Like father, like son
Published 17 August 2026

One afternoon, I lay sprawled across the common-room sofa. It was tired-looking, but surprisingly grand considering us, the clientele; it was like the cast of Trainspotting had wandered onto the set of Bridgerton. Half-delirious, I lay staring at the ceiling. The patterns swirled and looped like ink in water. I zoned out to its hypnotic patterning until – plop – something landed on my lap, jolting me upright as if someone had used a defibrillator.

Martin stood over me, a wide grin plastered across his face.

‘Found something for you, mate,’ he said, before wandering off.

I looked down. It was a book. My heart stuttered as the title came into focus.

Pour Me: A Life. My dad’s memoir.

F**k. My eyes locked in until they misted as I stared at the cover of my dad smoking a fag. I hadn’t been able to look at a single image of Dad since he died. Not a photo, not even his name in print. I buried him twice – once in the ground and again in my mind – sealing off anything that threatened to make me feel something I couldn’t control.

And yet, here he was, staring up at me. It was too late to look away.

I’d never read a word of his writing before. Why would I? He’d always been there – living, talking, filling the room with opinions and wit. When that stopped, I never once turned to his reviews or columns. Truthfully, I’d hardly read anything; dyslexia came bundled with the Gill surname like an unwanted heirloom – and not the only one, as I was to discover.

Now, gripping his book tight enough to bend the spine, a half-empty pack of Camels by my side, I turned to the first page. I’d always known he was an alcoholic, but not like this. He never seemed broken. How naive I was. He had already walked away from everything I was crawling through: the hallucinations, the shakes, the colossal boredom, the despair that coated every morning, even the same pubs. It was my story, but decades before, by someone I thought I never resembled.

He was gone, but he’d left something behind – a map drawn in his own wreckage, one last bit of guidance. It was proof that survival, somehow, was hereditary too.

I was hooked. I’d never felt anything like it; being drawn to words like these was a totally alien concept. I needed to know everything. I’d sink into the dusty armchair of the library – during breaks, through classes, whenever I could steal any moment – finger to page, tracing each word like braille. His sentences cracked me open – tears blurred the chapters, while I couldn’t choke back sudden cackles – all of it hitting with the force of recognition.

It felt like meeting him again. One last interaction had miraculously been stored in a pocket of time in the form of ink and pages for me to discover as I needed it. I suddenly understood the version of him I’d never known.

I needed my dad more than ever. And, in the strangest way, he’d finally shown up.

Very little about my life felt lucky, but that did – and beyond. The first flicker of spiritual help. I’ve learnt more than anything to embrace luck as your greatest unbiased ally. Have gratitude, for it’s what keeps the luck that falls in your lap.