Tiki’s father was a knockabout bloke with few, if any, airs and graces. He would quite often refer to his attractive and refined wife, even in front of complete strangers, as his “old bag”. However, in the months prior to her inevitable obit, she was effusive in her praise of how he doted upon her in order that she might remain in her own home for as long as possible.
Other men at the business he owned used to comment on how an ugly looking individual like him could have produced as pretty a daughter as Tiki! However, in spite of his tactless nature and brusque demeanour, he was an impressive provider for his family and, despite his disapproval of my source of employment, he could see that his daughter was, in general, happy and as the years progressed, I became more of a son to him than his adopted son ever was!
He was a practical man, always working on engines and other physical activities. I still remember some of his pet sayings: “It fits like a bum in a bucket!”; “Any better and it would be good!”; “You always have to leave something for the critics!”; “Don’t talk with your mouth half full. Fill it right up!” and, when referring to those who litter, “They can bring it here full, but they can’t take it away empty.”
It wasn’t uncommon for him to put his time into helping others. However, he was too trusting of a certain member of the family and, financially, this was to cost him dearly in his latter years.
Tiki reminded me some months ago of how we were given permission to select three recordings that were to be played at his funeral. We had set about choosing ones that we believed pertained to aspects of his life. We had selected two, namely Rod Stewart’s ‘Sailing’ and Eddie Fisher’s ‘Oh Mein Papa’ and were left to agonise as to what should be the third.
It was during this time that I reminded Tiki of how her father had once forgotten to raise the handle of the rotary clothesline and as he was mowing his lawn, using his rideable mower, the handle found its way up a leg of his overalls. Suddenly, his leg was being savagely pulled in one direction while his mower was hellbent on travelling in another!
This incident didn’t end well and because he was in discomfort for some considerable time, I had suggested jocularly, that the third recording to be played should have been ‘Great Balls Of Fire’.
Now that I have been diagnosed with the onset of Parkinson’s Disease, Tiki expressed the wish to play “Shakin’ All Over” at my funeral.
“Just make sure it’s the original by Johnny Kidd and The Pirates!”, I retorted.