Dad had a dry and sometimes dark sense of humour. And he’d have have appreciated this gathering too — partly because he didn’t have to organize it himself, but mainly there’s wine.
Sadly he’s not here to prepare a batch of his infamous mulled wine, which enlivened carol concerts in this building for years, although given how potent it could be, that’s possibly for the best. Some of you are driving, and all of you need to be able to see.
Anyway this hall we’re in and of course this whole village, were part of dad’s life, for his whole life.
He was born just round the corner on Church Lane in 1941, to his parents Elsie and Joseph, in what was then known as “the shop” for obvious reasons, and later became ‘Monteith’ for baffling ones.
Dad grew up in Brightwell, and went to school here, literally here, again in this building. I picture his schooldays as a sort of Dickensian version of the Bash Street Kids. There’s a photo of him in uniform aged about 9, where he looks like the spawn of Jacob Rees Mogg.
After school he trained as an electrician but found time for other interests like shooting and rock climbing, two things I’ve only ever attempted in videogames. He had a shotgun at home and used to go out and shoot pheasants. I assume legally. All very rustic -- I remember him saying that as a youngster he used to eat “rook pie”. It’s quite a life that stretches from eating rook pie at one end to arguing on the phone with Gigaclear Broadband at the other.
In 1965, he married Anne. It was a Quaker wedding -- there hadn’t been one of those for years; it was so odd, the Wallingford Herald ran a news story on it. It’s fair to say they’re not devout Quakers. Or at least I never saw them wearing the outfits. Whenever I tell anyone I’m from a Quaker background they assume it means I grew up in a sort of porridge cult.
A couple of years after they got married, Sam arrived, followed by me, which was all the encouragement they needed to stop having children. By then we were living in Thatcham, wherever that is, but in 1973 Dad moved his young family back to Brightwell to the house in Church Lane to live with his parents.
It must have been fun having all three generations crammed together under one roof, because about ten minutes after moving in Dad set about hurriedly building an extension. Construction went smoothly and without incident, apart from the near-fatal one when he fell off the roof. Luckily a bag of cement powder broke his fall, although it burst and left a three-year-old me covered head to toe in dust, shrieking like an alabaster banshee.
Around this time dad also underwent a career change, switching from electrician to social worker. Sounds like a big leap, although both jobs involved defusing situations and getting the occasional nasty shock -- as he discovered in the late 80s when he was attacked by the dad of a child who was being taken into care, because their dad was the sort of maniac who attacks social workers.
During the attack Dad was knifed in the stomach and slashed across the cheek – I’m aware this is starting to sound like the eulogy for a Kray Twin, but bear with me -- he was rushed to hospital and recounted later that the surgeon who examined his wounds had tried to “reassure” him by saying that it was “good to be cut with an unused Stanley blade.”. Which is a hell of a use of the word “good”.
The fact this had kind of amused dad in the middle of a bleak moment illustrates that pragmatically dark sense of humour he had, and which I inherited and later monetized.
Outside of work, Dad had other interests. His taste in music could be politely described as “eclectic” -- and impolitely described as “batshit”. He listened to everything from skiffle to the Sex Pistols, from Kraftwerk to jazz – if you hear random music playing later and wonder “what the hell is this” it’s because we threw together a playlist of some of the stuff he used to listen to and as a result the Spotify algorithm thinks I’m having a breakdown.
Other than mum, his greatest loves were drinking wine and riding bikes. Sometimes in that order.
Dad loved good wine. It’s fair to say by the end of a meal he was sometimes half-pissed. Sometimes whole-pissed, actually. In fact he was such a loyal customer of the mail order wine firm Laithwaites that upon hearing the news that he’d died, the company actually shot itself. Which doesn’t make sense and isn’t even possible.
Some would say Dad’s love of cycling bordered on obsession. I’d go further and say it bordered on “undiagnosed mental condition”. For example, here’s a memory he jotted down– “it was our 25th Wedding Anniversary in 1990 – many friends were having parties and dinners to celebrate. I said to hell with that, let’s indulge ourselves -- and buy a tandem.”
Him and Mum first rode that tandem in an unsteady trial loop round the village, apparently with much undignified “wobbling and squealing” emanating from the back (His words, not mine mum, so don’t blame me, blame him) but before long, they were taking annual cycling trips in France, which steadily became more ambitious, including an epic 917-mile journey all the way from Narbonne down in the South of France, up to Cherbourg in the North. Basically they embodied the freedom of movement across Europe, which is more than can be said about some of the newer residents of this village.
It wasn’t all fun. In 2014 dad had a brush with cancer. And a big brush – he had his bladder removed and replaced with a “neo bladder” – which really was a medical miracle and crucially didn’t stop him cycling or enjoying wine -- and he remained in good shape, good health and good spirits right until the end.
Back home, Dad was heavily involved in village activities. He was a founder member of the chess club, took part in Neighbourhood Watch, and carried out a very important function – every fortnight for around 50 years he wound the Village clock, which is above us here. Today it’s been standing silent in his memory, so if you were late getting here because you weren’t sure of the time, blame that touching tribute.
Winding the clock was physically arduous. He had to climb three ladders to get to the top of the tower – I believe Steve Luck worked out that cumulatively, by the time he retired from the role, dad had climbed the equivalent of Mount Everest twice. Completely unpaid. I think I speak for all of us when I say “what a mug”.
Eventually, having retired from the role of clock-winder, dad completed one last, quite poetic, full circle. He died at home, this New Year’s Eve -- in the very same room he was born in.. And now we’re here, remembering him, in the building where he went to school, beneath a clock he tended to for 50 years (Unpaid!)
Anyway it’s a fitting place to say goodbye. And a fitting time to raise a glass.
So please join me in a toast -- one last glass of ‘vino’ -- to Derek Brooker: cyclist, clock winder, wine lover, cement dust distributor, husband – and of course dad.
Cheers