David Rudolph John Gill (19 Apr 1939 - 5 Nov 2015)

Dad's Eulogy...

My mother and I would like to thank all of you for being here today from the bottom of our hearts, your support means the world to us and dad would’ve been honoured by your presence. But we mustn’t be too sad. Dad’s life was incredible and unique. Vivid, varied and complex, he did what he wanted, when he wanted, he seized every moment and lived by no law but his own. No regrets. No sentiment. No fear.

My mother writes, but cannot say this herself today: David, my beloved husband, was sometimes so very misunderstood, for reasons too deep to go into here. He often found it very difficult to express his emotions and his love for his friends and family but believe me, it was there and his true friends knew this and they accepted him for it. So to those friends that are here today, I thank you. David kept fighting dementia for such a long time, putting on a brave face and still trying to make people laugh but in the end, it all became too much for him.  He would’ve been so overwhelmed today and so very proud of his son, who is so like him, reading his eulogy with such warmth and love, giving the last salute to his father. David will always be with me, so I will try not to be sad but just happy, for the many precious years we shared together.

We are here today to celebrate and remember the life of David Rudolph John Gill, who was born in Bushey, near Watford, on the 19th April 1939 to Jim and Irene. And from here on in, it gets very complicated and to try and summarise such a rich life would do it a huge injustice.

For example, I could talk about his time as a Teddy Boy juvenile delinquent; vaseline in his hair, flick knife in pocket, suited and booted; fighting, dancing and drinking in equal measure. And for the record, run-ins with the law would be a frequent feature of dad’s life. Or I could mention his time in the army, as part of the King’s Troop, which, when he wasn’t serving his Queen with great distinction, was a mix of going AWOL to see various girlfriends and trying to make himself deaf to get discharged. He succeeded in the deaf bit but the army kept him for as long as they could.

What is important to mention is that dad was a naturally gifted artist and that was how he earned his living for a spell, as a technical illustrator. His ability to draw rapidly, with unerring accuracy and precision and consummate ease was enough to put his dear friend Pip, sadly no longer with us, off becoming a technical illustrator for life. As Pip said: “I knew I’d never be as good as Dave, so why bother?”.
The first 30 years or so of father’s life are brimming with stories but unfortunately, I have to leave them behind, to pick up the tale again when dad came to Nottingham, of all the places in the world to come to. But I’m glad he did. Otherwise I wouldn’t be stood here in front of you and it was in Nottingham where he met the love of his life, the only person to truly understand him, his North Star, my beloved mum: Linda.

My parent’s love affair stands as an inspiration to me, as an example to follow, an exemplar of dedication, commitment and love complete. There were many occasions when they could’ve given up on each other but they never did and they reaped rich rewards for that devotion. I once asked my parents what made them fall in love, their answer was “work ethic”. I think there was more to it than that but the pair of them grafted at life to make a living and grafted at love to make it work. So this is my mum and dad’s song…

Dad’s time in Nottingham was as varied as his time in the South East: spraying and repairing cars as Thorneywood Coachworks, the second hand car sales pitch in Wollaton, buying classic cars, dabbling in antiques and of course, lending money to Iranians.

It was during this period that mum and dad bought a home in France. Some of his happiest times, both before and after he retired, came here. It was a new challenge, as the two of them turned a run down manor house into a magnificent home. Dad’s artistic talents for turning old bits of wood into something beautiful really came to the fore and the creative renovation of two properties over twenty years no doubt helped to keep the dementia at bay, for just that little bit longer.

Such was father’s life, there really isn’t enough time in the world to share all of the great tales I could tell you about my dad. There’s the one about him crashing his car into Oxford Circus and fleeing the scene with not a scratch on him; or escaping a police roadblock by driving through it with his lights off; or travelling all the way to Bangladesh just to sell a car; or getting a tax refund a month before he died, which was odd because he’d not paid tax for 40 years. It was Cicero who said: “The life given us, by nature is short; but the memory of a well-spent life is eternal.”

The stories are endless because it was a life well lived and as my friend Mark Whiteley always says, “stories only happen to people who can tell them” and boy could my dad tell them, a master storyteller, the finest raconteur I’ve ever met and I’m certain I learnt everything I know now from being a shy, meek boy with bad hair sat at his feet, listening awestruck and rapt to his fantastic anecdotes. So it looks like I owe dad my career in acting, as well as my snappy dress sense.

My dear friend Stephen Deuters wrote this brief poem about me and my dad that I’d like to share…

I remember many stories
you told me about your Dad
the world needs big men
in brain, in brawn, in personality
and in you and your Dad
the world had and has, two of them.

But then the stories kept being repeated, over and over and over again. And after a while they dried up altogether. Time and space lost meaning. Confusion and anxiety became everyday. Dementia had arrived. An evil, immensely cruel disease. It took my dad away from me long before he died. Mum wrote a poem about living with the horrors of dementia I’d like to share…

SHADES OF DEMENTIA

Shades of green, what might have been
Shades of red, what’s that you said?
Shades of pink, I can no longer think
Shades of grey, it’s taking me away
Shades of black, no turning back
As green turns to red, red turns to pink, pink turns to grey, nothing more to say
Losing the fight, the end is white
Shades of blue, I still love you

A good craic was still to be had now and then though. I remember visiting him last year and the conversation turned to getting married and having children, he leant forward, deadly serious and said: “Listen to me, never have children, they ruin your life”. And then, in a flash, he remembered who I was and laughed long and hard.

Did we keep our promises
We made to ourselves
Look into each others eyes
Do we make each other proud?
Did we stay true
To the path?
I love you brother
Hold fast

This next song is from me to my dad, my brother, my best man that never was…

And so, like all good stories, we must come to the end. November the 5th, at around 6pm. David Rudolph John Gill, the great almighty Gill, good old Dave, Gilly; died with such grace and peace I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes. He went surrounded by love and fireworks. A fitting tribute.

So I’ve one favour to ask of all of you gathered here today. Author Terry Pratchett, who was also taken too soon by dementia, said: “Do you not know that a man is not dead while his name is still spoken?” So please, say my dad’s name, over and over, tell his stories, talk about him and whenever you see a firework arc skyward and explode, spare a thought for him and his life well lived.