IT was both a privilege and an eye-opener last Friday to host an event which showcased live music and local talent.

A privilege because it raised £3,000 in aid of the Teenage Cancer Trust in memory of family friend Harvey Gaydon, who died after a long fight against leukaemia and would have been 18 this week.

And an eye-opener because I got a glimpse of my future role in life – as a “roadie”.

As compere for the fundraising night, at The Forum, in Darlington, it was my job to introduce young bands with impressive names like White Rose, The Innocent Wrecks, and Cutlass Supernova.

What I found fascinating – and quite worrying – was the level of involvement dads are expected to have as their offspring go in pursuit of their rock-and-roll dreams.

I watched one dad in particular going through the pain-barrier as he lugged amps and guitars backwards and forwards from his van in the car park. I admired his technical skills as he plugged in a tangle of wires during the sound check. And I sympathised with him as he fretted and sweated backstage while waiting for his band’s big moment.

He checked the running order four times and kept asking me how long it would be before they were on. He was a nervous wreck and I imagined the last time he was under so much pressure was in the labour room as his wife prepared to give birth 18 or so years ago.

When the moment came, he gathered the band members in a circle for a football-style group hug before pushing them towards the stage with a final “let’s do it”.

I introduced them to the audience and then went back to the wings where the dad was living every note, singing along, and wringing his hands with the tension of it all. It was exhausting just watching what he was going through and I realised there and then that being a roadie is hard work.

All in all, it was a valuable insight for me because Max, our youngest – he of the bedroom with not one, but two, drum-kits – has joined a band.

The name is a closely-guarded secret, but all my suggestions were rejected with the cutting remark: “What do you know about music, Dad? You like Genesis.”

Every Saturday, he and his fellow band members hire a practice studio at The Forum, which is a blessed relief because it’s a good four miles from our village and that’s just about far enough to make sure the noise doesn’t reach.

The drumming in the bedroom is bad enough and I dread the day they decide they can’t afford the studio and use our house for full band rehearsals.

It’s early days, but there’s talk of the first gig in the not-too-distant future and it’s an odds-on certainty that my people-carrier is destined to become the tour bus.

What will be will be. I can carry guitars, amps and drum kits with the best of them, but another roadie-dad will be required to plug all the wires into the right sockets because I haven’t even mastered Sky TV yet.

Anyone know what roadies get paid?

The things they say

CONTINUING the anecdotes gleaned from a recent talk at Wentworth Park Women’s Institute in Ouston, County Durham...

AUDREY Smith told me how grand-daughter Maya, five, was looking forward to the birth of her baby brother, who was due in May.

The little girl said to her Mummy: “Do you think we could have my baby brother for Christmas?”

“Oh no,” replied Mummy. “He would be very early if he came for Christmas.”

Maya pondered this for a while, then suggested: “Well, he can go back after Christmas.”

MEANWHILE, Shirley Smith remembered the time a friend was driving along with her granddaughter in the car when another driver shot out of side street without looking.

“Stupid old goat,” shouted Shirley’s friend.

“That wasn’t a goat, Grandma,” said the little girl. “It was an old man.”