On Sunday evening dad
passed away. It appeared at the beginning like mild symptoms, something paracetamol could regulate, water could abate. However, it spiralled into breathlessness and my mum reacted fast, ensuring an ambulance arrived. And with that some of our fears eased. He had never been unwell before. He hadn't been struggling with his breathing for long. A shot
of oxygen, a chaser of fluids, a round of antibiotics and he would be right.
Unfortunately, this did not work. Treatment was stepped up and with
it our worst fears. Each morning we woke praying for good news, but the Gods never answered.
After twelve days in hospital, we had to say goodbye.
This will be a
piece that will celebrate my dad. This prose will not be shrunk shouldered and
head down for long. Later, this writing will right itself, stand tall, head raised, look to the clouds – just like dad did when he went birdwatching. But before
I move onto that, I do want to invoke Emily Maitlis’ Newsnight speech
from a few weeks ago. The BBC as a publicly funded broadcaster should be
impartial, but only up to a point. Her blistering speech typified when it is necessary to
debunk lies and throw knowledge to the mast.
In her opening monologue she said,
‘The language
around Covid 19 has sometimes felt trite and misleading. You do not survive the
illness through fortitude and strength of character.’
This was delivered
in response to Boris Johnson’s political friend, Dominic Raab, asserting how the
PM was a ‘fighter’ who would overcome the illness. I’m not angry with him. I’ve
said stupid things. I even made jokes about Boris when he was ill (I look
pretty stupid now). So many people use the language of war to describe health battles. I think it re-assures us that something can be done, that we’re not flailing in chaos, strung out in riptides
beyond our control. The truth is context plays
a huge part in survival: age, class, gender, genes, ethnicity are all contributing
factors. My dad didn’t lose any battle, nor did the wonderful staff who toiled
to keep him alive. It just didn’t happen for him. It tragically wasn't to be. But let it be known: neither he, nor the staff, lost.
I did say I was
going to celebrate dad. This blog is called ‘Reasons to be Cheerful’ and if ever
there was a man who embodied a reason to be cheerful then it was dad. Over the
course of this piece, I’m going to break from tradition: I’ve written over 250
of these pieces, always about what’s brought me cheer, never considering another’s
perspective; well, today I’m going to think about the things that brought him joy
and celebrate them with you.
Only Fools
and Horses
Dad was a big fan
of Derek ‘Del Boy’ Trotter. Unlike Del, dad wasn’t working-class by birth. He
was born into a middle-class family: his mum a teacher, his dad a postmaster.
However, moving to England in the 70’s meant he started from the bottom. Petrol
attendant, security guard, caravan washer were all jobs he had. Like Del, he was
aspirational, always scheming, forever dreaming. Dad designed a security door
for arcade machines that he had patented – Namco, the arcade giant, invested in
them. He also bought a photo processing machine that he installed in a local
cornershop (unlike his invention, it didn’t make any money). Sometimes my dad’s
investments came up bonnet de douche, other times they sunk like Uncle Albert’s
ship; whatever happened, he always felt like a millionaire.
Rob Brydon in
St Albans Arena 2009
I took my dad to
see this. This was before Brydon started hosting
Would I Lie To You? (one of dad’s favourite shows). In all honesty the
stand-up was middling. I remember some material about Brydon playing golf with
Ronnie Corbett, which was less a routine, more an impersonation. However, where
Brydon does excel is crowd-work. This was demonstrated when a punter came back
late from the bar. Putting thirst before etiquette, they risked the ire of Brydon. Said punter’s seat was in the front row.
Most people in this position would make like a greyhound for the chair. This chap, however, made a strange call and decided to do the opposite. Like a nighttime robber, he tiptoed down the aisle as though afraid of arousing the comic’s suspicion. Essentially, the target was waving at their sniper - Brydon never had it so easy. The way he dispatched him though was a thing of beauty. Giddy bullet after giddy bullet was fired at the audience member. But instead of taking it lying down, the chap ran for higher ground: the upper circle. Yes, the man retreated down the aisle, then ran up the stairs, taking refuge behind a pillar. Caught in a blitzkrieg of blind panic, he stayed there whilst Brydon looked up in disbelief. My dad looked at the grown man, positioned beside us, hiding like a child, and collapsed into heaving hysterics. Skin, body, blood and bones had gone missing at this point, dad was comprised of nothing but laughter. I rarely laugh out loud. I'm too self-conscious. Dad could laugh a house down.
Most people in this position would make like a greyhound for the chair. This chap, however, made a strange call and decided to do the opposite. Like a nighttime robber, he tiptoed down the aisle as though afraid of arousing the comic’s suspicion. Essentially, the target was waving at their sniper - Brydon never had it so easy. The way he dispatched him though was a thing of beauty. Giddy bullet after giddy bullet was fired at the audience member. But instead of taking it lying down, the chap ran for higher ground: the upper circle. Yes, the man retreated down the aisle, then ran up the stairs, taking refuge behind a pillar. Caught in a blitzkrieg of blind panic, he stayed there whilst Brydon looked up in disbelief. My dad looked at the grown man, positioned beside us, hiding like a child, and collapsed into heaving hysterics. Skin, body, blood and bones had gone missing at this point, dad was comprised of nothing but laughter. I rarely laugh out loud. I'm too self-conscious. Dad could laugh a house down.
Wrangler Jeep
Although many of
you may think I am one of two, I’m actually the
middle one in our family. My dad’s baby was his Jeep. Dad was made redundant a lot when we
were kids. This was no reflection on his work. He would work like a Beatle
eight days a week given half a chance. He was just a victim of his employer being bought out or folding into liquidation. My brother and me never felt
unemployment at home. Mum and dad protected us from the word, the feel, the throttle of it. And anyway, dad always got a job a few weeks later, meaning he made
money from redundancy. He was the one person in Britain who smiles on being told they're being made redundant. With his payout, he bought a £4000 Jeep. It was
his pride and joy. He liked nothing better than dropping the roof and feeling
the wind in his scalp. All the other kids in school went to prom in a cliche - identikit limo
after identikit limo - we went in the Wrangler, Santana riffs blaring, elbows on
windowsill, nodding along like we were in a Hip Hop video. Dad laughed like a
kid when we pulled up and heads turned. The exuberance of childhood never left him.
 |
| His third child. |
Photography
Dad was a wonderful
photographer. He was beloved by his mates at Camera Club – not just because he
made the tea. At any family occasion he would be there poised, camera at hand,
ready to document the important moments. Because he took so many pictures, we
don’t really have many of him. His inexperience of being photographed was made
manifest at my wedding last year. Every picture with him in has his legs
crossed, his body slouched, as though he’s bursting for the loo. All the
guidance he gave others on how to look and stand are missing. He always was
more worried about making others look good, than how he appeared – that was the mark of the man.
 |
| Dad took this one. |
James Bond
Dad loved James
Bond. He was a big fan of gadgets. Each year mum and him would go to their
friends at New Year for fancy dress celebrations. He would channel his inner-Q and
make a gizmo to support his character. Like a Sri Lankan Blue Peter, he
would get out the sticky back plastic and loo rolls and create something that
would fire, sparkle or rotate. His attempts to demonstrate his prototype would
be sabotaged by peals of laughter - his own. He always found himself very
entertaining. What can I say, he was an excellent judge of character.
 |
| Dad at Casino Royale Secret Cinema. |
John Barnes
I mentioned Del
Boy earlier. Uncle Albert’s catchphrase in that sitcom is, ‘During the war …’
My dad’s catchphrase was ‘When John Barnes played for Watford …’ As far as he
was concerned our footballing heroes were rubbish. Kieran’s hero of Lars Bohinen
(he used to be a Forest fan) and mine of Tommy Mooney meant nothing compared to
Barnesy. He was, of course, right. Barnes was an audacious footballer, a master
magician, who would show you all the cards, but still find a way of
misdirecting you. His crosses to Luther Blissett catapulted Watford into being
one of the country’s best teams. Barnes was both an exuberant showman and supporting presence. Reminds me of someone.
Family
Family was the
thing that made my dad most cheerful. He was so proud of my mum for giving her
working life to nursing. He was so proud of my self-made brother who went from recording a podcast in his bedroom to working for FIFA.
He was so proud of his family in Sri Lanka, Canada and America who worked so
hard to achieve prestigious jobs, tough qualifications, loving families. And we
were so proud of him. So, so proud.
 |
| The family. |
Don’t pity our
family for losing him, envy us for having him. Always laughing, always smiling, he was something truly special.
