Of all the inappropriate presents I’ve bought my godson over the years, the nadir was the Swiss Army knife I sent for his 11th birthday. I was pretty pleased when I ordered it: a genuine Victorinox, none of those Chinese knockoffs. He’ll be removing stones from horses’ hooves in no time, I thought to myself. But a week later he sent me a thank you note in unusually shaky handwriting saying the knife had been confiscated by his mother after he’d had it for only a day because he cut his hands to pieces. Had I ruined his chances of being a violinist or a heart surgeon?
It all started promisingly when I was asked to be a godfather in 2008. His parents were living in New York so I flew out for the christening and awkwardly held him in church just as awkwardly as I hug him now. For his present I bought some rather smart art deco salt and pepper shakers from the London Silver Vaults. But since then I worry that I haven’t been the best godfather.
Rather as Britain lost an empire and is yet to find a role, to paraphrase Dean Acheson, the godfather’s position is somewhat unclear these days. Godparents were originally there, as the name suggests, to provide spiritual guidance. Mine clearly didn’t do a very good job as I’ve grown up resolutely agnostic. We never got round to baptising our children and found the idea of humanist ‘naming ceremonies’ too embarrassing so neither of them have official godparents.
Being a godparent, of course, isn’t just about religious instruction. It can be about honouring a friend, or as one interviewee said in an article on the subject, ‘a passive-aggressive way of locking you into a disintegrating friendship for life.’ You can probably guess which newspaper that was in. It didn’t work with my godmother; I gather my parents had some sort of falling out with her not long after the christening and I never saw her again. It’s one of the many subjects we are not allowed to discuss.
Some pick powerful or influential people. Rupert Murdoch cemented an unlikely alliance by asking Tony Blair to be godfather to his daughter Grace. Or think of everyone paying respect to Don Corleone at the beginning of The Godfather, undoubtedly the greatest film about being a godfather. I won’t be able to wield that sort of influence, but I could probably give him a leg-up in the wine trade if he shows any interest.
It’s hard to be a guiding light, however, when I only see him once a year at most and he gets alarmingly bigger each time
It’s hard to be a guiding light, however, when I only see him once a year at most and he gets alarmingly bigger each time. I have tried to email him at important moments but the replies are as taciturn as you’d expect from a teenager. So it really all comes down to the presents. The early years were the best. There was one triumphant birthday when he was going through his little dandy phase and I bought him a tie which he’d put on at the drop of a hat. Inevitably things became harder when he grew into a teenager of ‘few words and no obvious enthusiasms,’ according to his father. After the penknife incident, I’ve generally stuck to books, much safer, sending him the sort of intelligent, entertaining novels, like William Boyd’s Any Human Heart or Decline and Fall by Evelyn Waugh, that I wished I’d read as a teenager instead of James Herbert and Sven Hassel.
I have tried to learn from other godparents in my family. My younger brother has a brilliant godfather who bought him lavish gifts and took him to Chelsea games. I was very jealous especially when one of mine, who I only met a couple of times, gave me a wind-up motorbike in my teens when what I really wanted was a pair of 501s. But now I understand his actions. Children grow up so fast. Sometimes you just need to get something, anything, in the post and then you’re done for another six months.
But this May, it’s my godson’s 18th birthday and I have to get him something memorable, ideally of lasting value. I don’t have the money for a Rolex Submariner. I am kicking myself that I did not take a friend’s advice who told me to open a bank account after the christening, put in a tenner a month and then hand over a hefty lump sum at his age of maturity. I am leaning towards membership of the Wine Society with a case to drink now or keep. Then there are only two birthdays to go until 21, when I’ll take him out to lunch at Simpson’s-in-the-Strand, give him a manly handshake and an awkward hug to send him off into the world, my godfatherly duties done.
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