Dad

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.

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.