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Simon McDermott put the disc in the machine, sat his father down to listen to it and watched the old man's face as the familiar rendition of You Make Me Feel So Young swept them both away. Teddy, who is 80, toe-tapped his way through the song, and joined in himself with the words, matching every phrase with precision. 'That's a good singer, that is,' he said, at the end, with a nod to the machine, and Simon didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Teddy, who is 80, at the recording studio. Teddy's version of the old Frank Sinatra classic is released as a single today, with his stage name Teddy Mac writ large on the cover. In some ways, it has all happened just as Teddy must have imagined it would: the out-of-the-blue approach from an excited record company executive; the trip to London to record, in a proper studio, with an orchestra, no less; the spine-tingling visit to the famous Abbey Road studios, to witness his very first record being mastered. 'I said "That's you, Dad",' he explains. 'But he didn't know it was his voice. That's the way it is with this thing. You can explain something to him but it goes in one ear and out the other. 'He doesn't remember who he is. He doesn't know me. We will be sitting chatting in the car, normal as anything, and he'll call me Simon, but in the next breath, he will say, "isn't that funny. I've got a son called Simon. He lives in London". It breaks my heart that he isn't here to see this, but he isn't. Not 100 percent here anyway.' Teddy's version of the old Frank Sinatra classic is released as a single today, with his stage name Teddy Mac writ large on the cover. The old-school entertainer, a former Butlin's redcoat who has spent his whole life singing in working men's clubs, singing in the bath, singing for family and friends, dreaming of his big break, will finally get it. In some ways, it has all happened just as Teddy must have imagined it would: the out-of-the-blue approach from an excited record company executive; the trip to London to record, in a proper studio, with an orchestra, no less; the spine-tingling visit to the famous Abbey Road studios, to witness his very first record being mastered; the trip back home to Blackburn clutching a newly-pressed vinyl version. Yet the man who is surely Britain's oldest rookie recording star is oblivious to it all. For Ted has Alzheimer's. Indeed ('and isn't this the big irony,' says his only son), it is Alzheimer's that has finally brought him the success he always wanted. Ted McDermott in his days working at Butlins. He was known at the SongAMinute man because of his huge memory for songs. Over the summer Ted became something of an internet sensation when footage of him having a car singalong with Simon became a YouTube hit - and he got a record deal. Over the summer Ted became something of an internet sensation when footage of him having a car singalong with Simon became a YouTube hit. Are you familiar with James Corden's Carpool Karaoke? The British comedy star created it for his Late Late Show in the US and features him driving around with celebs - including Adele and Michele Obama - and belting out songs. Well, this was the Blackpool version and one that came with a knockout emotional punch. Simon, 40, struggled to come to terms with his father's slide into dementia after being diagnosed in 2013, and had been encouraging his dad to keep singing for as long as he could, partly because 'the only time he was Dad again was when he was singing', partly because he wanted to record his father's voice for himself. On a whim, he put his dad's in-car version of Quando, Quando, Quando on Facebook. His friends, 'many of whom didn't even know my dad was a singer', were gob-smacked, and deeply moved by the sight of father and son singing their hearts out, and forwarded it on. Simon, 40, struggled to come to terms with his father's slide into dementia after being diagnosed in 2013 and had been encouraging his dad to keep singing for as long as he could. As interest started to rise, Simon – seeing the potential to 'make a few bob for charity' linked the video to a JustGiving charity donation site. 'I thought we might raise about £500 but I set a target of £1,000, for the Alzheimer's Society because it doesn't hurt to be ambitious,' he tells me. To date, the father-and-son combo on the JustGiving site have raised almost £150,000 and the figure is still rising. There is, even more, to come when the proceeds from the record sales, broadcast time and downloads come rolling in - the royalties are to be split between the Alzheimer's Society and the McDermott family. Teddy Mac's sudden rise to fame began after an executive from Decca who stumbled on the clip, was blown away by Teddy's voice and signed him up within days. On a whim, he put his dad's in-car version of Quando, Quando, Quando on Facebook. His friends, 'many of whom didn't even know my dad was a singer', were gob-smacked. 'It's mind-blowing,' admits Simon. 'It's all been such a whirl. My only wish is that Dad could understand it more. I mean he knows SOMETHING is happening. He talks about being in the recording studios – he's proud as punch. But he's muddled about it too. When we were there he told the musicians – some of whom have played with Frank Sinatra himself – that he could get them a gig in Wednesbury, for £50 a night.' By rights, Ted should be here too, in a London pub, talking about his exciting record deal. That he isn't, pains his son, but you can understand why he can't be. It's all been such a whirl. My only wish is that Dad could understand it more. I mean he knows SOMETHING is happening 'You don't know what you are going to get with Dad,' Simon explains. 'He can come out with anything. 'The other day he told someone his father was a millionaire with ten homes. He can be flamboyant, and seem quite lucid, but then he'll ask me who I am, or he'll become distressed or confused. I have to protect him.' He has turned down every offer – and there have been many, from all over the world – for Ted to appear on chat-show sofas. 'We have no idea what could happen and I don't want Dad to be a laughing stock. I want him to have dignity. The Alzheimer's has taken so much of his dignity already. But it kills me that he isn't here. He would love all this.' Teddy Mac's sudden rise to fame began after an executive from Decca who stumbled on the clip, was blown away by Teddy's voice and signed him up within days. Actually, the story of how they got here is Simon's as much as it is Ted's - a story about the love of a son for his father. Simon struggles to tell it without crying, though. He spends our entire time together with his eyes brimming. Little wonder. The account of Teddy's takeover by this awful condition is heartbreaking. Altzheimer's turns sufferers into unrecognizable versions of themselves, and it has with Teddy. 'I knew nothing about it before Dad was diagnosed. I thought it was about old people forgetting things,' says Simon. 'But Dad just isn't Dad anymore. He gets angry, he can be violent. We've had terrible, awful episodes where I have actually come to the point of thinking 'this man is going to kill me'. Dealing with it has been the most difficult thing I've ever had to do.' Even telling the truth about this brutal condition publicly feels like a betrayal of the father he loves. Every so often Simon stops and reminds me 'of course, this is the Alzheimer's, not Dad. That's not who he was, is'.' The account of Teddy's takeover by this awful condition is heartbreaking. Altzheimer's turns sufferers into unrecognizable versions of themselves, and it has with Teddy. You can understand perfectly, though, why Simon wanted to record his dad, while he still could. 'At some point along the way, I realized that when I was listening to him sing, he was my Dad again, he was back,' he says. 'I want to hold onto that for as long as I can'. Teddy Mac's astonishing story began in the clubs of the Midlands. The eldest of 14 children he was something of a Pied Piper, looking after his brothers and sisters and constantly being the family entertainer. He had a great voice – and could have gone all the way. 'When he was 17 or 18 he got invited to audition for the Carroll Levis show which was the X-Factor of the day, but his family couldn't afford for him to go,' says Simon. Instead, a career in local clubs in the Midlands beckoned. 'He'd organize bookings – getting Ken Dodd was a big coup – but he also had a band himself, Teddy Mac and the Starliners, and everyone in Wednesbury knew them. Then he was scouted by Butlins and got a job working at their holiday camps, first in Barry Island, then in Blackpool, where he met my mum.' Every so often Simon stops and reminds me 'of course, this is the Alzheimer's, not Dad. That's not who he was, is''. The big time never came calling, and when Simon was little, and the family had settled in Blackburn, his dad took a factory job and the singing became a part-time venture. It was always his first love, though. 'All I ever remember him doing was singing,' admits Simon, with a smile. 'Ironically, he was known for his memory. He knew the words to thousands of songs, so he'd never run out of material. Recently I called him the Songaminuteman online because he can still keep going forever, from one song straight into the next. My abiding memory as a child is of watching him do this amazing medley, which seemed never-ending. The whole place was on its feet, everyone in the room was cheering.' Of course, when he hit teenage years, Simon was more embarrassed by his dad's singing than proud of it. 'I was a Brit Pop kid,' he recalls. 'I was also very different to Dad. He was a born entertainer, a bit of a Jack the Lad. I was quite a serious child, a bit of a swot, quite square. It's only as I've grown up that I can look back and think 'bloody hell, my Dad was amazing. He really was, is.' Teddy Mac's astonishing story began in the clubs of the Midlands. The eldest of 14 children he was something of a Pied Piper, looking after his brothers and sisters and constantly being the family entertainer. Simon went off to university to study economics and left his parents happily settled in Blackburn. He spent time in Spain, and in South Africa. It was during a trip back home in 2011, however, that he came to realize that all was not right with his Dad. 'Mum had mentioned on the phone that he'd started to act a bit funny. He'd forget things. He'd get irritable. I brought him a book on Nelson Mandela. He asked me ten times if I'd bought it.' Over the next few years, the situation deteriorated. 'No-one mentioned the word Alzheimer's. It actually took 18 months to get a diagnosis. Mum would take him to the doctor and he'd go too and he'd say 'I'm fine, nothing wrong with me' and they'd go away again. There was an element of her not telling the whole story. She didn't want to talk about how he was getting violent. He was referred to a 'memory clinic' but we kept having to chase up the appointment. He was getting worse and worse.' The big time never came calling, and when Simon was little, and the family had settled in Blackburn, his dad took a factory job and the singing became a part-time venture Simon eventually witnessed the violent episodes himself and was devastated by them. 'They used to go on holiday to France every year, to a caravan, and I went with them. It was hell. Dad would lose it. 'He would pace up and down raging, shouting, calling me everything under the sun, calling mum everything. We couldn't calm him down. I remember being properly scared. All I ever remember him doing was singing. Ironically, he was known for his memory 'Not long after I stayed with them in Blackburn and it was the worst time of my life. Dad just didn't know who I was. One day I was out trying to get rid of moss from the paving slabs and he rushed out and was poking me like this (he stabs himself in the chest with his finger) saying "Who are you? What are you doing? Get out of my house, get out". 'When he got in a state like this, there was no reasoning with him, no calming him down. He'd veer between not knowing who I was and shouting "you are the worst son ever". Mum was terrified.' Getting the diagnosis gave a name to the condition, but as Simon desperately Googled the symptoms and prognosis, he was lost. 'It's the loneliest place in the world to be,' he says. 'And as it got harder I found it more difficult to cope. There was one particular weekend, last year, that I call World War Three. I was at home with them and Dad was awful, yelling and being aggressive. What saved them, he says, was a call to the Alzheimer's Society, the charity now benefiting from their astonishing story. 'This was when I thought "he is going to kill us". I remember just pulling the covers over my head in bed and crying my eyes out, then going on an internet forum about Alzheimer's and tapping in "What the f*** do I do". 'That time we got the doctor and a social worker to come out. When I saw them coming up the drive I burst into tears. Friends were telling me that I couldn't go on like this, I'd have to put him into care, but I couldn't. He'd hate that. It would make him worse.' What saved them, he says, was a call to the Alzheimer's Society, the charity now benefiting from their astonishing story. 'On that first phone call, I made no sense. I just sobbed. But they are used to that. They picked me off the ground and made me realize I wasn't alone. Other people have to cope with this too, and so many have it worse than we do.' The YouTube posting was just an extension of this desire to 'make sure that I was always going to have his voice', but obviously, when their rendition went viral, Simon was flabbergasted In all this madness, though, there were moments of calm, even happiness. One day Simon realized, with a jolt, that his father was 'better' if there was music playing, or if he was singing. On bad days, he'd take him out for a drive, and get him to sing along to his own old backing tracks. 'It was partly about getting him to do something he enjoyed, but it was for me too. I remember once coming down the stairs and hearing him sing Mac the Knife, his signature tune – but he'd forgotten the words. That was a real jolt for me, a sign that time was actually running out.' Their time together, singing in the car became therapy for them both. 'We got to reconnect,' admits Simon. 'We'd chat away. By this stage, he wouldn't know me, but he'd chat away about his son Simon who lived in London. He'd describe my flat to me. 'He'd tell me he was proud of his son. I'd go along with it, pretending to be this other Simon.' He fills up. 'It is so hard. My dad never told me he was proud of me, he wouldn't have, he wasn't like that. But he could tell this other Simon.' Knowing that they were on borrowed time, the idea of recording his Dad's singing became more urgent. At one point he hired a recording studio himself, paying £130 to make his own record. One day Simon realized, with a jolt, that his father was 'better' if there was music playing, or if he was singing. On bad days, he'd take him out for a drive, and get him to sing along to his own old backing tracks 'It was a nightmare. The first two studios I called, explaining that I wanted to bring in my dad who had Alzheimer's, said no. They thought I was mad. But the third one said yes. 'When we got there, though, Dad wasn't co-operative. He'd never recorded with headphones on and didn't see why he needed them. He had a tantrum and said 'who is this lanky t***?' of the engineer. But I convinced him to give us one last try – and it worked. He sang his heart out, and the guy's jaw dropped.' All he ever wanted to do was to sing for people, and now people are listening to him all over the world. The YouTube posting was just an extension of this desire to 'make sure that I was always going to have his voice', but obviously, when their rendition went viral, Simon was flabbergasted. https://www.youtube.com/watch?vcuBl3TNrjek He admits that the offer from Decca to turn his dad into a bona fide recording star was a difficult one to process, though. 'There was a part of me thinking 'is this right?' because it's true, he doesn't really understand what is happening. I had to discuss it with my mum, and we both sat there asking ourselves 'what would Dad want?'.' The answer was unequivocal. 'There is nothing he would have wanted more in the world'. There will be no happy ending here, not even if he reaches Number One, or an album beckons. The prognosis is never good with Alzheimer's and Simon makes a downward slope with his arm when I ask what he thinks the future holds. At the same time, though, his father's voice will now never die. 'All he ever wanted to do was to sing for people, and now people are listening to him all over the world,' says Simon. 'He would love that. I know he would.' Credits: dailymail.co.uk

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