Tribute to Dad
 
First of all, on the behalf of Mum - David and I want to thank all of you for coming here today to join us in remembering our Dad, Tony. Today is going to be emotional for many of us - but we want to pay tribute to and celebrate the man Dad was – we are all going to miss him enormously.
 
Many of you have travelled a long way to be here today, and we are really grateful for that. Mum & Dad had only recently taken the decision to move several hundred miles north from Basingstoke, here to North Yorkshire. They had a wonderful first year up here, on what felt like an extended holiday between various rental properties waiting for their new home to be ready. It seemed at the time that Dad was full of energy, enjoying the change of scenery. He had plans to walk the moors, to visit the beautiful coast and to give proper time to deciding whether Theakston’s or Black Sheep was actually the best local ale.
 
One of the reasons behind the move north was that it seemed to make sense to be a little nearer to me, so they could have a doctor on hand as they grew older. As it turned out, Dad called on those services far sooner than any of us expected. Despite seeming in great form at Christmas, by February a stubborn cough and lingering fever led to blood tests and a chest x-ray. On the 1st of March, we received the shocking news he had colon cancer, already stage 4 at diagnosis.
 
Dad understood that this wasn’t curable, but we hoped chemo would buy us more time together. Sadly, that wasn’t to be. He told me at diagnosis he was afraid he might be a coward in the face of what lay ahead: in the end, he withstood all that was asked of him with grace and quiet stoicism. Although it was hard knowing time was short, it also gave us opportunities. We spent lots of hours together. We laughed, and we definitely cried. We had time to talk, to say thank you to him for everything, and to tell him how very much we all loved him. We even dug out the questionable home movie starring David and I as sheep and tried to explain it to the grandchildren. Dad was able to plan how he wanted to leave us – and we are eternally grateful that we were able to keep to that plan: he left us gently, surrounded by our love, in peace.
 
As many of you know, Dad was a very deep thinker. When he knew his time was limited, his thoughts turned to this moment – his funeral – and he left us notes on how he wanted it to be. We have had to edit the music choices pretty heavily, because there isn’t enough Kleenex in the world, let alone North Yorkshire, to get us all safely through some of the songs he wanted to inflict on us.
 
He also started considering the legacy he would leave, and – ever the writer – penned a biography for us to draw on. His notes give a self-deprecating and modest appraisal of what he clearly felt didn’t amount to much of a rollcall of achievements. We therefore elected to edit this for him, too - because he overlooked so much of what we feel was wonderful about him. To us, his lasting impact isn’t really to be found in listing the things he did, so much as in remembering the way he went about doing them.
 
Simply put: Dad was a good man - in every sense of the word. He was principled, deep thinking, empathic, kind, and generous. He was a devoted husband and adored Mum– which is so clear in the lyrics of the song he chose to end the service with today. It was important to him that he was a fun, loving and demonstrative father.  He was a much-loved uncle and grandfather, too – always quick to get down on the floor playing games with the children, clearly finding a kindred spirit in the youngest members of the extended family. He was undoubtedly successful in his career, which was varied and often creative and innovative – but most importantly he was well-liked and respected wherever he went: he was a supportive, hard-working colleague. A loyal, entertaining, and trustworthy friend. The way others felt about him has been evident in the lovely cards and tributes we’ve received in the last few weeks.
 
Dad had a keen sense of humour.  He loved Monty Python and the Goons, particularly Spike Milligan.  His biography starts with the phrase “I was born at an early age in Peterborough on the 10th of March 1950” – a nod to a well-known Groucho Marx quote. He was an only child, with a strict upbringing. We suspect this is what led to the sense of rebellion and mischief that was such a big part of who he was.  He went to school at Dogsthorpe Juniors, then to the very straightlaced Kings Grammar in Peterborough.  We found his school reports when his Mum died: they were a revelation. “If Tony spent as much time on his schoolwork as he does entertaining the class, he would go far!”.  An introverted extrovert, he realised early he was a good mimic and could make others laugh.
 
As David and I grew up, we received pretty contradictory messages from him – on the one hand, like most parents, he told us to listen to our teachers, behave well and work hard at school. On the other, if we caught him in the right mood, he regaled us with tales of his own mis-spent youth.  He skived off school, taking his moped to the seaside then getting into bother when he got home, and he realised the sun had burned the shape of his helmet onto his face. He tapped into the beer barrels at the City Rowing Club, where Kings kept their boats. On his last day at Kings, he was part of a group responsible for hoisting a pair of dark brown County Grammar school girl’s knickers to the top of the school flagpole. He anonymously alerted the local paper – which didn’t go down too well with the Kings headmaster, a man of the cloth, when he saw the photos and editorial!
 
Another form of breaking with expectation was in his choice of wife.  His parents anticipated he would marry a “nice English girl”.  He always said he’d hankered for a tall, blonde Swedish girl – but instead, fell in love with a short, dark Italian. They met at Baker Perkins, in Peterborough: Dad worked in the purchasing department in the basement; Mum in the telex department on the 6th floor. In his biography he wrote that he “rapidly became besotted with her”. She says for her, it was “love at first Sacha Distel impression”.  
 
Dad didn’t just fall in love with Mum; but also with the extended Italian family she welcomed him into. He wrote: “Maria, thank you for always being there for me in a wonderful 50+ years of marriage that introduced me to some of the most remarkable, loving and generous people I’d ever met”.
 
Mum and Dad married in 1972 at the tender age of 21 and 22, on the first of July (apparently it was important to Dad, an ardent Peterborough United supporter, that the wedding didn’t clash with the start of the football season).  Having scrimped and saved to afford their first home, they were unable to stretch to one with a garage. Not to worry – Dad was confident that, after a 6-week bricklaying course, he had the necessary skill set to tackle this, with Mum as his only sidekick mixing the cement, digging the footings and moving the bricks.
 
Other relationships with less tolerant wives may not have survived this challenge. Dad unfortunately took the measurements needed to build his detached garage from their neighbours attached garage – so, at the end of the two-year project, when finally ready to order the up and over door - he found the opening he had left was three inches too narrow. Luckily, after demonstrating an excellent knowledge of swearwords, he was tenacious enough to finish the job by building a set of wooden doors himself. (I am sure Dad would like me to point out at this stage that the garage was still standing when they last visited Doncaster a few years ago).
 
As an only child, Dad always knew he wanted a family of his own. In 1975, David was born, followed by me in 1979. Dad’s work took him all around the country and sometimes, across the world.  He was often away as a result, striving hard to provide for us all. Mum was regularly asked why we had a big photo of him on our noticeboard. She said it was in case we forgot what he looked like. His heart was always with us though, and weekends and holidays became his focus.  He put so much effort into adventure days, and creating itineraries for independent holidays, at a time when this was still an unusual way to travel.
 
He always resisted having to return from a holiday back to everyday life. He wanted to squeeze every last second out of whatever adventure we were having.  Our childhood memories are full of times Dad stressed poor Mum out, still sitting on a beach minutes before a ferry was due to depart, or having to run through airports as our names were announced over the tannoy as “the last remaining passengers…”.  When they retired, Mum and Dad continued to make travel a priority – visiting Canada, Australia, New Zealand, Argentina, Kuala Lumpur, Brunei, and most of Europe.
 
Dad adored being out and about and had a deep appreciation of the beauty of the natural world – he had a profound and enduring love of the sea, and this is something he has passed on to David and I. He wanted to hang onto every last drop of joy from this, too – whether capturing it in photos, with the written word or by carting a huge VHS video camera around on our holidays; the beauty of the sea, clouds, mountains and sunsets form a running theme through most of our memories and images of him. He actively sought out wild weather and I think felt most alive around crashing seas, lashing winds and storms. In fact, he ended up about 5 ft from a lightning strike in Florida once, so fixated was he on capturing the perfect image!
 
Sometimes, however, he could be a little too hard on himself. He never quite seemed to realise his true worth and the high esteem in which he was held by others. He often frustrated himself: for example, in his efforts to play golf as well as he wanted – many weekends Mum and I would watch him and David return from another 18 holes with bated breath. If David gave us the nod, we knew the phrase “Jesus wept” would have resounded more than once around the golf course, and it wasn’t wise for us to ask him how he had played!
 
We all have our quirks, and Dad did too. One was an intolerance to little noises that most people would never notice.  Family car journeys were often fraught when he noticed a rattle or squeak that the rest of us were oblivious to.  We’d all helpfully bang various parts of the dashboard or hold any loose part of the interior. He’d ask Mum incredulously “Can’t you hear it?!” whilst she’d try (and fail) to persuade him to put the radio on and ignore it. Dad did mention a willow casket in his notes, but given these tend to creak on movement we couldn’t, in all good conscience, subject him to that on this journey, of all journeys.
 
Dad loved writing.  As children, we were treated to stories he wrote for us, and he continued this tradition with his grandchildren. He set himself the goal of writing a novel – he ultimately published two of his own books, and edited and contributed to several other titles. All the proceeds from his book sales went to local charities. He used his retirement to give back to others in a variety of ways - from caring for elderly neighbours who found themselves alone and in need of some help, to lending his support to various organisations. He helped expand the Basingstoke Music and Arts Festival. He chaired the local writing circle. He was active in the AF association, spreading awareness of a heart condition he’d lived with since midlife. He edited the Dexodus newsletter for the association of ex-Digital staff. He was always generous with his time and expertise, acting as a mentor for pupils in a local school, as well as for local start-up businesses. There are too many things to list.
 
His kindness and empathy for others is perhaps best shown by his actions when his much-loved brother-in-law was diagnosed with dementia.  Dad contacted his local Dementia Friends organisation to learn as much as he could about dementia, and how he could better support and reassure him. He also put hours into tracing a family that Mum’s father, Pasquale, had known when he was a prisoner of war in Barry, Wales. To Grandad’s surprise, Dad organised a trip to Barry to visit the site of the camp and meet the surviving family members. Grandad was so moved that he made the effort to do this: he told the story often.
 
Although Dad has left us far too soon, I don’t think we would ever have been ready to say goodbye.  Our predominant feeling is one of gratitude that he was part of our lives for so long. He wasn’t a religious man, and despite staring his own mortality in the face, didn’t seek comfort here in the last months of his life. Instead, he believed that he would simply return to being a part of the natural world he loved so much – and we will feel closest to him every time we gaze at a beautiful sunset, or try to name the clouds as they scurry through the skies, or watch the waves crashing as we walk along a beach.