Memorial Service - Deleted Scene

Firstly, I’d like to thank all of you who came here today. Some of you have known my dad a short while; some have known him for more than three decades. I’d like to spend a few moments telling you a little about my father because he was a modest man and there’s perhaps a lot about him that he would not have thought to say about himself.

Let’s start at the beginning. Dad was born in a mining village called Hunwick in County Durham in 1929. To say he was born in abject poverty is putting it midly. Dad’s childhood could have been written by Catherine Cookson or D H Lawrence. He was the youngest of twelve children, seven of whom survived to adulthood, and of the five who died in childhood, three of them were too young to even be given names.

Grim.

Dad was 15 when the war ended and he had a choice: spend the rest of his life down the mines like his dad – or find a way out. Dad was smart enough to choose the latter. With some creative interpretation of the paperwork and a local Alderman who was prepared to replicate his father’s signature, my father signed up for the RAF. What’s not to like? He got a uniform, three square meals a day, a good pay, education and the chance to see the world! And as I understand it some very attractive young ladies were very keen to express their ‘gratitude’ for the efforts of the uniformed lads!

[Pause for laughter]

Of course, his dodgy paperwork was soon rumbled but being post-war this was overlooked and Dad was shipped to Malaya where he trained to be a physiotherapist. In those days you had little say in what career you had in the armed services but it was obvious even then that Dad was not in it for the fighting. He was not a killer but a healer.

Dad was in the RAF for nearly 20 years. When he completed his training as a physio, he was given the minimum rank that the profession allowed – sergeant and for a short while Dad was the youngest sergeant in the RAF – less than 19 years old; imagine that! He spent most of his career in the Far East and was fluent in four languages: five if you count Geordie!

[Pause for laughter]

One thing Dad probably never told you was that he was a keen backgammon player. One of his old comrades once told me that Dad earned more as a backgammon player in Kuala Lumpa than he did on his military pay. It was, of course my Dad who taught me to play. And there are a number of rule concepts that transpose to poker and gave me the head start that allowed me to gain some small advantage in that sport.

Thank you Dad, I owe you one.

Of course, there comes a time when a man wants to settle down. Dad left the RAF as a Warrant officer and went to civvie street. His first job was as a relief pub manager. This was where he met my mum and then along came me. Now this worked well for a while, the money was good but having a little baby living above a pub is not ideal. The shouting, bad language, farting and constant demands for attention…

It seems I was putting the regulars off their beer.

[Pause for laughter]


So it was time for a change. Dad went to night school and retrained as an engineer. He got a good job as an optical profile grinder [Google it] and we moved into 25 Shaftesbury Road. And things went well for a number of years.

Now these days we live in “enlightened” times. We know how to check ourselves and each other for lumps and bumps. In the 70s things were different. By the time Mum discovered she had a lump in her breast, and she had plucked up the courage to see the quack, it was too late. She had a mastectomy but the cancer had metastasized to her pancreas and brain. She died a painful death at home over more than a year. Dad, of course, quit his job to look after her until she died and then devoted his life to looking after me.

We had no money. Times were hard.

Dad coped with his grief by turning to God. He became a Christian and spent the next two decades working tirelessly for the Church and its hall. He served first as a sidesman and then as a Churchwarden.

Dad’s Christianity was very important to him and he took it very seriously. Now, as far as I know he never gave a talk in Church but nevertheless, those who did, those who regularly gave powerful theological discourses would continually knock on Dad’s door and he would give them a cup of tea and a quiet little word and they would go away just that little bit wiser. He was a powerful counsellor

For those of you who are visiting the Martyrs today, we have been lucky to have been treated to a series of talks and presentations over recent weeks on the theme of the Beatitudes, found in Matthew [5].

Matthew [5:5] tells us that:


Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.


Meekness isn’t a word that we use everyday, but a few weeks ago Shayne Ardron and John Fryer helped us understand that meekness is not weakness; it is power under control. And I think that sums up my Dad very neatly. He had a tough life – he could have imploded, exploded or just collapsed and blamed everything on his shitty luck. But he didn’t. He reined his energy in and targeted it where it was most needed. He focussed his energy on the Church - and on his son.

So, what kind of Dad was he?

Well, I couldn’t have hoped for a better one. He taught me a lot.

He inspired my interest in mathematics. His own night school courses in maths he passed on to me so that I was proficient in trigonometry, geometry, logarithms and all kinds of other stuff. He taught me anatomy, physiology. He taught me all about levers, pulleys and first-aid.

But he also taught me philosophy.

By that I don’t mean he sat me down and explained the difference between empiricism and logical deduction. Dad taught philosophy by example.

Dad had a hard life but he didn’t whine about it or make excuses, he just got on with things. He taught me the difference between “blame” and “responsibility”. You can sit around excusing your behaviour for all the crap that’s been tipped on your head over the years or you can take responsibility for your own life and get on with it – put it right. There are of course exceptions, people through no fault of their own become ill and need special help, but where you can, if you can, you owe it to yourself and those who would help you, to be responsible for your own life.

Speaking personally now, those who know me, know that I have a certain “chemical weakness”. Fuck it! Let’s call it what it is – I’m an alcoholic! It’s my responsibility to sort that out. I may need help, and I know there are people very close to me – sitting very close to me – who will help me with that.

But it is you Dad who taught me that, and I thank you for it.

God Bless you, Dad.