When Grace approached her fifteenth birthday, she wanted to go to a concert with her friends to see Placebo, her favourite group. I must admit, they weren’t my favourite group, partly because they were hers. I had seem the lead singer Brian Molko on Never Mind the Buzzcocks, and did not like the foul-mouthed, chain-smoking, cross-dressing, diminutive European. But how could I refuse my little angel?

"OK, but I am coming with you."

She looked confused. "Of course. How else would we be able to get to Brixton and back?"

"No, I’m going with you. Inside. With you."

Her face was a study in horror. "No! You can’t! I’ll be with my friends! Please don’t. I won’t let you!"

I was calm, but firm. "It’s my rules, take them or leave them. And there’s more. We stick together at all times. We don’t leave a comrade alone. If one wants to wee, we all wee. And when I say it’s time to go, we go, even if the band is still playing."

To my shame, I had never been to a rock concert before, but I was well aware of the debauchery that could force itself on such innocents. I would be their protector.

"OK, but there’s rules for you as well."

It was my turn to look confused. "Rules?"

"Yes. No talking to me or my friends, or acknowledging we are together at all. And you will not air-guitar, you will not head bang and you will not mosh."

Fair do’s. So we all arrived at the Brixton Academy 90 minutes before the start of the concert. There was a queue. It led across the front of the theatre. It snaked down the entire side of the theatre. It stretched the width of the back of the theatre. We tagged on to the end. The average age appeared to be about 14. I have never seen so many virgins in a queue since Star Wars. I have never seen so much black clothing since I was a copper during the siege of Sheerness Steel. The drink of choice amongst the boys (who all wore mascara) seemed to be Lambrini.

I thought I blended in quite well, considering, in my jeans, Marvin the Martian black T-shirt and leather jacket. Not like the dad a few people behind me, who wore his office clothes and spent the entire queuing experience reading a paperback.

Eventually we got to the front door. The bouncer told me I wasn’t allowed to bring in the cartons of drink I had in my carrier bag, but I gave him one of my winning smiles and he waved us through.

I had lost points for not being able to get tickets for the mosh pit. Instead, we were up in the balcony, slumming it in seats.

The first band were a local outfit that sounded remarkably like the 6^th-form band I remembered from school. But louder.

Then they packed their stuff and Placebo came on. They were better, but not that much better in my opinion. I couldn’t see why Grace raved about them so. And then they stopped and packed their stuff up. I looked at my watch. 8:30? That was it?

What I didn’t realise was that Placebo were so big, they had two support bands.

And oh my goodness, the quality showed. When they started playing the theatre erupted. Despite myself, I found myself standing and singing along with the rest of the crowd, even though I didn’t know the words.

Between songs the bisexual dwarf would talk to the kids about the wars, and ecology and the Samaritan stand in the foyer, because teenage suicide was obscene. He dedicated his last song to the recently demised Nina Simone, explaining to the kids who had never heard of her who she was.

I so wanted to take the mick out of him, but by the end I was a fan, much to my daughters amusement.

Fast forward…

Grace is now old enough to go to concerts unchaperoned, and wimp-boy is so eager to please, he tags along and pretends the unheard-of underground bands are his favourite too.

One evening Dad’s taxi was to pick them up from a glam-rock band’s gig in Camden. They came out onto the night-time street. Grace was vamped up, outrageous makeup, luminous fish-tights. Wimp-boy was wearing jeans and a brown jumper.

"Oi, Steve!" I shouted, stabbing my finger at him. "I’ve told you about this before!"

The bouncer who had been lounging against the wall stood up and unfolded his arms. Wimp-boy look confused. "What?"

"When my daughter takes you to a glam-rock concert, you glam up! Look at you! You look like an economics student."

Wimp-boy shyly lifted the front of his jumper a few inches. "But I’m wearing a sparkly T-shirt underneath my jumper, Mr Simms."

"OK, I’ll let you off this time. And Steve, promise me that that is the last time you ever lift up your jumper to show me what you’ve got underneath."

Fast forward…

Grace is nearly seventeen, and I am about to be sent on my grand tour of Europe by my company. I ask her what she would like for her birthday. It is an MP3 player. A particular make and model. An expensive make and model. But she is my darling daughter. I will see what I can do.

"Duty free", I think. Dixon’s sell the one she wants, and Heathrow just so happens to have a Dixon’s on the other side of passport control. I would be back just after her birthday. A day or so’s delay would just add to her appreciation of the gift. And it would save me a couple of bob. What? I love her, but I’m still tight.

When I get there, the player is actually more expensive than on their website, so the next evening, stuck in a hotel on the edge of a Swedish industrial estate, I ordered it online.

When I got home, she had already received it. Yay for the British postal system. Did she like it? Was it the one she wanted? Is it as good as she thought it was going to be?

Yes, it was fine. I was cool. Daddy delivered.

"What did wimp-boy get you?" I enquired innocently. Wimp-boy, who is a penniless student. Wimp-boy, who can’t decide whether he wants sugar in his tea unless Grace tells him. My face was a picture of polite enquiry, but inside I was sniggering. Beat my MP3 player. Make my day, punk.

Grace had kept dragging wimp-boy off to see obscure bands. One gig they went to sang a song that had the refrain ‘I love Grace’. She thought they were cool, and doubly so because they had a song about her.

So wimp-boy had got in contact with the lead singer. He was a penniless student, who could only afford a few quid. He loved Grace too. Could he ask a favour?

So wimp-boy had given Grace a CD. It had been burnt by the lead singer. On it he had accompanied himself on an acoustic guitar. He had added an extra line to the chorus. "I love Grace (and so does Steve)". Then he had signed the CD. Then he had hand-decorated the sleeve.

Bastard! Wimp-boy had only done it to make me look cheap. What did I care about her? All I did was spend £150. Oh, how I loathe that little worm.