Jonny McCambridge: Even when I’m Mr Bean, I can still do something right

Progressing from the animated series to the classic episodes with Rowan Atkinson, he has become enamoured with the bumbling adventures of the perpetually bemused misfit.

An increasingly regular refrain in our house when my boy is laughing along, is for him to turn to me and say ‘Daddy, Mr Bean is just like you, he always gets everything wrong.’

I felt this was quite cute the first few dozen times that I heard it.

I’m thinking about my son’s words now as I stand on the tennis court about to receive serve.

My opponent is probably half my age, but even from the distant baseline he seems, to my eye, to be twice my size.

I don’t see the serve, but just experience a disturbance in the air near my ear as, I presume, the ball whizzes past.

‘Was it in?’ my doubles partner inquires.

‘I haven’t a clue,’ I respond.

I joined the tennis club a while back as my latest attempt to slow down the inevitable middle-age spread. On my best day I’m a barely competent player; on my worst, well, I’m Mr Bean.

The majority of the problem is, as always, between my ears. The relentless doubts and worries which prevent me from being able to relax and treat it as just a bit of fun.

On this day I have been placed in a match with three players who I know are better than me.

I immediately begin to worry that I need to play above my normal standard so as not to embarrass myself, which just fulfils the certainty that I will play well below it.

I make mistake after mistake. My service games become dreaded ordeals where I pump weak serve after weak serve into the net. My fellow players are gracious and encouraging and I can tell that they are holding back on the power in the shots struck in my direction. Which makes me feel worse.

At one point I’m at the net when the ball comes in my direction. It’s an easy shot but, at the last moment I become paralysed by indecision over whether I should volley it or let the ball bounce.

In the end I don’t move at all and the ball thuds off my skull, reducing my partner and opponents to helpless mirth.

I think again about the words of my son.

‘Mr Bean is just like you, he always gets everything wrong.’

Later in the session I am matched with players of more modest ability. It is a competitive game and near the conclusion I am serving, just two points from victory.

As I bounce the ball on the baseline I can’t stop the hope from invading my mind.

‘You can win this. You can win this.’

I narrow my eyes as I look at my opponents. Then I serve a double fault. And then another. We quickly lose the match without winning another point.

I’m a bit deflated by the time I get home.

I have no illusions about my ability at tennis, but I’m stung by the realisation that I was the weakest player on the day.

I tell myself that even though I didn’t play well at least I had a good workout and perhaps lost a couple of pounds.

I go to the fridge where I discover there is a selection of cheeses. I tell myself that I have earned a little slice.

I nibble on some Stilton with a cracker. Then I eat all of the Stilton. Then I eat all of the Brie. Then I eat all of the cheddar. Then I finish the crackers and open a packet of chocolate chip cookies. Then I have two packets of crisps. My low mood is now combined with a queasy feeling in the stomach.

I go upstairs to talk to my wife who is working in her office. I know some encouraging words from her can divert me from negative thinking, reassure me that I don’t always get everything wrong.

I enter her office without knocking. Too late I realise that my wife, who works in broadcasting, is conducting an interview for the TV news via Zoom and I have gatecrashed it. I can see my startled face being recorded on the screen. I retreat without a word.

‘Mr Bean is just like you, he always gets everything wrong.’

That night my son ends up in our bed. He has not been very well this week and his mum wants to keep an eye on him. I can sense his discomfort through his constant writhing on the mattress. Eventually we both drift off into a troubled sleep.

Which is interrupted in the early hours. My son is complaining of sore legs and my wife goes downstairs to get medicine. As my boy lies beside me, with his head stuffed into the pillow, I can just about hear his low sobs.

I think of my day, how I managed to get everything wrong. Then I move close to my son.

‘Hello James,’ I growl in a gravelly voice, my best impression of Mr Bean.

There is no response.

‘Hello James,’ I try again.

This time he turns over. I say some more sentences until the first giggle escapes.

Then I get out of the bed and, in my pyjamas, start doing a Mr Bean walk around the bedroom. My son erupts with laughter as I bump into doors and trip over the corner of the bed while my arms dangle down by my sides.

My wife returns and gives him medicine, but I’m not sure he even notices as he begs for another performance.

I do one last encore before I climb into bed and then exclaim ‘oh dear!’ as I fall back onto the floor. My son is laughing so much that tears stream down his face.

His sore legs have been soothed, perhaps by the medicine, perhaps a little by Mr Bean.

We are all exhausted now and settle once more. Soon my son succumbs to a much more restful sleep. I am not very far behind.

I think perhaps the last thought I have before my mind is overcome and jumbled by tiredness is ‘Even on his very worst days, Mr Bean can still do something right.’

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Jonny McCambridge