Eulogy for a Great Dad...

Thursday May 26 2011 was the day of my dad's funeral. Here is my eulogy to a great father. 

Funerals can be gloomy occasions, but the word ‘gloomy’ is not an adjective I would use to describe the man whose life we are celebrating and whose passing we mourn today. Dad was full of positive energy and optimism for life. He possessed an immense enthusiasm for everything and, while he probably wouldn’t admit to it himself, he was a true perfectionist.

Dad with a Moggridge piano, March 2010.

Even his initials spell out the nature of the man: Gerald Eldred Moggridge can be shortened to GEM and for all of us, dad was a real gem of a husband, a father, a grandfather and, of course, a great grandfather.

Mum will tell you what a great husband dad has been; they were married for 56 years, had three great kids, including me, and there was never a cross word – well, one or two, perhaps. Dad loved being at home with mum and was fortunate to enjoy 22 happy years of retirement, tending to their amazing and inspiring garden and researching and writing a history of the Moggridge family – available in all good bookshops soon.

As a father, dad was second to none. He probably wasn’t that good with dollies and teddies – that’s why Criss was forced to squeeze one of her dolls into Action Man fatigues – but our early years were characterised by cap guns, forts, train sets and toy soldiers and the biggest kid of all was dad. He taught us how to make log cabins out of sticks and blow them up with bangers and he was definitely behind the legendary Battle of Kiln Castle, which I’ll explain later to anyone who wants to listen.

Our childhoods were defined by two key events: summer holidays on the South Coast at Middleton-on-Sea and Felpham where dad played King Canute in a sandcastle; and, of course, Christmas time. Dad made both occasions truly magical – so much so that we’d be walking around the block, counting the days to our summer holiday, months before boarding the train to Bognor; and we probably believed in Father Christmas for longer than most kids – thanks to a bell and a ball of string.

Dad rigged up a bell outside of our bedroom window. It was attached to a ball of string, which he threw into the garden and then back through the bathroom window. On Christmas Eve, we would be tucked up in bed and dad would stand by the door clasping and pulling the string, ringing the bell outside the window. For years, we were believers – until I found the bell.

Dad also shone outside of the home. He enjoyed a highly successful career in the Government Information Service where he worked in Number 10 Downing Street alongside two great British Prime Ministers – Harold Wilson and Ted Heath – as well as one legendary Prime Minister-in-waiting, Margaret Thatcher (when she was Minister for Education). He set up the press office at the Lord Chancellor’s Department and was a regional director of the COI, in charge of co-ordinating media activity surrounding Royal Visits. He worked with the late and equally legendary Princess Diana and other members of the Royal Family.

Dad has met some of the world’s greats, including former American president Richard Nixon, in Bermuda with Ted Heath, and the diplomat’s diplomat, Henry Kissinger.

Which brings me to dad’s other enduring qualities – his strong moral code and his ethical approach to life. Dad was a fair man with a strong sense of right from wrong. Over the years, he provided us all with what I can only describe as expert guidance on how to live our lives – standing here today, I can confirm that he did a brilliant job and we will all miss him.

Top cyclist killed by garage door...

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Sunday's ride – 22 May

At 6am there was rain and it rattled on my conservatory roof until gone 7am, prompting the possibility of an abort text to Andy. In the end, however, we opted for the 'wait and see' approach and decided to meet at 8am on the Green as the weather had improved immensely.

After our encounter with a morbidly obese man, we headed

across the road to a track Andy uses as a shortcut sometimes

on this way home.

Going out later meant cutting the ride short. We cycled to Botley Hill, turned round at the roundabout and stopped halfway along the B269 for our tea. Unfortunately, the place we'd chosen for a break was occupied by a morbidly obese gentleman with a creased faced dog of some sort. The man had a white stool, which amazingly supported his weight, but when we arrived, the dog decided to go mad. The fat guy  held on to the leash but was pulled off of his stool. 

Andy looked at me as if to say, "let's go", later telling me that there was no way we could pick him up. We crossed the road and rested at the top of a downward track that Andy uses as a shortcut on many of our return trips. Moments later we saw the fat man, back in his car and heading towards either Westerham or Oxted.

After taking the shot accompanying this post, we parted. Andy's not riding on Saturday or Sunday of next week, so we'll meet on the Monday (a bank holiday).

This week, dad's funeral takes place. It's on Thursday 26 May.

Photographic evidence for the record

My bike on Warlingham Green at roughly 1020hrs on Saturday 21 May

Andy ready to leave Westerham.

You only buy a 911 if you can't afford a Kona Scrap.

We're always trying to remember the last time one of us got a puncture. Well, here's the evidence of mine. It was Saturday May 21st and just gone 10am when I reached the green, took off the wheel and took out the inner tube – only to discover I had no pump. Oops! Fortunately, all's well that ends well.

To Westerham – and I get a puncture

We're always saying how rare it is these days to get a puncture and how we can't remember the last time one of us suffered this awful fate. Well, it was me on Saturday 21 May. The weather was amazing again and we decided to head for Westerham, a destination neglected for some time. It was a good ride, with some interesting low cloud hanging over the Oxted area but overall sunshine.

You'll have to click on this image to see the low cloud in the foreground.*

This vintage car was made in 1929, the year my dad was born.*

At Westerham, the Rotary Club were having some kind of fete on the green and I commented that England really can be summed up by one phrase: old ladies making cakes. There was a stand devoted to the cause along with plenty of others and Andy and I watched as the fete was being set up, drinking tea and taking in the sunshine.

While the good weather continued for the return journey and Andy and I parted halfway along the B269, as I approached Warlingham Green, the bike began to wobble. I had a puncture! Shit! Haven't had one of those for ages, I thought, as I dismounted near Warlingham Sainsbury's and began the shortish walk to the green where I planned to fix it.

Without a pump, however, I had big problems and resorted to back-up from home. Soon, a car arrived along with the pump and all was well.

By 1055hrs I was on the way home.

* Photos courtesy of Andy.

Weirdness and wonderful weather

May 21st: Two rare things happened to me over the past 24 hours. One, I saw my first Kona Scrap, ie the first one, in six years, that wasn't mine but was identical. For a minute, I thought somebody had stolen my bike, but no, it still had the original saddle and Tioga tyres. It was parked outside a betting shop in Wallington near to Five Ways.

The second odd thing was this morning: I woke up, for the first time in ages, not knowing what day it was. My brain clicked after a second or two that it was Saturday and, fortunately, it was 0540hrs so I jumped out of bed and made some tea. It might have been those two cans of Stella, but what is more likely is that I don't have a routine at present – that's what I hate about freelance journalism and being self-employed: the days merge a bit as the normal working day structure fades. Horrible, horrible, horrible!

Another wonderful day outside. I saw a stag beetle last week, something that's rare enough in the heat of summer, but in May it's just amazing. The hot weather has been a constant now for at least two months and it's great – especially for cycling as it means we don't get soaked, although, if I recall, didn't we have a bit of rain a week or two back?

Outside, at 0644hrs, there's not a cloud in the sky and all is still, no wind, no moving branches, nothing, just stillness.

If you're wondering why I put the date in at the beginning of some of my posts, it's because Blogger's clock is different from the real world. Not all the time, but early in the morning it sometimes gets it wrong. If you're reading this it's because it got it wrong, if you can't read this, well, I was wrong.

More thoughts on dad...

It's coming round to a week since dad died and, as you might expect, all the funeral preparations are being made: flowers, eulogy (which I'll be reciting) the wake and so on. I've been trying to put on a brave face and not showing my true emotions, just like dad would have done, but I do have my private moments of grief, normally reserved for when I'm driving or riding the bike.

One part of mum and dad's wondeful garden

The feeling is odd and I know that there are a lot of people out there, who have already been there. I'm not, as dad would have said, unique. One of my memories of dad was listening to him explain things to me when I was a child, things that were run-of-the-mill and normally in response to an equally run-of-the-mill question, like, "Dad, why is it that when I come out of the swimming baths my ears pop?" And he would explain that I'm not unique, everyone experiences something like that and, of course, I'd immediately feel at ease knowing that it was not something peculiar to me. There were many moments like that and dad was always there to ensure we were not troubled by them.

Right now, though, I'm putting on a brave face but still experiencing feelings of emptiness and depression. I wonder where he is and again I look at everyday objects with the realisation that they lack meaning for dad. I think about his intellect, his views on history and politics, his sense of humour, his eye drops, basic stuff like that, and I think about how they have all lost meaning and relevance.

Back at 29 Rossdale, where they both lived, mum now resides there alone and there's definitely a sense of somebody missing. Dad has left the building, so to speak, but I always have a strange sense of his presence or, indeed, his imminent return; which, of course, is not to be.

While I try not to think about it and keep my true feelings away from my family – again, just like dad did when his mother and father died – it's nagging away at me.

I've had a couple of occasions where I've thought, "I know, I'll give dad a call on that problem," only to realise that I can't anymore and that, from now on, I'm on my own and will have to live or die on my own decisions about life and work and stuff.

Dad, as I said in the previous post, had a strong moral code and an immense sense of what was right and wrong. I wish I possessed similar qualities. I'll always remember, as a spotty teenager, owning a growing collection of soft porn mags, purchased with a strong sense of embarassment at the local newsagent. Once, as my collection became visible to other family members, by virtue of its size, dad sidled up to me and murmured, "Don't you think it's (ahem) a little unhealthy?" I considered his remark and then briskly set about dismantling my porn mag sofa – alright, I'm exagerrating, it was the equivalent of a small footstool.

That remark has stuck with me for years, and so have others, and of course he was right, as I've said before. Dad was always right in some respect or other and now I guess we'll all have to rely upon our own moral compasses to set us straight – not that I'm planning on building another porn mag sofa.

During the week, Jon and I spent the night at the family home, sleeping in our old room. Mum had made us dinner and we'd sat chatting about old times. I think mum enjoyed our company and we plan to go back and do it again soon. Last night our sister Clarissa (we call her Criss) spent the night and was probably up with the lark and drinking tea by the patio door, looking out on mum's truly amazing garden.

What's really amazing is that they have regular visits from a handful of foxes and they feed them with sausage rolls and bits of bread. When I came downstairs at 0530hrs and drew back the curtains, there on the lawn was a small audience of foxes awaiting their breakfast, which was duly provided by mum.

The garden was their pride and joy and I know that dad wanted to go home to it as soon as possible. His constant request while in hospital last week was "I want to go home". We all knew why; it's such a serene place to be. Sadly, he never returned, but we're planning to scatter his ashes in the garden.

Dad has inspired me to start tidying up my own garden and as soon as I get some cash I'll buy a few shrubs. I've had a couple of bonfires, something else dad loved, and I'm planning two more over the weekend to get rid of the last clump of old branches pruned from the trees.

One thing I'm really looking forward to is cycling. It really is therapeutic (is that spelt correctly?) as it takes my mind off of things. I might even ride out to Botley Hill later today.

Sadly, dad passed away

Sunday 15 May: At the age of 81 and after a very short illness, dad passed away yesterday at just gone 4pm. He wasn't in any pain and mum and Jon were there. My sister and I missed his passing by minutes, but all of us, including five of his seven grandchildren and other members of the family had surrounded his bedside (at St Helier Hospital in Carshalton) for the past week.

Dad with a Moggridge piano, March 2010.

It's hard to put into words exactly what we all felt about dad as I guess most people regard their own fathers as the very best. My dad was inspirational in so many ways. His enthusiasm, his moral code, his knowledge of right from wrong, made him stand out in the crowd. He gave me the best childhood ever, one that remains with me today, he's offered me the very best of life advice over the years and he's been a good friend, never one to bear a grudge, and always there to offer a solution to any problem.

Dad is the reason for so much in my life, including cycling. It was listening to dad's stories about how he and his pal Geoff used to cycle to the coast from Wandsworth to Worthing in the 1940s that inspired me to ride a bike. In fact, dad bought me my first bike and whenever I'm out on the road today, dad's always there somewhere.

There's a great book by Alan Sillitoe, entitled Down from the Hill, that in some way captures a mood that I associate with dad and cycling. Sillitoe was roughly the same age as dad and I think they both served in Malaya in the late forties. In fact, I think they've had contact with one another, by letter, although I can't recall the reason why: something to do with one of the books Sillitoe had written in his later years.

Dad loved writing too, of course, and has penned a comprehensive history of the Moggridge family dating back to the 1600s. My aim now is to get it in print for him, something that I know he would appreciate.

Fortunately – and thanks to Jon and our cousin Philip – Dad got to see a couple of Moggridge pianos. The photograph accompanying this post is of dad last March (2010) standing next to one of the pianos, both of which had been shipped over from the USA after an extensive search on the internet. Jon has one and Philip has the other.

Dad had a tremendous sense of humour, he loved life, he loved sport and he loved politics. An important part of his career in the civil service was when he found himself working in the Number 10 Downing Street press office under Joe Haines and alongside Harold Wilson and Ted Heath in the 1970s. I remember, as a child, when he accompanied Heath to Bermuda to meet Richard Nixon. He said he'd wave to us if he appeared on the television news – a promise, I recall, that he kept.

He went on to set up a press office for the Lord Chancellor of the time, Lord Hailsham and then was appointed regional director of the COI and put in charge of co-ordinating press activity surrounding royal visits.

Dad gave us all the very best of times. To this day we still visit Felpham on the West Sussex coast and remember those holidays in rented houses on the beach: Seafront, Merryweather and later Georgia, but not forgetting The Heron on Ancton Lodge Lane in Middleton-on-Sea – all of which are still there today.

Christmas time was always made special by dad. He went out of his way to make it an exciting and magical time and even rigged up a bell outside our bedroom window, attached to string, that he would pull once we were tucked up in bed.

I could write all day about dad's greatness, but I'll sign off on the fact that he lived a long and happy life, made all the happier by our mum who, right to the end, was there for him, providing words of comfort in his moments of need, words I'm sure he heard loud and clear and will remember in whatever world he now inhabits.

God rest his soul.

She's at it again! Helen Pidd on the Apollo Haze Women's Hybrid

Helen Pidd's article in the 14 May edition of the Guardian's Weekend.

I really like it when the Guardian's Weekend magazine invites journalist and writer Helen Pidd to contribute something on cycling. In this week's issue she's road testing the Apollo Haze Women's Hybrid – and isn't very complimentary about it.

In three words, she describes it as 'cheap and nasty' and goes on to recommend the Specialized Sirrus, which costs an additional £200 and, of course, bolsters the theory that in this world, you get what you pay for.

Helen lives in Berlin, as we learned from her previous review of the Velorbis Victoria Balloon, which was given the thumbs up. The Apollo, however, was on a loser from the word go. For a start, it cost only £139.99, not that Pidd had ruled it out of court because of price. She was road testing the bike in London and decided to take it up Swains Lane in Highgate, only to discover that the lowest of the bike's 18 gears wasn't working. This she put down to the way it had been assembled by Halfords staff.

"The Apollo is usually sold flatpacked, ready for customers to assemble at home (a disaster waiting to happen). Mine was allegedly set up by a professional," wrote Pidd, explaining how most independent bike shops will tell you that 'it's impossible to make a decent bike for under £300', adding that the Apollo proves the point.

Pidd describes the Apollo as 'ugly' and wonders 'how many grown women would really choose a metallic lilac number with tacky flowers transferred on to the frame?' She's right, of course, but claims that when she took the Apollo off-road, it coped well, adding that not all the components are rubbish ('the rear mech is Shimano') and there was a women-specific gel saddle.

Neither the gears nor the saddle, however, were enough to make up for the bike's malfunctioning gear and 'hideous appearance'.

Pidd recommends that if you can't afford a brand new bike for around £300, opt for a secondhand one. Now that is sensible advice. There are a load of very cheap bikes around, but the 'get what you pay for philosophy' is all too real. Best to buy secondhand. In fact, only a month or two ago, I found a Specialized Hardrock mountain bike in one of those new-fangled pawnshops (this one in Croydon) for a mere £90!

When I consider that my son has a Hardrock that needs more than £90 worth of work, he'd be better off buying another one if its only £90!

Tatsfield Village for tea and a cream bun

It was one of those 'was it even worth going?' moments when Andy pulled out two iced Belgian buns, but to hell with it, they were lovely, especially with a cup of warm Twinings English Breakfast tea – far better than the PG Tips we'd been drinking over the past few weeks.

Iced Belgian buns – lovely!

On arrival, our bus stop was dry and sunny and that put us immediately in the mood to help a troubled motorist by pushing her broken down car to the kerbside where later it was examined by a portly man in trainers (who definitely needed the exercise). When Andy brought out the buns, to complement his cereal bars, and I poured the tea, well, we would have been forgiven for thinking we'd died and gone to heaven.

Today, the main conversation was about prices and how everything is unnecessarily expensive. Tea at just under £2 a cup is ridiculous when you consider how much it costs to make and then there's double glazing and that moment when the salesman brings out his calculator and claims that it'll cost you something ridiculous, like, say, £15,000 but that if you sign on the dotted line you can have it for...sound of fingers on calculator keys...£2,000. How, you wonder, could something go down in price by £13,000? Answer: because it was never worth £15,000 in the first place. I'm exagerrating, but not by much. We live in a country where being ripped off is just part of the average day for most people – two quid to go one stop on a bus, £1.75 + for a cup of tea, a pack of five razors for over a tenner when it's cheaper to buy a new razor, it goes on and on.

In the end, of course, people think: sod that, I won't bother and then the Government moans about the economy being depressed because consumers ain't consumers. I wonder why? The worst thing, of course, is that the goods on offer are often pretty shoddy and not worth the money in the first place, but we all know that, don't we?

Mind you, those Belgian buns were worth every penny – and so was the Twinings English Breakfast tea.