Sometimes I like to tease my wife that the only reason I managed to bag a woman so out of my league is that when we met, she came with a huge albatross round her neck: a six-year-old boy, Jim, from her first marriage.
I’m joking, but there’s an element of truth in this. No person in their right mind chooses to take on the responsibility for someone else’s child, especially not when they’re footloose and fancy-free. But that’s what I did 25 years ago and I’ve no regrets. In fact, becoming a stepfather was one of the best life-decisions I ever made.
My first glimpse of Jim was a pointy-featured face with red hair grinning at me from beneath his duvet, presumably just after bedtime, when I’d gone round to his mother’s pad for supper.
Immediately, I christened him by the name which has stuck ever since: the Rat. He remembers being impressed by my rock-star-length hair and black leather coat. I remember being impressed by how grown up I was at the tender age of 26 to be going on a date with a woman with an actual kid. She was 32; we had met at a party.
James Delingpole (pictured right with his stepson Jim) revealed why committing to a woman with a child during his mid-20s was one of his best life-decisions
Few of my friends had children, and those who did only had babies. So being the honorary parent of a boy as old as six had real novelty value.
Attending his school sports day, I basked in the weirdness of being the most youthful parent among all the careworn oldies, enjoying their puzzled looks: was I really his father or perhaps just an elder brother?
I felt more like the latter. This was partly because I’m from a large family with younger siblings not much older than Jim; partly because I couldn’t conceive of myself as a parent.
After all, Jim had a father of his own — even if he’d been absent, mostly abroad, since Jim was two. And besides, how likely was it that I would stay with his mother?
I mean sure, she was beautiful, intelligent and funny; sure, we were perfectly matched in every way; and sure, I was fond of Jim, too. But when you’re a bloke in your mid-20s, it’s hard enough to commit to any woman, let alone one with a child who is going to drain your resources, constantly interrupt all your special moments together, and require babysitters or a bed to be arranged when you stay with friends for the weekend.
Yes, this might sound selfish. But when you’re young, you are selfish. It’s all very well saying: ‘But think of the child . . .’ when as far as you’re concerned, you’re still almost a child yourself. And what little you earn, you’d frankly prefer to spend on yourself, not on subsidising the upbringing of someone else’s kid.
Well, that’s how it felt in the darker moments, anyway.
One of Jim’s more annoying habits was peeing behind the sofa, sometimes right in front of you, to get attention. He was always scribbling on things and breaking things — all normal boy behaviour, which is tolerable when you can claim biological responsibility for the little monster, but jolly irritating when it feels as though you are being punished for two other people’s dodgy gene pools.
Most of the time, though, Jim and I got on really well, especially when we were taking turns to play on his Sega Mega Drive. Together we worked our way to the top levels of Sonic The Hedgehog. This is how men bond: through sports and other shared activities. Jim was becoming such a part of my life that by now a world without him seemed inconceivable.
James Delingpole (pictured) revealed he began calling Jim his son after a discussion during Christmas
By the time Jim was eight, I’d moved in with his mother and was doing all the things dads do. Not the feeding or the clothes buying or the doctor’s and dentist’s trips, which, in my experience, tend to be a mother’s domain.
I mean stuff like play-fighting, driving him to school every day on the back of my motorbike, watching Zulu, kite-flying, stick-fighting and cool-new-stuff buying, such as the T-shirt I got for his 7th birthday which changed colour with your body warmth.
The last thing I’d ever call myself is a male role model. But I think, in my feckless way, it’s what I provided Jim.
Mums, single mums especially, adore their little boys and spoil them rotten, turning them into little Boy Emperors. That’s where boys so badly need a father figure — to knock all that nonsense out of them and tutor them in the ways of manhood.
This was the biggest bone of contention with Jim’s mother: she felt I could be far too hard on him, especially when my brother was around and we’d ruthlessly crush any form of cheek by, say, tickling him till he screamed for mercy.
I’ve always referred to you as my stepson, but would you prefer it if I just called you my son?
What she didn’t get was that this was part of his initiation into functioning boyhood. An overindulged boy, who doesn’t know about things like pecking orders, about when to chance your arm and when to surrender, is ill-equipped to deal with school or the world beyond.
Later, when his little brother and sister arrived (Jim’s mother and I got married when he was 12), Jim got the chance to take his revenge by play-torturing them as I had done to him.
He adores them, as they adore him. Thankfully, there was never any awkwardness or jealousy, partly because Jim had always longed for siblings, and partly because we’ve taken care to treat all our children equally.
By this stage, Jim was away half the year at boarding school, which may sound like classic ‘get rid of the unwanted stepchild’ behaviour, but was best for him. The day schools round us were pretty rough: Jim was wayward and we wanted a disciplined environment for him.
‘If you hadn’t sent me away, I’d probably be in prison or a drug addict,’ he told me recently.
Jim now works in Hong Kong, is married to a lovely girl, Chloe, whom he met at art college in London. Extremely hard-working and quick-thinking, he runs interior design projects for restaurants and shops. In his spare time, he’s learning to trade cryptocurrencies. Really, I couldn’t be more proud of the way he has turned out.
At Christmas, Jim said the loveliest thing. ‘I’m older now than you were when you took me on. And I’ll tell you what: if I’d been in your shoes, no way would I have taken on the six-year-old me. But I’m so glad you did.’
This got me thinking. ‘I’ve always referred to you as my stepson, but would you prefer it if I just called you my son?’ I asked him.
‘Yes, I’d like that,’ said Jim. ‘Then, son, it’s a deal,’ I said.