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Love on the Dole 22 Nov 2012

I came this close from resigning from the Dole today.  I just can’t be unemployed in the way I’d like if I have to deal with such inflexible people.

 

I normally sign on at 2.30pm every other Thursday.  This Thursday, however, I arranged to sign on at 8.30am because I’d got a place on a training course.  But first thing this morning I got a call saying the training had been postponed.  No problem, I think, I’ll just go and do the voluntary work I normally do on a Thursday morning and then sign on at the normal time.

 

Good Lord, the DSS nearly ground to a halt.  I presented myself at the desk at 2.30 and when Kay, according to her name badge, couldn’t see me listed I suggested she might find my name in the 8.30 slot.  Ooh, I’d done a very bad thing.

 

‘We made a special arrangement for you to sign on at 8.30, so you should have been here at 8.30.’

 

A ‘special arrangement’? I didn’t realise the DSS had put itself out for me so much; opened early, brought in extra staff, re-arranged other appointments.

 

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t realise.  I thought it would be ok just to come in at my usual time.’

 

‘Well, it isn’t ok.’

 

Apparently not.

 

‘You should know you can’t just come in when you want…..’

 

‘Kay…..’

 

‘You have to come in at the agreed time; otherwise your claim won’t be approved……’

 

‘Kay…..’

 

‘You should’ve been here at 8.30 for your appointment with Phil.  He’s gone home now……’  (Why, was he upset?)

 

‘Kay…..’

 

‘I don’t know what we can do…….’

 

‘Kay…..’

 

I was beginning to wonder how Kay breathed because she just talked and talked and talked without pausing.  I was beginning to look for gills, or maybe she respired through tiny holes in her keratin – like a beetle.  Eventually she did pause and I drove a word into the small crag of silence like a piton and hoped it held.

 

‘Kay…..a word in edgeways, please.’

 

‘But……’

 

‘Kay,  I wasn’t told it had to be at 8.30.  If I was told I would have been here.’

 

‘Well, you’ll know in future.’

 

‘In future, yes. But the future wasn’t two weeks ago when I wasn’t told.’

 

I realised I was very close to being one of the reasons they used to have a Perspex screen between the DSS official and the client.  Two security guards stood next to the desk, just in case I turned nasty rather than peevish.

 

Kay left me while she went to talk to a colleague.  When she came back she said, ‘Because you weren’t here on time we can’t find your signing-on card.’  As if that was my fault.  As if the card gets sucked into a black hole if I don’t sign it at the agreed time.  She asked me to take a seat while she tried to salvage something from the wreckage of her day.  Who would’ve thought the world would end on a Thursday?

 

While I waited I decided to check Twitter and Facebook on my phone.  ‘You’re not allowed to use mobile phones in here,’ said one of the security guards.  Pardon me?  Why not?  It’s not as if we’re in a 747 and I’m going to cause a crash (which is a myth, anyway). What possible harm is a mobile going to do in a DSS office?

 

By now I was becoming self-righteous; I hadn’t actually claimed for Job Seeker’s Allowance for my first 6 months after leaving the BBC because I wasn’t seeking work.  Therefore I didn’t feel eligible for it.  But now I am looking for work so I am entitled.  After 30 years employment, I am only claiming back what I’ve paid into the system in National Insurance and tax.

 

Now here I was made to feel like I’d buggered up the whole welfare state and I wasn’t allowed to communicate with the outside world.  That’s when I nearly resigned.  I am intelligent, I’m a graduate and I’m articulate and here I was being treated like a trouble-making idiot.  Clearly this relationship wasn’t working out.  The DSS and I weren’t a good fit.

 

Kay  finally found someone to sign me on, as if she’d used her influence to get me an audience with the Pope.  I sat at the desk, expecting another lecture on my lackadaisical time-keeping and how much I had thrown the Department into confusion.  But the guy merely asked me to sign the card and wished me a good day.

 

How on Earth does the DSS stay in business?  If it doesn’t learn to treat its core customers better it’s going to lose them to the competition.  The Dole isn’t the only source of money; I’m seriously thinking of taking my talents somewhere else…..like an employer.  Perhaps it’s only when everyone has left it for a job that the DSS will realise it doesn’t have a monopoly on handing out money.

 

By then it will be too late.

 

 

 

Never Go Back 26 Oct 2012

Tonight I ended up at a pub with people I worked with until 6 months ago. It was an uncomfortable experience ? they felt like strangers. It brought into sharp focus how angry and hurt I feel about my treatment by the BBC.

 

It was simmering under the surface in my last 3 years after the brain injury ? the bitterness & anger at the lack of understanding. I am torn between thinking, how could I expect them to understand and feeling hurt that they can only empathise with physical injury.

 

I know I upset a lot of people but I have lost sight of where it all went wrong. I feel let down by the corporation and individuals and I need to deal with this before I can move on. Right now, I don?t know how to and I?m blocked.

 

I really wish I hadn?t gone tonight. Every time I see them I feel disliked.

 

 

 

Apple Grumble 26 Oct 2012

Dear Mr God,

I have been thinking about apples, today.? Well, obsessing about them about them actually.? Why are You still banging on about the whole apple thing?? I mean come on, it was nearly six thousand years ago ? time to move on, surely.

 

So Adam and Eve scrumped ONE apple.? Big deal.? Now we get this whole Original Sin thing and a restraining order preventing us getting back to Eden.? Talk about, over-reacting.? Look, we’ve got our own apples now ? have one of ours.? Take as many as you like.? Jeez, get over it already.

 

We’re supposed to say sorry all the time and admit how crap we are and say how wonderful You are.? Y’know, there comes a point when we are perfectly entitled to say, ‘Look, we’ve apologised. If that’s not good enough sod ya then.’

 

And if stealing the apple was the cause of all our pain and travail, how come we aren’t banned from eating them?? Why is there nothing about not eating apples in the Terms and Conditions you call the Bible?

 

You’re sending out mixed signals; on the one hand you make a real song and dance about stealing one in the Garden of Eden, but on the other you’re not that bothered if we go on eating them. If we give up apples will you let us back in?

 

I mean what’s the deal here?? That’s all I’m asking.

 

Yours Sincerely

Confused of Down Here.

?

Dear Confused,

Look it’s not rocket surgery.? All I asked was one thing; stay away from the apples.? That’s all, it wasn’t hard, was it?? Well, obviously it was.? I gave you the Garden of Eden and eternal happiness and I even let you go commando.? Just don’t touch my apples.

 

And what do you go and do?? Eat one of my bloody apples. ?Honestly, it’s like dealing with children; you tell them not to do something and then they go and do it.? And then what are you going to do?? Are you going to say, ‘Ah well, never mind’?? How are they ever going to learn?? You’ve got to have discipline and you have to learn there are consequences.? Otherwise it’s all fun and games until someone has their eye out.? Then we’re all down A&E and you’re whining, ‘Ooh we didn’t know, you should’ve warned us.’

 

Thank you for the offer of your own apples but I’m afraid that’s not how it works.? You say I’m over-reacting but someone has to make the rules around here otherwise it’ll just be complete Hell. ??Is that what you want?? And you say I haven’t said anything about not eating apples in the Terms and Conditions.? How old are you now?? You’ve had six-thousand years to work out what’s right and what’s wrong for yourselves.? Do I have to spell everything out?

 

Look, I thought I’d chosen something really, really simple; don’t touch the apples.? How hard could it be?? Look at the Hindus, they can’t eat beef.? The Jews, no pork.? Bhuddists, no meat full stop.? And they’re surrounded by meat mooing and oinking and baaing at them EVERY BLOODY DAY.? They manage.

I thought I was letting you off lightly.? You can have roast beef Sunday lunches, lamb shanks, bacon sarnies, chicken korma, fish and chips ? just about anything you want.? Except apples.? But oh no, it’s all ‘I want to have an apple, can I eat an apple, please, please, please let me have an apple.’? Yes, you do sound that whiney.

And as for the constant praise, thank you but you’re missing the point. It’s no good apologising and then carrying on doing what I asked you not to do.? It’s about respecting other peoples’ property.

 

Just lay off the fucking apples and I’ll think about letting you back in.? So I’m sorry if you think I should ‘get over it.’? My creation, my rules.

 

Is that a cider you’re drinking?? I rest my case.

 

Yours,

God.

 

 

 

The Saville Row 20 Oct 2012

There is a mindset within the BBC about not criticising something it’s bought into, even if it is journalistically valid. For years it under-played the deaths at the Grand National and thankfully it is better now. Even at my humble level I found myself ‘obliged’ to present a smiley face at an event the BBC was covering.

 

For example, when we were planning coverage of the Olympic Torch relay I was told I couldn’t mention the fact that the torch was introduced by the Nazis at the Berlin Olympics in 1936. It was a valid observation, I thought, but it was hardly going to bring London 2012 crashing down.

 

As a BBC journalist I had to have a working knowledge of the Corporation’s Editorial Guidelines and there was one guideline which always stuck in my mind precisely because it was the most frequently ignored; that the BBC should report on itself just as objectively as it reported on any other organisation.

 

 

 

One Last Thing... 20 Jul 2012

I forgot to thank Jill Rundle, from the British Humanist Association, who led the funeral service. ?She met Dad a few weeks before he died so she was able to talk about him from first-hand experience. ?The ceremony captured the man that he was ? from his Cornish roots to his craftsmanship. ?Thanks Jill.

 

And thanks also to Funeral Directors, WS Trenhaile, especially Ray Boulden. ?The were professional, sensitive and supportive throughout. ?Everything was clearly explained, including the costs and the paperwork and it was a real weight off our minds to be able to trust the ability, leaving us to focus on other issues.

And it was entirely serendipitous that Jill has Cornish roots and Trenhailes was founded by a Cornishman. So Dad’s funeral was kept ‘in the family’.

 

 

 

The Final Blog About My Dead 17 Jul 2012

Tuesday July 17th.

This is the last entry in this Blog ? exactly one month after started it. This is what I wrote in the first entry on Sunday June 17th;

 

“Looking at him today I can’t imagine he doesn’t have long. He was laughing and upbeat. Even now I can’t get my head round the fact he’s dying.”

 

And here I am, a day after his funeral. He has been cremated and he is now ashes. Just a month after he was sitting in his chair, optimistic and upbeat and laughing as we planned his funeral. It’s hard to take in. Four weeks ago I still couldn’t imagine him dying. Four weeks on I can’t believe he was so alert and with it.

The funeral was everything he wanted. No religion, humour and reflection. I was pleased with my eulogy; it got laughs and I think the more poignant moments touched people. I was completely free of nerves as I spoke; normally I am so on edge when speaking publicly.

 

I looked around the chapel and saw how much he meant to people. Rachel had driven all the way from Pembrokeshire for the service and drove all the way back for a birthday the same night.

 

There was John Dixey, one of his first apprentices, Ray Michelin, one of his last. There were friends and family from far and wide. It meant a lot to me that they came.

Jill led a wonderful Humanist ceremony which captured the man he was. Mum sat between me and Gerry and cried quietly throughout the service. I held her hand or hugged her close.

 

Gerry’s reading of Cornish Cliffs was so evocative. And Vernon’s reading of If was real class. He didn’t look at the words once ? he’d clearly memorised it. That was touching.

 

I kept looking at his portrait and tools at the head of the coffin and that was the first time his loss began to hit me.

 

Afterwards, Tizzy Hodson, the pilot who’d taken him up in the bi-plane flew over the chapel. She performed a couple of rolls and rocked her wings. It capped an emotional day. It looked at one stage as if the weather would keep her grounded, but she made it. It was a lovely tribute to him.

 

Now it’s all over I am going to let the emotion come.

One thought kept coming back to me today. I used to get so irritated when he would repeat the same old anecdote for the hundredth time ? whether it was the Williams family throwing coins to the unemployed in Cornwall, or recounting his flight in the bi-plane. The words were the same every time and I could tell them myself.

 

I used to zone out when he started repeating another story. I was thinking today ? I would give anything to hear him tell one of those stories again. And I would listen to every single word.

Bye Dad. xxx

 

 

Eulogy 17 Jul 2012

This is the Eulogy I read at his funeral.

 

First of all, I should explain why we’re in Cheltenham rather than Gloucester. Dad HATED Gloucester Crematorium. To him it was a 1960s monstrosity.

 

Many’s the time he attended a funeral and, as mourners offered their condolences to the family, his voice could often be heard ? ‘Have you seen the state of that bloody brickwork?’

 

So that’s why we’re here.

 

He was born on May 22nd, 1922, at Helston in Cornwall. He hated his full first-name. He was always Vince or Ford. He was named after a French village where HIS father was stationed in the First World War. I’m just glad he was never stationed in Nancy.

 

The name Ford earned him the nickname Model T at school. And there was a parody of the 23rd Psalm, popular at the time, which he always liked;

The Ford is my car, I shall not want another,
It maketh me to lie down in wet places.
It leadeth me through muddy waters, it destroyeth my soul,

It leadeth me into the path of ridicule.

Yea, though I run down the valley I am towed up the hill.
While it is with me, the knocking of the conrod and crankshaft shall discomfort me.

It prepares a breakdown for me in the presence of my neighbours.

It annointeth my head with oil when the sump runneth over.

Surely, it will not follow me all the days of my life
Or I shall dwell in the House of the Insane forever.

The seeds of his atheism were inadvertantly sown by his very religious mother who forced him into church and the choir, where he stood ? arms folded ? refusing to sing.

During the war he defied the RAF, refusing to attend compulsory morning service. Despite threatening him with a court-martial, The Few couldn’t defeat The One and Lance Corporal Vincent was excused church parade.

 

His Socialism was shaped by his experiences in depression-hit Cornwall in the 1930s. He saw his own father humiliated by unemployment.

 

The mention of one particular family brought down the red mist. The patriarch was the Master of the local hunt and he rounded up unemployed men to dig the foxes out of their setts. He would sit on his horse, shouting ? ‘Put your backs into it, you lazy bastards.’ Then he’d toss a few pennies to the ground and watch the men, Dad’s father among them, fight each other for the coppers.

He said people in Cornwall survived by pulling together. In later years, if someone knocked on the door saying they had a burst he would grab his tool kit and go. He never said no and he always under-charged ? if at all.

Dad was a creator and a maker. He was so good at art that his art teacher offered to pay for him to go to college. Dad refused. For him art was just a hobby.

He walked all the way to Falmouth to join the Merchant Navy. Only to find cadets had to buy their own uniform and there was no way his family could afford the one hundred pounds.

 

So he took up an apprenticeship as a plumber in 1937. He joined the RAF in 1940 and did his basic training in Morecambe. One night he was on guard duty outside the local fleapit, when a senior RAF officer arrived.

He was standing under a low wooden parapet and as he presented arms the bayonet stuck in the wood. He pulled, but the gun stuck. So he left his rifle hanging from the parapet and finished with a salute.

 

Dad hated the heat. Into his 80s he worked in his shirt-sleeves, or even shirtless, in the coldest weather. So the RAF couldn’t have sent him to a worse place. North Africa.

 

It was there he made, for me, his geatest creation. In 1942 ? as 162 Squadron moved through Libya to a new base ? they happened upon an abandoned German Airfield. There was a wrecked ME109 fighter and even then he had an eye for a useful piece of scrap.

 

Throughout his life he would look at a mangled, rusting piece of junk and say, ‘That’ll come in handy one day,’ and it would sit in his shed for 20 years forgotten by everyone except him. But he had a mental database of everything in his shed and garage and, sure enough, one day, that piece of scrap would be just what he needed.

 

Anyway, he cut off one of the Messershmidt’s propeller blades and for a year carried it everywhere because you never knew when a German propeller blade might come in handy.

 

In 1944 ? over a week ? he carved that propeller into a Spitfire, using just a hacksaw, a file and aircraft recognition cards. I now have it and it is truly beautiful.

He was demobbed in 1946 and finished his plumbing apprenticeship.

 

In the early 1950s he wanted to see the world as a fitter on a merchant ship. Sadly it never happened. But he’d asked his Uncle Tom, who lived in London, to see if there were any ships out of the East End which could use his skills. Tom had some contacts and wrote to Dad after speaking to one foreman.

 

“October 2nd, 1951.
“Vessels on more interesting voyages, East of Suez or South America, often carry a boiler-maker. There’s lots of loose rivets, plates and what-not on such trips. I told him you are a boiler-maker, a steam engine fitter and sheet metal worker who can make anything from a lighter to a hydraulic cess-pool.

“I said, if you can’t figure it out nobody can. And if you can’t do it, the ship is as good as at the bottom. But, before it reaches the bottom you’ll have made a pump, capable of re-floating it, out of a lot of obsolete gas fittings, an old pair of boots, two syrup tins and a Quartermaster’s watch chain.”

 

That sums up his creativity and talent for invention and improvisation.

 

He married Sylvia on March 5th, 1955, and worked all over Gloucestershire. He was well respected by workmates and bosses. There was no problem he couldn’t improvise a solution for, and the quality of his work ? especially his lead-work ? was admired and much sought.

 

I can go around the county and see a piece of work and say, ‘My Dad did that.’ He doesn’t need a memorial. His memorial is in the fabric of Gloucestershire.

 

He was fit and active well into his late-80s. His last major job was re-fitting our bathroom when he was 85. For his 89th birthday he went up in a bi-plane which looped-the-loop and rolled and dived over the countryside. He loved it.

 

He excercised his brain in retirement and loved doing crosswords. In a way, it’s a shame he chose cremation over burial. Because it would’ve been quite fitting for him to end up six down and three across.

 

Just before he died, Dad was slipping in and out of consciousness. Earlier in the day he’d thought he was in hospital. During one moment of lucidity he said, ‘I want to go home.’ Mum said, ‘You ARE home.’ Dad replied?..’No, to Cornwall.’

 

That’s where we will be scattering his ashes ? at Lands Ends.

 

I love you Dad. Let’s take you home.

 

 

 

His Final Message 17 Jul 2012

I wanted Dad to speak at his own funeral and a few weeks before he died he recorded a message. This is a transcript of his parting message at the service.

 

Just sum up the life you?ve had.

 

Wonderful, wonderful. I?ve achieved what I wanted to be ? a plumber. The main characteristic of the job I wanted was to be outdoors, working with my hands, using skills, shaping metals and things like that.?And that?s what I got to be ? a worker with lead, copper, zinc, all kinds of metal. Even steel. Working the metals into various shapes. And I achieved that. Because I achieved what I wanted to do I became a very happy man. There is nothing better to make you happy than to love the job you do, and I did. No regrets whatsoever. It?s not the most clever job in the world but it?s something I wanted and got and I?m very pleased and happy with my life.

 

Not frightened of dying?

 

Not in the least, no. Like Monty Python, I can see the funny side of life. No, it doesn?t bother me at all, not at all. I can see the humour in it.

 

 

 

Funeral Service - 3.15pm, Monday July 16th, Cheltenham Crematorium 17 July 2012

 

Arrival Music
‘Nimrod’
(Edward Elgar)

 

A very warm welcome!

 

We’ve come together today to celebrate the life of a man who was very dear to you all, Ford Vincent, known to most of you here as ‘Vince’. Vince died at home on the 3rd July 2012 following a period of illness which he bore with great dignity and often quite amazing cheerfulness. His wife, Sylvia, cared for him magnificently throughout this time, supported by Andrew, Sylv’s cousin, John and neighbours. Sylv was by Vince’s side, holding his hand, when he died. He was 90 years old.

 

Vince wasn’t a religious man and he was quite clear that he wanted a non-religious funeral ceremony. He has himself chosen the music and most of the readings, and this means that today’s ceremony will be a very personal, and sometimes poignant, tribute to the man Vince was and the life he led. Above all, he wanted this to be a joyful occasion, reflecting as it does a good, long life, lived well and to the full.

 

Of course, some of you here may be unfamiliar with this form of ceremony and may have different beliefs or a religious faith. Therefore, a little later on we will pause for private contemplation so that each of you here today can remember Vince in your own way.

 

We begin our ceremony with a poem that Vince was always touched by and that he wanted to be included today: Rudyard Kipling’s ‘If’. It will be read by Vernon Harwood.

 

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

 

If you can dream ? and not make dreams your master;
If you can think ? and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:

 

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

 

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
‘ Or walk with Kings ? nor lose the common touch,
if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And ? which is more ? you’ll be a Man, my son!
Rudyard Kipling

 

When Andrew called me and asked if I would help with the arrangements for today, I confess that I was quite surprised when he also suggested that I might like to meet Vince. As you can imagine, I don’t often get that opportunity so I was very pleased and privileged to be able to visit Vince at home just over three weeks before he died.

 

Vince was on good form when I got there and seemed remarkably positive and accepting of his circumstances. I was particularly struck by his sense of fun, the sparkle in his eye and his very winning smile, and we enjoyed a good hour together, chatting about his life and times. I don’t know of many people who choose to take a flight in a Tiger Moth plane at the age of 89 ? and I also learned one or two important points about dressing lead!

 

Being of Cornish heritage myself, I was interested to find out that Vince was born in Cornwall. In fact, we were the only two in the room who knew the words of ‘Trelawny’, which we heard as we came in, so we sang a verse or two together!

 

I know that Vince regretted very much that he couldn’t visit Cornwall for one last time on the occasion of his 90th birthday, because he was too ill. Anyone here who also has links with this special county will understand how it can work its magic and draw you back again and again.

 

With this in mind and in Vince’s honour, Gerry would like to read a poem for us: Cornish Cliffs by John Betjeman. This will be followed by ‘Trelawny’, sung by the Treverva Male Voice Choir.

 

Cornish Cliffs

Those moments, tasted once and never done,
Of long surf breaking in the mid-day sun.
A far-off blow-hole booming like a gun-

 

The seagulls plane and circle out of sight
Below this thirsty, thrift-encrusted height,
The veined sea-campion buds burst into white

 

And gorse turns tawny orange, seen beside
Pale drifts of primroses cascading wide
To where the slate falls sheer into the tide.

 

And in the shadowless, unclouded glare
Deep blue above us fades to whiteness where
A misty sea-line meets the wash of air.

 

Nut-smell of gorse and honey-smell of ling
Waft out to sea the freshness of the spring
On sunny shallows, green and whispering.

 

The wideness which the lark-song gives the sky
Shrinks at the clang of sea-birds sailing by
Whose notes are tuned to days when seas are high.

 

From today’s calm, the lane’s enclosing green
Leads inland to a usual Cornish scene-
Slate cottages with sycamore between.

 

John Betjeman (adapted)

 

‘Trelawny’
(Treverva Male Voice Choir)

 

Private Reflection

 

We are nearing the time when we must say our farewells to Vince but, before we do so, let’s just pause for a short while so that you can remember a special time that you spent with him, a time that was yours alone and that you will always remember with warmth and affection. As we do so, we shall listen to another song that Vince loved and wanted us to play today: ‘Annie’s Song’, performed by John Denver.

 

Those of you with a religious faith may wish to use this time for private prayer.

 

Music for Private Reflection
‘Annie’s Song’
(John Denver)

 

The time has now come for us to say our goodbyes to Vince. As a mark of respect for him, we invite you to stand for the Committal.

 

The Committal

Here, in this last act, we commit Vince’s body, safe now from the chances and changes of his human life, to the elements in the natural world from which all life comes and to which all life will return.

 

His hopes and ideals we commit in to our minds and our wills, his love we commit into our hearts. And now, with regret and with the deepest respect and affection, we bid him farewell.

 

‘The memories and love I leave behind
Are yours to keep
I have found my rest; I have turned my face
To the sun, and now I sleep.’

 

‘Rest’ by Alan Curtis

 

Please be seated and take a few moments to say your personal goodbyes.

 

Closing Thoughts

 

As we draw to the end of our ceremony, Vince’s family would like me to thank you all for attending today, and for your kind words of comfort and support. They extend their special thanks to John Howard, Mike Pegler and Tom. District nurses Kay, Alison,Mellisa and Mint, MacMillan nurse Hilary and everyone at the Barnwood Surgery, especially Dr Martin. Their thanks also go to Ann Hughes and all Vince’s many friends.

 

I’d also just like to remind you that any donations you may wish to make in memory of Vince will be sent to support the district nurses at the Barnwood Surgery.

You are also warmly invited to join Andrew and his family at 28 Marle Hill Road, Cheltenham, where they hope you will continue to share and enjoy your memories of Vince for a little longer.

 

We know that Vince wanted smiles and laughter to mark this occasion, and that he would not want any of you to be too sad for too long following his death. In keeping with these sentiments, his family has chosen this short verse, which leaves us with a loving message to take with us into the future.

 

‘The tapestry of life, both joy and pain
is ours to live but once and not again.
When I look back upon my richly varied years,
I crave no more, so shed no tears.’

And now, the final words are spoken by Vince himself, who recorded this message specially for this moment. After we have heard his words, we will leave to a song that appealed to his mischievous sense of humour and always brought a smile to his face.

 

Message from Vince

 

Parting Music
‘Always Look on the Bright Side of Life

 

Leslie Scrase

 

And finally, we leave it to Vince himself to have the last word. He recorded this message especially for today. Following his message we will leave to a song that appealed to his mischievous sense of humour and always brought a smile to his face.

 

Message from Vince (Recorded in June);

 

Parting Music
‘Always Look on the Bright Side of Life’
(Monty Python)

 

 

 

Monday July 16th. Day of the Funeral 16 July 2012

His funeral is today at 3.15pm. ?Tomorrow will be the last day of this Blog ? exactly one month after I started it. ?One of the readings at the service, this afternoon, will be If by Rudyard Kipling.

 

If you can keep your head when all about you

Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,

But make allowance for their doubting too:

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,

Or, being lied about, don’t deal in lies,

Or being hated don’t give way to hating,

And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream?and not make dreams your master;

If you can think?and not make thoughts your aim,

If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster

And treat those two impostors just the same:.

If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken

Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,

Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,

And stoop and build’em up with worn-out tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings

And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,

And lose, and start again at your beginnings,

And never breathe a word about your loss:

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

To serve your turn long after they are gone,

And so hold on when there is nothing in you

Except the Will which says to them: “Hold on!”

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,

Or walk with Kings?nor lose the common touch,

If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,

If all men count with you, but none too much:

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,

Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,

And?which is more?you’ll be a Man, my son!