Andy Richardson: Grateful to the heroes who guide us on our path of life

The household name whose memoir had been penned and the ghostwriter who’d dutifully walked along that road were done. After three long days of reading and writing, the work of the previous six months was put to bed.

And then we chatted. We made sense of the journey we’d completed. I marvelled at his bravery in committing to the page stories that are frequently untold. For having a relative stranger hold a mirror up to the life you’ve led is nothing if not scary. He asked why I did it and I told him the reason: writing makes me happy.

And then I told him another story, one about my hero – my dad – and the way he’d unknowingly plotted the course for my life when I was a kid. The story went something like this.

As a teen, I’d gone off the rails – I know, I know, and I never climbed back on – so he’d decided to do something about it. My teachers had told him and my mum that I was good at English. So he figured he’d start taking me to plays at Wolverhampton’s Grand Theatre. It would keep me off the streets or out of the pubs at night and would perhaps provide some focus for what my teachers referred to as a creative talent. And it did.

We’d sit in the dress circle and watch farces and classics, comedies and tragedies, then at the end of a performance my dad would make his way to the bar where he’d meet the actors and actresses who’d starred in the performance. As they sipped a cheeky gin, he’d tell them how much he enjoyed the show, what it had meant to him and how their performance had played out. He’d ask for an autograph and then we’d drive home after a fulfilling night on the town.

Except something else was happening on those formative evenings at the theatre. The man I was standing next to in the dress circle bar was no longer my ‘dad’, bound by rules and responsibilities. He was himself – the bloke he’d been before three kids came along and changed things forever. He was free of the burden of fatherhood and able to enjoy his regular conversations with the household names who passed through Wolverhampton’s spectacularly-pretty theatre. And I loved that man. I loved the man I saw, who was witty and confident, who mixed it with the people I’d seen on the telly and who walked away with a spring in his step.

So, without realising, I set off on a course to do just that; to replicate those moments that had given me the most profound inspiration of my life. Except instead of doing that one night each fortnight, then getting back to the factory during the day, I’d sought to make a go of it around-the-clock. I’d decided to listen to the same actors and actresses, or, at weekends, sportsmen and sportswomen, as they exchanged snippets of conversation about a play, a match or a game.

And, just as I’d watched my dad flying freely while doing something that he loved with a passion, so I’d been able to meet interesting people, listen to remarkable stories and then commit them to paper so that others could share the enjoyment.

My dad wrote letters, rather than books or columns, and replies would bring a frisson of excitement. I did interviews, when a shared sense of understanding with the person to whom I was listening brought me the same sense of satisfaction.

The household name nodded. He understood. And we wrapped up our conversation as we’d wrapped up his memoir. In his book, there’d been two people at the heart of the story – his mother and his father. And few of his fans would have known or expected that. The two totemic figures who’d underpinned his ascent had been the ones who’d raised him, believed in him and supported him through good days and bad. And I got that. That bond was one I understood. Because the same had happened to me.