Hugh Robertson Kidd (6 Mar 1946 - 1 Aug 2018)

Dad was born on the 6th March 1946 at 406 Tollcross Road, Glasgow to George Fairnington Kidd and Frances Helena Scott Kidd. My father grew up in Glasgow with his sister Sandra, who now lives in Canada, and his younger sister Diane who still lives in Scotland. Dad never really spoke much of his early life in Scotland apart from that he left school at the age of fifteen and went to work in an office, a job that he quickly became bored with.

My dad decided he would join the Royal Airforce and he signed up on 23rd January 1962, as a “Boy Entrant”, just over a month before his sixteenth birthday. He told me that in those early days he hated the military discipline and had asked his father if he would buy him out. His father, with great wisdom, told his young son that he had made his choice and now he had to stick with it, well my dad went on to serve for just short of 28 years in the service.

Dad’s very first tour in the RAF, after training, was at RAF Changi with 215 Squadron working on the Armstrong Whitworth Argosy. Generally Dad would only tell us stories of the monkey that he used to keep in his room that would regularly drink with him and get drunk but apart from that his tour of Singapore was a case of what happened on tour stayed on tour as he kept tight lipped about most of his adventures, or should I say misadventures whilst he was over there.

When my dad returned to the UK he met my mum, Janet, whilst he was stationed at RAF Wittering and they were married in May 1968 in mum’s home town of Stamford. It was a partnership that would last fifty years and produce three sons, Craig, Andrew and I, a group of urchins that followed my dad around England from one posting to the next. Dad did many detachments during his time in the RAF from places such as Belfast during the troubles in the late 70’s, Goose Bay in Canada, Ascension Island during the Falklands conflict and, one of his favourite places, RAF Akrotiri in Cyprus. Dad’s last posting was to 57 squadron at RAF Marham in 1980 working on the Victor K2 tanker and it was here that dad served out the last 9 years of his service.

After finishing in the RAF dad went on to briefly work with a company doing household electrical work before returning to familiar territory with a company called Marshalls at Cambridge airport working on Gulfstream private and corporate jets. Dad retired at the age of 55 and became a house husband whilst my mum continued to work.

By the time my dad retired he had been living in England for nearly 40 years but as many people will remember he never lost that Glaswegian accent and many found him hard to understand including my sister in law Ann. In Ann’s early meetings with dad my mum used to nod to her yes or no to help Ann get the right answers to dad’s questions.

Dad loved his food and of course a beer or two. Mind blowingly hot curries, mince and tatties, a good fry up with haggis, black pudding and tattie scones washed down with a nice mug of builder’s tea or a nice steak at Arbuckle’s. Unfortunately, his cooking wasn’t always up to scratch as my brother Craig fondly remembers the jacket potatoes that dad served up to us one day. Asking dad why his potatoes tasted soapy he was told that it had been washed with fairy liquid and a scrubbing brush, well dad had always said he would wash his mouth out with soap.

Dad loved his holidays to Cyprus and he and my mum would go there every year for their holidays. My dad eventually persuaded Deb and I to go with our children and all joined mum and dad on holiday and had his expert guidance on all things Cyprus. It was the first of many holidays we would share with them in Cyprus and some of my fondest memories of dad are when we would sit together drinking the cheap local Cypriot red wine on a balmy evening sitting on a villa patio under the stars with not a care in the world.

An avid armchair sports fan my dad was somewhat a contradiction, he was a Scotsman who would enjoy watching England playing cricket, football and rugby and he followed Ipswich Town Football Club, a curse he inflicted on all three sons and at least two of his grandsons. Dad still followed Scotland, an experience he found as frustrating as watching England and he still had a soft spot for his boyhood team Glasgow Rangers, even taking my younger brother Andrew to visit Ibrox stadium during a holiday in Scotland and proudly showing us photos of our younger brother alongside some of the Rangers players of the time. We often forget that my dad wasn’t just an armchair sports fan, he had a passion for course fishing, loved walking and shooting with his trusty Labrador Meg and of course he loved playing his darts and dominoes with his mates in Downham Market.

In 2009 my dad was diagnosed with Cerebellar Ataxia after suffering with some unexplained episodes of dizziness. As the disease progressed over the following nine years my dad was slowly robbed of his mobility and ability to communicate clearly which, at times, he found very frustrating especially as he could no longer keep in contact with friends and family by phone as he could not be understood. He was a proud Scotsman and having to rely on others to do even the most basic of tasks was difficult for him to adjust to. Mum eventually became dad’s full time carer even though she had her own health issues, but I know that dad was truly thankful to my mum for that care which allowed him to remain in his own home. In all the years my dad suffered with his ataxia I can honestly say that I never once heard him say “why me” despite the massive impact it made on his life. Of course, my dad was not perfect, he could be a grumpy so and so, demanding and stubborn but deep down he was a sensitive sole who always tried to do right by his family, and once I had left home and had my own family, he was my friend.

I would like to read a short poem called “Epitaph on my own Friend” by Robert Burns -

An honest man here lies at rest,
As e’er God with His image blest:
The friend of man’ the friend of truth;
The friend of age, and guide of youth:
Few hearts like this, with virtue warm’d,
Few heads with knowledge so inform’d:
If there’s another world, he lives in bliss;
If there is none, he made the best of this.

So, it is time to say farewell to a husband, dad, grandad, brother, uncle, father in law, acquaintance and of course a friend.

The RAF’s motto is Per Ardua Ad Astra – Through adversity to the stars, a motto that encompasses my dad’s service in the RAF and his battle with ataxia, good bye and god bless you dad – Per Ardua Ad Astra.