song at the table afterwards.

I’ve got a video of the whole thing. It’s about three minutes long.

He had never done that before. 

He was passing it on. Leaving us with this beautiful moment.

I want to be careful about how I romanticise things.

They haven’t always felt like a gift. Sometimes the tapes felt like a burden.

Part of me does think “Why didn’t we talk more when you were around?” Did the knowledge that he was leaving all of this mean he felt he didn’t need to pass things on?

And I felt such a responsibility with them. How much poetic licence is OK? Where is that line where we’re not honouring his words? Especially because he’s not there to give consent.

But I’m comfortable with where I’ve got to.

And I think he’d bloody love it. A little moment in the limelight.”