The definition of confusion: Father's day in Liverpool.

I don't usually celebrate Father's day. I don't need Clinton's and Hallmark to tell me which day I have to show my dad how much I appreciate him, how much I love him, how wonderful he is for all that he has done for me and how greatful I am that his wallet spreads as wide open as Abi Titmus after one glass of white wine every time I say "Hello".

I also don't like the idea that its only fathers (and Mothers. And Grandparents. And Secretaries / Personal Assistants.) that get a special day. When is there going to be a single person home owner who blogs day? And there's one more reason why I don't celebrate it - I'm as tight as an EU financer asked to give Britain back a few billion pounds for no aparent reason.

But my older sister, the one who spends most of her time living with a bunch of crazy psychopaths - or Londoners are they're also known, always buys the most extravagant gifts and wraps them up with little purple ribbons which are curled using the back of a comb. She isn't allowed to use scissors anymore - not after the last incident.

So her generosity forces the rest of us to buy him stuff. I bought him some tickets to see the Tickling-stick maestro from the Jam Butty mines of Knotty Ash, Mr Ken Dodd.

Buying the tickets puts me a position of power.
I can insist that he doesn't take me.