Make sure that you also bring suitable footwear so that when the tiny stream he’s paddling in develops into a sizeable pond, you’re not left standing on the bank while he triumphantly wades into the middle, and then ignores all entreaties to leave.

And when this inevitably happens, make sure you immediately take your shoes off and wade in to get him before he drops down on his arse, soaking all his clothes and bringing the trip to the cold April beach to an abrupt end.

Not that we’d do anything like that, of course. Ahem.

We did, at least, bring a change of clothes.

If you’ve ever perused the kiddywink section of a bookshop, you’ve almost certainly come across the “That’s Not My…” series of books. If not, let me explain to you the basic plot of every one.

A mouse (the unnamed protagonist of the series) sets out to find a thing. On the way he find several things of the same class as the thing he wants to find, but each featuring some flaw which immediately identifies to the painstakingly exacting mouse that this thing isn’t the thing that he wanted. Usually the flaw is texture based, and the picture accompanying the text ingeniously incorporates a patch which exhibits the properties which the mouse finds so abhorrent. The patch is very tactile, and teaches small children valuable lessons about poking and prodding their grubby fingers at everything valuable you own.

Eventually the nameless, obsessive mouse finds the thing he was looking for, and lives happily ever after. Presumably until the next time he mislays one of his many possessions.

The original That’s Not My book was about puppies. People obviously suspended disbelief about a mouse owning a puppy, and it sold so well it spawned a never ending series. There’s now an entire floor of my local Waterstones dedicated to just That’s Not My books.

The authors obviously started running out of ideas – faced with increasing demands from the publishers – as the subjects have started getting increasingly far-fetched. My son has, I kid you not, a “That’s Not My Pirate” book. I mean, how could anybody, let alone a small mouse own a bloody pirate?

(By the way, if you own That’s Not My Pirate, the pirate with the too-glittery cutlass, he’s supposed to be gay, right?)

I can’t see them stopping producing ever more That’s Not My books. And eventually, of course, there’ll be the inevitable movie adaptation.

I can see it now. Tom Hanks as The Mouse, searching for his mysteriously vanished wife. He’s called to the morgue to identify a body. The coroner pulls back the sheet. Tom looks down. Touches the face of the cold dead mouse lying before him. Suddenly gasps with relief…

“That’s not my wife! Her nose is too bobbly!”

We would not be one of these single-policy parties. Oh no, we would have several policies. Admittedly, they would all be supermarket-based. But when two pounds in every four in this country is spent in Tesco (I’ll check that statistic later), I think it’s fair to say that sort out the supermarkets, and you’ve pretty much sorted out everything else.

Our pledges:

1. Revalue the Squash Standard. Every supermarket these days provides so-called “double concentrate” squash. If they’re all doing it, surely then that means it’s now the standard strength squash? Under a SOS government, “double concentrate” squash would be renamed just “squash”. Most establishments would be banned from serving single-concentrate squash. Special exceptions would be made for village shops and specialist vintage food vendors, who would be allowed to sell regular-concentrate squash, as long as it was clearly labelled “Olde Style Weake Squashe”.
2. Make own-brand cereal packets informative or diverting. Those of us able to afford proper cereals are used to spending our precious minutes at the breakfast table reading the back of the cereal packet. Much like reading a shampoo bottle whilst having a poo, it gives the brain something to do whilst a vital but tedious part of the daily routine is fulfilled.
   However, we realise in the SOS Party that not all people are able to afford “luxury” cereals and have to settle for supermarket-branded alternatives. I myself decided to try my local supermarket’s Generic Malted Wheat Squares the other day, just to check how ghastly they were compared to proper cereals, and when I turned the box from it’s front-facing aspect I was shocked to be confronted by another front!
   Several more turns of the box confirmed my worst fears: the box had no informative rear panel. No blurb extolling the health benefits of the product under a warmly golden swathe of corn. No offer to receive some gewgaw by merely Sellotaping two pound coins to a faded form printed on the inside of the box. NOTHING!
   Under a SOS administration, all supermarket cereal boxes will be forced to provide diverting and/or informative information on their cereal box rears. Where they are unable to, one will be provided for them by a government ministry set up for this purpose.
3. Manned self-service tills. All self-service tills will come with a personal assistant, conveniently placed on a seat behind the till. They will aid the user of the self-service till in any way possible, ensuring that their items are quickly and efficiently tallied up, and that the chosen form of monetary transaction proceeds without delay.
   This will create thousands of jobs about the country and ensure that people will no longer be forced to wait valuable seconds for a mouth-breathing 16-year-old to wander over and press a button that says “yes this man is clearly well over the age limit for buying plastic cutlery”.

I think you’ll agree that with just these three changes, the average Briton’s day would be improved roughly 450%. I hope I can count on your vote in the election. Or if i’m too late, the one after that.

Someone with a bear that’s reached the end of it’s useful life, or maybe just someone with a naughty child who doesn’t deserve a bear, could take it along and watch it being carefully rendered back into it’s constituent parts.

“Look Johnny, this is the machine where they remove Mr. Fluffles ears!”

I’m certain it would be popular, especially just after Christmas.

I’m not sure what triggers it. It’s not related to age; I didn’t become a dad until my late thirties, so the Dad Things didn’t kick in until fairly recently, but guys who become fathers in their twenties or earlier start displaying dad traits much sooner.

It’s also not related to the presence of the child itself. I’m not talking about building go-karts or oiling bike chains, I’m talking about things that dads do that don’t require the presence of a child at all. You can do all these things without being a dad, it just that people tend not to.

Some examples:

Eating dull cereal
I used to enjoy a crunchy nut cornflake or two, a hearty bowl of fruit and fibre, maybe some Cheerios when I was feeling extravagant.

These are not Dad Cereals. Dads take perverse pleasure in eating as dull and worthy a breakfast cereal as possible. The moment I became a father I began to shun the frivilous end of the cereal aisle and hanker for good old cornflakes with a bit of milk. Even All Bran is looking a bit la-di-dah for me these days. By next year I think I’ll be eating a cereal that looks and tastes somewhat like the wood chips you buy in garden centres.

Sucking on lemons
Jane pointed this one out to me. I’d reached the bottom of a glass of coke, fished out the slice of lemon and began sucking on it and pulling faces.

“My dad used to do that!” she said, and we realised it was another Dad Thing. Actually, the proper Dad Thing is sucking on a lemon slice and pretending to like it, but I’m not quite at that stage yet. Perhaps this dad gene is expressed early to give the father time to master the skill by the time their offspring is old enough to appreciate it.

(This is another important aspect of all Dad Things, although they don’t require the presence of your progeny, they’re only really satisfying when performed in front of them.)

Making stuff up
It’s a dad’s duty to fill his children’s brains with endless misinformation, to prepare them for a lifetime of being lied to by everyone else. When they reach an age where they triumphantly cry “no it isn’t Daddy!” to some patent nonsense you’ve just spouted, you can feel satisfied of a job well done.

Actually Jane will probably argue that I’ve always been good at making stuff up, but the presence of Tom has kicked this part of my personality into overdrive. I spent a good half hour last night telling my son how cushions like the one he was propped up on were hunted and culled in glacial Iceland.

I can’t wait until he actually understands what I’m saying so I can start telling him some real whoppers.

So I’ve put together a short quiz to test the more subtle things that make you British; like culture, and sport, and what to do on a Bank Holiday.

I present:

The Alternative British Citizenship Test

1) Did you see the game last night? (Pick one)
a: Yes, what were Chelsea playing at?
b: Yes, what were Arsenal playing at?
c: Yes, I really fancied the labrador but it seems it was the spaniel’s night.
d: No I was busy working and contributing to the economy.

2) What do the following have in common: The Queen, turkey, Noel Edmunds, silly hats?
a: They’re all things that Prince Phillip has shot at.
b: They’re all traditional elements of a Proper British Christmas Day.
c: They’re all things that you require a licence to transport on a public highway.
d: They’re all sacred to the Church of England.

3) Barker is to Corbett as Wise is to?
a: Morecambe
b: Whitley Bay
c: Southend
d: Lowestoft

4) Eddie “The Eagle” Edwards leaves the ski jump at a speed of S, where S is equal to the speed he is going. Where does he land?
a: At the other end of his dad’s back garden.
b: Just below the ski jump.
c: It doesn’t matter, it’s the taking part that counts.
d: Lowestoft

5) Which of the following CAN’T you do during a bank holiday?
a: Visit a garden centre.
b: Wash your car.
c: Watch “Apollo 13″ for the tenth time.
d: Visit a bank.

6) Where is the highest point in Britain?
a: Ben Nevis
b: Arthur Negus
c: Henman Hill
d: Harry Hill

7) The funniest thing ever on British television was:
a: Del Boy falling through that bar.
b: Basil Fawlty beating up that foreigner.
c: Compo crashing in that bath.
d: Princess Di hitting that pillar.

8.) Which of the following is a “joke” religion that only became official after it was given as a popular answer in the 2001 UK Census?
a: Hinduism
b: Christianity
c: Judaism
d: Islam

9) Put the following in order of line to the throne:
a: Stephen Fry
b: Delia Smith
c: Joanna Lumley
d: Jeremy Clarkson

10) Having a child under the age of 16 entitles you to:
a: Child Benefit payments.
b: Park in the good spaces at Tescos.
c: Bang on endlessly about them.
d: Five units of alcohol per day.

Madonna is a career vampire, she feeds off those of others. Just think of all the people she’s been closely involved with, and then think of what happened to their careers afterward. Britney Spears and William Orbit (remember him?) to name but two. Mere husks now. I think it’s some kind of alchemy involving the blood of African orphans.

Anyway, it has got me thinking what other classic literary works Ritchie can get his hands on after Sherlock Holmes…

Up until now I’d only seen it in medical scans, but we all knew it had to come out eventually. And this morning, at about 11am, it finally happened.

My wisdom tooth came out.

What!? Oh don’t look at me like that!

Men have such big teeth. It’s quite painful. Women are so lucky that they don’t have to go through stuff like this.

Right, I’m off to hide from Jane before she reads this post, goodnight!

Point 1: Worry endlessly that you’re not going to be a good father.

We’re mostly born into this life with a father, and if we’re lucky we get to keep him for quite some time. At first we assume that Dad knows everything, or at least, if he doesn’t know it immediately, he can go and look it up in a special book he keeps hidden called “Everything you’ll Ever Need to Know Ever” (Chapter One – How to bleed radiators).

Part of the whole horrible experience of growing up is the slow realisation that your Dad doesn’t know everything, is making most of it up as he goes along, and what’s more there is no book.

But, the thing is, even without a book my Dad did pretty well. He knew how to bleed radiators. He knew how to Do Things With Cars. He even once, during a traffic jam caused by a faulty traffic light, got out of the car, sauntered up to the light, opened up the back, twiddled with some wires and made it go green. The people in the other cars cheered, and I knew then that my dad could do fucking anything.

Okay, so he was working for the company who were doing the roadworks and put up the traffic light in the first place, but still, to a young boy that was pretty awesome. I bet Superman never made traffic lights change.

The thing is, at 15 you kind of rely on your Dad for all the little things that require a special tool. Dads have all the special tools. But I was still relying on my dad for stuff like that at 35, and starting to worry that I wasn’t “grown up male” material, let alone “dad material”.

And then, one day recently, I realised that I owned (partly due to consolidation with my wife’s belongings), not one but four wood saws, and a lot of other tools and gadgets for DIY. I didn’t have a collection of sticks for stirring paint, but I’ll know what one looks like when I see it.

Being able to do Dad Stuff sort of snuck up on me. As, I guess, it snuck up on my Dad too. Except he was 22 when I came along and I’m the wrong side of 35. So maybe it takes longer to pick up that stuff when you don’t have the pressing need.

It was my birthday a few months ago, and my dad bought me a complete set of spanners. It was, I realise now, a symbolic handing over the reins of Dadhood. Not quite a book on how to do bloody everything, but it will have to do.

Point 2: Worry endlessly about your wife, and the little tiny fragile thing growing inside her

Okay, so women have been having babies for, what, about a hundred years now? I’ve not checked Wikipedia but it’s got to be at least that. So I shouldn’t be worried about how it all works, should I?

But, what really stops him getting all tangled up in there? It’s worrying. Really.

And, each individual horrible disease, genetic flaw, whatever, they’re all pretty rare. But when you’re rolling the dice so many times…

I just really hope it all goes okay.

Of course, everyone’s supposed to say “whatever happens I’ll love him” and of course that’s true for me too. But it doesn’t stop me really really hoping that there’s nothing at all wrong with him.

We had a couple of hiccups, early on, with a worries about ectopic pregnancy, or no pregnancy at all. It all turned out okay, but I can’t really remember dread like that before, and I don’t want to experience it again. Worried because I could see Jane so worried, and I knew how devastating it would have been for her, and worried because I began to realise how much I wanted a child now.

The rest of the pregnancy has gone pretty much without a hitch, so now there’s just the other things to worry about, that he’ll have everything in the right order and not be… different. And feeling guilty about thinking like that. But I do.

Point 3: Worry about the future

Up until now, my life story has been scribbled, figuratively speaking, on scraps of paper. I never bothered to write what was going to happen next, when a new thing came into my life, I just found another scrap of paper to write it on. There was no next year, next decade, sometimes there was barely a tomorrow. The only post-dated scrap of paper had written on it “drop down dead”.

And then I got married and suddenly having Some Kind of Plan seems like a good idea. Maybe at least planning what you’re going to eat for the rest of the week. Nothing major.

Then a baby comes into the picture. And you get handed a great ream of blank note paper. With chapter headings dated up until 2050 and beyond. Things that are going to happen to this young person, and I want to be around to see them.

Before, the future was unknown, but I didn’t care because it only affected me. Now, the future is unknown and I care a lot because it affects someone else.

I’m still working on that one. I think it needs to be approached from two angles, both mitigating for what could happen, and also realising that there’s nothing that going to stop it happening, so it’s best not to worry about it too much.

I’ll let you know how I get on with that.

In summary

So, you may have got the gist that being a prospective father is worrying about a lot of things, all those above and more.

Worrying, but then dealing with each worry one by one; and doing it in a way that you look like you know what you’re doing.

So that maybe, somewhere down the line, some small person might think you’re Superman too.