Frank's Eulogy by Gareth Evans

 

(As best as I can remember it. Apologies for any omissions/additions, as I wanted to say so much more.)

“I have been told that I am limited, as far as time is concerned, to two and a half minutes. Well, in a room full of lawyers this will be a lawyer's two and a half minutes!

Two days ago I was musing what I might say about Frank when a random thought popped into my head. Oh God I've still got Frank's boots! These are Frank's boots, (as an aside for the Doubting Thomas' they really were Frank's  boots).  I borrowed them in early December last year for a fancy dress party, and I never got to give them back.

As I was wondering how I was going to deal with that it occurred to me that I might be able to make use of them as a prop for this occasion. The more I thought about it the more apposite I decided it was.

These boots are Doc Marten's. In my teenage years they were worn by skinheads and thugs. Frank, had a certain thuggish appearance. But appearances can be, and in Frank's case certainly were, deceptive. The best example I can give of how a stranger might perceive Frank at first blush was when Frank was visiting Exeter prison, and as Frank was leaving he heard a voice call out, “Oy, where the xxxx do you think you're going Sunshine?"  It took Frank a minute or two to explain to the prison officer that he wasn't an inmate trying a bold attempt at escape but rather a local solicitor who had been on a legal visit.

These boots are highly polished. So was Frank. Professionally respected by all who worked with him, against him, or people who Frank appeared in front of. Frank was a class act. A short while ago Frank was the Times Lawyer of the Week. Not something Frank would have told you, as another of his great attributes was his modesty.

They are of a generous size.  So was Frank. In Wild West parlance Frank was a man who cast a big shadow. But let's leave size to one side and concentrate on generous. Frank's generosity knew no bounds. Over the last two years or so Frank played a large part in raising between £2,500 and £3,000 for our local village hall fund. When I say our village hall it wasn't Frank's, he didn't live in our village. Frank would spend hours if not days of his own free time researching and preparing quizzes which he would then present. At no stage did he ask, nor would he have thought of asking, for any recompense for all those hours of his own time.

Another aspect of Frank's generosity which must be mentioned is the rugby. Initially at the County Ground and latterly at Sandy Park. Frank introduced me to Exeter Chiefs when they were at the County Ground. I looked forward to going and watching a good game of rugby. We didn't see much of the game as we stayed in the bar, and it was quite difficult to see the game through the window having to peer over the wall that was right outside and you could only see two thirds of the pitch anyway. Many a happy hour was spent at the ground with other people like Michael, Gavin and Jo.

The club then moved to Sandy Park and WBW invested in a box which led to Frank inviting many of the people in this room to attend and enjoy the comfort of the box. I recently read a very nice article/obituary about Frank which mentioned that Frank was a man who loved his rugby. I hope Nigel will forgive me but Frank didn't really love rugby; he loved the fellowship that existed on a rugby day out. I well remember during the first season at Sandy Park that it had to be gently pointed out to Frank that the team he was applauding for doing so well was the opposition and not Exeter, and that he really ought to learn the colour of the Chief's strip.

These boots are high in the leg; all embracing.  So was Frank, he was a friend to everyone. Just look around this room. And very rarely would you hear Frank utter a bad word about another human being.

The boots are tough. Frank came from a golfing dynasty. Not directly but through Jo. John, Frank's father-in-law, was a single-figure handicap golfer. Nick, Frank's brother-in-law used to play off scratch, too good to get any shots given to him. Frank?  Well, Frank was a crap golfer. But he loved it. Why tough?

Many of you may not know that in recent years Frank suffered terribly with arthritis. His left wrist was fully locked. It meant that if Frank misjudged a shot, which he often did, and his club hit the ground it caused him extreme pain. Notwithstanding that, Frank would always sign up for our golf-society days. He would turn-up, handover his money knowing that he could not win and that he would probably come last; and knowing that by the end of the round he would be in extreme pain. But, he persevered. He loved it for the fellowship of the day.

These boots are comfortable. I recently had cause to look up the definition of a gentleman. One of the definitions was, “A man in whose company other people feel comfortable". I need say no more than that.

Dry on the inside.  By way of a contrast rather than a similarity. I'm pleased to report that I spent many a happy hour/day in Frank's company when we were anything but dry on the inside. I know many others in this room who could say the same.

The last and best comparison. As we all know Doc Martens are famous for one thing more than any other. The size of the sole. Well, if a man's character is his soul then Frank had an immense soul.

Our thoughts must now turn to Jo, Kate, Eve and Jack.

If you'll forgive me I'll give my mate his boots back now.

 

Gareth Evans

Our Dad by the Little Darlings

Our Dad

By Eve

Our dad always liked being the joker of the house and called himself the Minister of Fun. He liked having competitions with my mum to see who could get best marks for our homework. Once he drew a bailey castle for Kate, and got a credit. Another time me made a leaf cell model for Kate, and my mum made one for me, but mum’s didn’t look as good as dad’s. I told her that hers looked better but my dad knew that his was the best because mum didn’t get any credits for hers. When Kate showed dad the credits he laughed and showed off. We thought this was very entertaining and mum did as well. Please don’t tell Mr Housecroft, by the way.

When we were little one Christmas he said he invented a new drink, champagne and orange juice, and was truly gutted when my mum told him that it was already invented and was called bucks fizz. He also said he was the actual painter of Van Goff’s sunflowers, and that he won a trophy from the Olympics in the 100 meter sprint. He showed us a silver cup that he said he’d won. The next day Jack took the trophy in to “show and tell” at school, and said my dad won this in the Olympics. Dad laughed and laughed when Jack told us, so did mum. He got pretend frustrated when we got older and knew that he was joking about the famous things he’d done, like writing President Obama’s speeches.

By Kate

I liked it when dad took us on a walk that he called the “cow poo walk” because we had to go past a stinky farm. On holiday this summer he did karaoke and sang Sweet Caroline which was sooooo embarrassing!  But it wasn’t as bad as when mum and dad did a duet of Delilah at Uncle Nick’s wedding. That was really bad. One thing about music that we all agreed on is that Justin Beiber is total rubbish. There are loads of things that we will miss about our dad, but when we think and talk about him he still makes us laugh.

By Jack

I remember when I was four I fell and broke my leg, and my dad didn’t think I’d done anything bad and told me to stop being a mincer and run it off. When my mum rang him from the hospital and told him that my leg was broken, he said “oops”! He always made bad things seem like good things. Our dad didn’t want anybody to be sad, he wanted people to be happy.

Frank Goddard

“To my right/left – the names of…”

Just a simple little ice-breaker that people used to play years ago, to pass the time at parties.

Unless you were playing it with Frank.

Under what I can only describe as Frank’s benign dictatorship, that trivial little word game would disappear in a flurry of bizarre rules from off the top of his head which, even if you heard them above the chaos that followed , you didn’t stand a snowflake’s chance of obeying.

But that didn’t matter – because you had the rare delight of laughing until your face hurt. And he could keep this going for hours. I don’t know if Frank invented the Mr Chairman – Mr Speaker variation, but he was without a doubt the absolute, undisputed master of it.

This was Frank’s gift. It didn’t matter what the social occasion was – a Saturday night on the tiles, a quiet Sunday pub lunch followed by a stroll on the moors, or a Christian youth group’s weekend retreat – if Frank was going to be there, that was all the guarantee you needed that it was going to be fun. Some people have to put a lot of effort into trying to makes themselves popular. It doesn’t work like that. You’ve either got that sheer force of personality – like Frank – or you haven’t.

Of course, it’s nice to be liked by everyone, but it does carry the risk of developing a shallow ego. Frank avoided that trap. The personal tributes which have flowed in following his untimely death are a catalogue of practical acts of kindness and generosity which he didn’t shout about, he just got on and did what was necessary where a bit of help was required. I recall when I was shutting myself away in the depths of depression and I was hard work to be around, Frank didn’t waste his breath on well-intentioned but meaningless advice to pull myself together, snap out of it, look on the bright side. Frank’s therapy – practical and effective – was to just turn up on the doorstep and tell me: “Get your coat on, you’re going out.”

I’ve enjoyed Frank’s friendship for 31 years, and the hole he leaves by his early departure is huge – but it’s comforting to know that he passed so much of his good-natured spirit onto Eve, Kate and Jack. Not only are they effortlessly funny, witty and bright, but I also want to thank them for their kindness and generosity – in the midst of their grief – in making sure that I should be among the first to hear the sad news about their much-loved dad. For as long as they live, I know the very best of Frank will live too.

“To my right/left – the names of…” a better friend that anyone could ever hope for. Goodbye Frank.

Nick Williams

Possibly a resurrection

Following considerable and relentless encouragement from a friend to start writing again, I have put fingertip to key once again. Actually Luke just asked why I don’t write anymore, and I said that I don’t have the time. This led me to think about what is keeping me so busy. I’m working much longer hours having swapped my part-time work and part-time child care with spouse, who now knows first-hand that, actually, I could have done a lot more housework over the last eight years than I claimed was humanly possible. This is, however, unspoken. If he accuses me of previously being a lazy arse, I can point the finger back firmly, and probably quite pointedly, in his direction about the continued scruffy state of the house since he took over the reins. Fortunately becoming part-time child carer, mixing with the yummy mummies at the school gate and making the lunch boxes has not lead to an increase in his desire to purchase shoes. That remains firmly my department.

When I’m not working, or supervising homework which generally amounts to not being able to answer the twins’ questions about algebra and feeling stupid, or chasing boychild around the house, and then forging his handwriting, what am I doing?. Sometimes I pay him to do homework; my rationale being that I am teaching the crucial message that there is no such thing as a free lunch. In prison psychological psychobabble is the term “permission giving”, for example, starting a row so one can justify storming off to the pub with your mates. If I had more self-awareness I would recognise that I am a master in the art of giving myself permission to behave badly. Frequently. But I don’t that all important self-awareness fortunately.

So on weekdays, those activities probably account for on average nine hours a day. The rest of the time, I seem to spend in my hobbies of trying to make smart arse comments on Faceache, watching and often screaming at the TV, smoking and drinking wine, not necessarily in that order. Tonight I am undertaking an experiment – an hour’s less online poker or property porn TV (actually Kristy is on in the background) and alternately see what I can muster for the old blog.

There have been so many issues on the TV of late, particularly so called news programmes that I’m struggling to choose from at this late stage in my post. Probably the most pertinent today is the Police Commissioner (what a load of fucking nonsense) elections. At a time of austerity cuts, we, the people of England and Wales (and possibly Scotland and Northern Ireland, but I really couldn’t be less interested in the detail and can’t now be bothered to research it) will have a say in how our police forces are managed, for an up-front cost of between £80 and £100k in salaries per constabulary per annum. I could bang on about the ethics of politicising the police force but I’ll leave that to serious bloggers. I could equally harp on about this being a further example of the Condems cynically suggesting that we, the people of England and Wales (and possibly et al), actually have any influence in the way our towns and cities are policed, but I don’t think the Government has pulled the wool over the eyes of any more than the 5% that are expected to vote, and let’s face it, more people read the Sun and Daily Mail.

I am proud, however, to report that I used both my franchise and my spare time wisely in casting my vote (or not, as it happened). I spent the best part of ten minutes pencilling a rendition of an erect penis and hairy testicles on my ballot paper. Childish? Certainly. A waste of time? Almost certainly. Satisfying? Probably more so than the cheeky bottle of Chardonnay Viogner that I’m about to start supping until bedtime.