Lockdown restrictions prevented us from giving Dad the funeral he deserved. He deserved the world and all of its glories. In the end though, only a few of us were allowed to be in Church on Monday 25 January. As part of the service, I attempted to give a tribute to my Dad. I needed a script (and I could have done with a drink). Here, below, is what I attempted to say:
What an honour for those few of us gathered here to be part of the funeral of the greatest man who ever lived.
Some people might think that sounds biased. And they might have a point. But it doesn’t mean I’m wrong. To me, my dad WAS the greatest man who ever lived.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this, of course. Dad could have filled a Cathedral – Cardiff Arms Park maybe – had the circumstances been different. But here we are. We few. We happy few. We band of brothers, sisters, sons, a wife. Grandchildren, godchildren, in-laws…
Julia has touched on his life of public service. It is how thousands – tens of thousands – will remember him. The super teacher, youth club leader, Scout master. The stylish rugby player, the fixer, the do-er, the story-teller. I could go on...
More than all that though, Dad was ever-present at my mum’s side. When we think of my dad, we think of my mum and dad. The best team. Inseparable, save only for Friday nights in the pub. Some things were always sacred.
But it requires no effort to picture him smiling at mum as she went off on one in front of laughing guests, rolling his eyes, half-heartedly ordering her to stop gossiping whilst his smiling eyes told a different story. He loved it really. He loved her. And he would forever silently burst with pride that she was his wife.
And mum was proud to call him her husband.
Mark and I have been afforded life’s greatest privilege to have them both as our parents.
Dad was only 5’10” but to me he was a giant. He wasn’t perfect. Let’s not kid ourselves. He could be stubborn, but he was never malicious. He could be grumpy, but never for too long. He could call a spade a shovel (which generally means he could be rude), and sometimes he was, but he was never mean-spirited.
His heart – his stupid, oversized, beautiful heart – was always full of kindness.
He bore no grudges. He kept no record of wrongs. He quickly forgave those of us who wronged him. He wasn’t perfect, no, but he came very very close.
Dad had a face that smiled easily. The photos we’re about to see will remind us. We can easily remember the mischief in dad’s smile. But more than that, the pride in his eyes when he smiled for his family. He could never quite suppress that, thank god.
He didn’t always smile for us to know he was happy: tunelessly whistling along to Paul Simon; tapping the steering wheel to Joan Armatrading as he drove me home from Oxford in time for last orders at the Howcroft; pouring himself a massive glass of wine before sitting down to watch videos of Isla and Harry, over and over again. This was the contented Dad that I call to mind so easily.
Dad and I walked to my local pub in Princes Risborough late last August. It was a warm, balmy evening. He told me it was his first visit to a pub since March. It also ended up being his last. He grumbled about his ankle as we walked there, of course, but settled into his happy mode when we arrived. He scanned the beers as if he’d never been to a pub before. He finally sat down with his pint and drank it. He then drank 5 more pints. That evening we just sat and talked about how wonderful it was that Sergio and Mark would marry that week. Dad adored Sergio from the moment he met him.
He dissected the progress of Harry and Isla, poring over every detail of their development. He talked openly (as the beer kicked in) about how proud he was that Charyn was pursuing a career she enjoyed.
And he asked me lots of questions about work, my mates, our plans for the house. He slipped down memory lane. He recalled watching me play football for the 1st XI with the other mums and dads. He remembered everyone’s name, the details of all our matches, the attendees at all of Mark’s recitals, far better than I or Mark ever did.
This was the extent of Dad’s world and his horizons. He was not a man of majesty or flamboyance. He was effortlessly, quietly and gently beautiful. Happiest when sharing memories of holidays in Frejus, Boxing Day parties in Wrexham or my wedding in Ireland. But it was the small triumphs of his family that mattered more to him than anything else. He never forgot a thing. Not a single detail. This was dad at his happiest.
When Mark and I were growing up (not that we ever did), Dad could be strict. That’s unfashionable now, but to hell with that. We didn’t once doubt that he loved us. He just expected a lot of us. He would cut through nonsense in an instant if he felt it was deserved. He once monstered me for getting into trouble at primary school when I was made to ‘stand out’ in the Hall. I cried my eyes out. I think Mark may have grassed me up. But Dad was never ever cruel. After I’d said sorry, he cuddled me.
So much of him was a paradox. I’d ‘tell’ him to do a job for me – to fix or clear or sort something or other. He’d chunter and he’d huff. I’d be rude and impatient. But dad would do it. Always. At some point the scales shifted and we expected a lot of dad. Every single time he delivered.
Dad was not fearless. He was human. He was terrified of being poorly; petrified of hospitals (especially after he saw the bloke who had just had a vasectomy limp past him just as dad was waiting to go in).
He was scared of discovering he might somehow be ill; watching his own parents grow sick, as a teenager, had perhaps haunted him forever. He fretted about not being able to look after mum. He was determined never to rely on others.
And in the end, he went it alone. Fighting a virus, and with a heart that was working overtime, he was carried out on his shield. Proud and unbowed until his final breath.
Dad – I know you are listening. You never missed a conversation. Well, listen to this: you could not have done more for us. You have left us in perfect shape. If that was your final job for this family, it was the ultimate job well done. We are safe and strong and full of love because of you.
Dad rarely talked of love. He was a Williams and words like ‘love’ didn’t easily trip off the tongue. But his love for us, his family, was all-consuming.
It was only when Charyn and then Sergio burst into his life – and especially by the arrivals of Isla and Harry – that his love found a new outlet. They transformed him; and for the better. Watching him play with the kids, and seeing his trademark Williams barriers, constructed and reinforced over decades, crumble in an instant, and being with him as he rediscovered life’s simple pleasures – the pleasures of being a grandad – was OUR privilege and not just his.
Look at Harry. Harry is my son and when I look at Harry I see my dad too. How lucky am I that in my son, my dad lives on.
Dad remains all around us. Everywhere you look in this church, dad’s fingerprints and footprints are there. In the gardens of Harwood, in the gardens of his sons, in the Scouts, Bury Rugby Club, the Conny Club bar. In the logs he cut for us, the bank accounts he bolstered, and the comfortable trappings of our blessed lives. We can see Dad at every turn.
But more than that, much more than any of that, his legacy is assured by what he stamped into our hearts and the simple way in which he taught us to navigate the world: selflessly, kindly and with humour.
Dad’s world revolved around us. The day before he died he was wondering where to hang his new calendar for 2021 and dreaming of holidays with us all in his beloved South of France. He went to bed on New Year’s Day, no doubt looking forward to more cuddles with Isla and Harry.
Well God changed the script, and Dad’s first reunion is now with his mum and dad. They surely could not have been prouder to see their middle son become the man he became.
So what now? What is there for those of us left behind? Well that’s easy really. We must pick up the baton that he left for us here as he was carried into Heaven. When Dad came into a room, that room was illuminated. We can easily call to mind those occasions, those parties and gatherings. He laughed and he listened. He cared for people and he shared the successes of others. And he didn’t miss a beat. He never “couldn’t be bothered”. He never said no. He danced every dance (although he hated to dance. Dances and fancy-dress. Loathed them.)
He’d want us to keep on going to the parties, to keep on hosting them, to live as he lived. “To give and not to count the cost. To toil and not to seek for rest. To labour and to ask for any reward.”
He died as he might have wished – at home, in his sleep. But frankly, dying is pretty easy. We’ll all manage it. Living is the trick and it’s a trick he mastered.
And me?
Well I’ve lost my North Star.
I’ve lost the man I most wanted to impress. The man I always wanted to host. The man I wanted at my side, to share mine and my family’s celebrations with. Because dad lapped it all up and he radiated it all back in pride.
I miss you dad. More than you could ever have known. And I always will. But I will honour you every day of my life by loving Charyn and bringing up your grandkids in the way that you taught me to before you went: sharing their triumphs, overcoming hurdles and radiating love. You made it look effortless.
You’ve been whisked away from me and I ache and I cry, and my life is poorer for your passing. I will never get to balance the books by repaying what you did for me. But I am rich in faith and know that I will heal. And when I do, I will make sure that the Williamses charge into the world again and leave our mark. We’ve lost our captain but this team will play again. Our lives will be our ultimate tribute to you, moreso than these words here today.
You’ll hate that we will probably end up paying a couple of quid to get the lawns cut on Appledore Drive this Summer. You can grumble all you like about us leaving lights on or having the heating turned up high, but we can’t hear you. The bottom line is you can go in peace now. Your work here is done. Mum is safe with us.
You dedicated much of your life to serving others, but committed all of your love to my mum. She knows you did. We know you did. And mum loved you back with all her heart.
There are no more jobs. Just peace now. Go and get yourself a pint at the heavenly bar, and rest up, until we meet again.
I told you at my wedding that you were my hero. You always have been. You still are and you always will be. People only die when the memories fade and the conversation stops. I shan’t allow that to happen. I will keep you alive forever.
Thanks Dad. Cheers Dad. I love you Dad.
Lockdown restrictions prevented us from giving Dad the funeral he deserved. He deserved the world and all of its glories. In the end though, only a few of us were allowed to be in Church on Monday 25 January. As part of the service, I attempted to give a tribute to my Dad. I needed a script (and I could have done with a drink). Here, below, is what I attempted to say:
What an honour for those few of us gathered here to be part of the funeral of the greatest man who ever lived.
Some people might think that sounds biased. And they might have a point. But it doesn’t mean I’m wrong. To me, my dad WAS the greatest man who ever lived.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this, of course. Dad could have filled a Cathedral – Cardiff Arms Park maybe – had the circumstances been different. But here we are. We few. We happy few. We band of brothers, sisters, sons, a wife. Grandchildren, godchildren, in-laws…
Julia has touched on his life of public service. It is how thousands – tens of thousands – will remember him. The super teacher, youth club leader, Scout master. The stylish rugby player, the fixer, the do-er, the story-teller. I could go on...
More than all that though, Dad was ever-present at my mum’s side. When we think of my dad, we think of my mum and dad. The best team. Inseparable, save only for Friday nights in the pub. Some things were always sacred.
But it requires no effort to picture him smiling at mum as she went off on one in front of laughing guests, rolling his eyes, half-heartedly ordering her to stop gossiping whilst his smiling eyes told a different story. He loved it really. He loved her. And he would forever silently burst with pride that she was his wife.
And mum was proud to call him her husband.
Mark and I have been afforded life’s greatest privilege to have them both as our parents.
Dad was only 5’10” but to me he was a giant. He wasn’t perfect. Let’s not kid ourselves. He could be stubborn, but he was never malicious. He could be grumpy, but never for too long. He could call a spade a shovel (which generally means he could be rude), and sometimes he was, but he was never mean-spirited.
His heart – his stupid, oversized, beautiful heart – was always full of kindness.
He bore no grudges. He kept no record of wrongs. He quickly forgave those of us who wronged him. He wasn’t perfect, no, but he came very very close.
Dad had a face that smiled easily. The photos we’re about to see will remind us. We can easily remember the mischief in dad’s smile. But more than that, the pride in his eyes when he smiled for his family. He could never quite suppress that, thank god.
He didn’t always smile for us to know he was happy: tunelessly whistling along to Paul Simon; tapping the steering wheel to Joan Armatrading as he drove me home from Oxford in time for last orders at the Howcroft; pouring himself a massive glass of wine before sitting down to watch videos of Isla and Harry, over and over again. This was the contented Dad that I call to mind so easily.
Dad and I walked to my local pub in Princes Risborough late last August. It was a warm, balmy evening. He told me it was his first visit to a pub since March. It also ended up being his last. He grumbled about his ankle as we walked there, of course, but settled into his happy mode when we arrived. He scanned the beers as if he’d never been to a pub before. He finally sat down with his pint and drank it. He then drank 5 more pints. That evening we just sat and talked about how wonderful it was that Sergio and Mark would marry that week. Dad adored Sergio from the moment he met him.
He dissected the progress of Harry and Isla, poring over every detail of their development. He talked openly (as the beer kicked in) about how proud he was that Charyn was pursuing a career she enjoyed.
And he asked me lots of questions about work, my mates, our plans for the house. He slipped down memory lane. He recalled watching me play football for the 1st XI with the other mums and dads. He remembered everyone’s name, the details of all our matches, the attendees at all of Mark’s recitals, far better than I or Mark ever did.
This was the extent of Dad’s world and his horizons. He was not a man of majesty or flamboyance. He was effortlessly, quietly and gently beautiful. Happiest when sharing memories of holidays in Frejus, Boxing Day parties in Wrexham or my wedding in Ireland. But it was the small triumphs of his family that mattered more to him than anything else. He never forgot a thing. Not a single detail. This was dad at his happiest.
When Mark and I were growing up (not that we ever did), Dad could be strict. That’s unfashionable now, but to hell with that. We didn’t once doubt that he loved us. He just expected a lot of us. He would cut through nonsense in an instant if he felt it was deserved. He once monstered me for getting into trouble at primary school when I was made to ‘stand out’ in the Hall. I cried my eyes out. I think Mark may have grassed me up. But Dad was never ever cruel. After I’d said sorry, he cuddled me.
So much of him was a paradox. I’d ‘tell’ him to do a job for me – to fix or clear or sort something or other. He’d chunter and he’d huff. I’d be rude and impatient. But dad would do it. Always. At some point the scales shifted and we expected a lot of dad. Every single time he delivered.
Dad was not fearless. He was human. He was terrified of being poorly; petrified of hospitals (especially after he saw the bloke who had just had a vasectomy limp past him just as dad was waiting to go in).
He was scared of discovering he might somehow be ill; watching his own parents grow sick, as a teenager, had perhaps haunted him forever. He fretted about not being able to look after mum. He was determined never to rely on others.
And in the end, he went it alone. Fighting a virus, and with a heart that was working overtime, he was carried out on his shield. Proud and unbowed until his final breath.
Dad – I know you are listening. You never missed a conversation. Well, listen to this: you could not have done more for us. You have left us in perfect shape. If that was your final job for this family, it was the ultimate job well done. We are safe and strong and full of love because of you.
Dad rarely talked of love. He was a Williams and words like ‘love’ didn’t easily trip off the tongue. But his love for us, his family, was all-consuming.
It was only when Charyn and then Sergio burst into his life – and especially by the arrivals of Isla and Harry – that his love found a new outlet. They transformed him; and for the better. Watching him play with the kids, and seeing his trademark Williams barriers, constructed and reinforced over decades, crumble in an instant, and being with him as he rediscovered life’s simple pleasures – the pleasures of being a grandad – was OUR privilege and not just his.
Look at Harry. Harry is my son and when I look at Harry I see my dad too. How lucky am I that in my son, my dad lives on.
Dad remains all around us. Everywhere you look in this church, dad’s fingerprints and footprints are there. In the gardens of Harwood, in the gardens of his sons, in the Scouts, Bury Rugby Club, the Conny Club bar. In the logs he cut for us, the bank accounts he bolstered, and the comfortable trappings of our blessed lives. We can see Dad at every turn.
But more than that, much more than any of that, his legacy is assured by what he stamped into our hearts and the simple way in which he taught us to navigate the world: selflessly, kindly and with humour.
Dad’s world revolved around us. The day before he died he was wondering where to hang his new calendar for 2021 and dreaming of holidays with us all in his beloved South of France. He went to bed on New Year’s Day, no doubt looking forward to more cuddles with Isla and Harry.
Well God changed the script, and Dad’s first reunion is now with his mum and dad. They surely could not have been prouder to see their middle son become the man he became.
So what now? What is there for those of us left behind? Well that’s easy really. We must pick up the baton that he left for us here as he was carried into Heaven. When Dad came into a room, that room was illuminated. We can easily call to mind those occasions, those parties and gatherings. He laughed and he listened. He cared for people and he shared the successes of others. And he didn’t miss a beat. He never “couldn’t be bothered”. He never said no. He danced every dance (although he hated to dance. Dances and fancy-dress. Loathed them.)
He’d want us to keep on going to the parties, to keep on hosting them, to live as he lived. “To give and not to count the cost. To toil and not to seek for rest. To labour and to ask for any reward.”
He died as he might have wished – at home, in his sleep. But frankly, dying is pretty easy. We’ll all manage it. Living is the trick and it’s a trick he mastered.
And me?
Well I’ve lost my North Star.
I’ve lost the man I most wanted to impress. The man I always wanted to host. The man I wanted at my side, to share mine and my family’s celebrations with. Because dad lapped it all up and he radiated it all back in pride.
I miss you dad. More than you could ever have known. And I always will. But I will honour you every day of my life by loving Charyn and bringing up your grandkids in the way that you taught me to before you went: sharing their triumphs, overcoming hurdles and radiating love. You made it look effortless.
You’ve been whisked away from me and I ache and I cry, and my life is poorer for your passing. I will never get to balance the books by repaying what you did for me. But I am rich in faith and know that I will heal. And when I do, I will make sure that the Williamses charge into the world again and leave our mark. We’ve lost our captain but this team will play again. Our lives will be our ultimate tribute to you, moreso than these words here today.
You’ll hate that we will probably end up paying a couple of quid to get the lawns cut on Appledore Drive this Summer. You can grumble all you like about us leaving lights on or having the heating turned up high, but we can’t hear you. The bottom line is you can go in peace now. Your work here is done. Mum is safe with us.
You dedicated much of your life to serving others, but committed all of your love to my mum. She knows you did. We know you did. And mum loved you back with all her heart.
There are no more jobs. Just peace now. Go and get yourself a pint at the heavenly bar, and rest up, until we meet again.
I told you at my wedding that you were my hero. You always have been. You still are and you always will be. People only die when the memories fade and the conversation stops. I shan’t allow that to happen. I will keep you alive forever.
Thanks Dad. Cheers Dad. I love you Dad.
