You wouldn't read about it

Dad was awarded a CBE - a Commander of the Order of the British Empire - for services to journalism in the Queen’s New Year honours list in 1980.

I feel I’ve earned a degree in journalism through a lifetime with Dad. All of his stories and experiences have recurring themes - getting the scoop, gaining and deserving trust, speaking with the common folk, working the contacts, doing the hard work, checking the facts, obsession with the detail and simply having “news sense”, something I suspect cannot be taught.

He lived and breathed journalism. And he well understood the distinction between what we now pejoratively refer to as tabloid journalism - something he detested - and the skills of identifying real stories coupled with the art of selling them.

Dad was testimony to the adage that the person you put in charge is the person who cares the most. He was both audacious and tenacious. His determination to achieve the desired result usually morphed into sheer stubbornness. He was a leader who wouldn’t accept defeat - he wouldn’t even admit it as a possibility. His enthusiasm was infectious and it was matched by a personality that filled every room.

Dad’s favourite expression was “you wouldn’t read about it”. He used it whenever he told - or heard - a great story. It was always delivered with a twinkle in his eyes.

As a father, Dad was unsurpassable. Nothing - absolutely nothing - stood between Dad and what he could do for his children, or for Mum. He was a big-hearted, generous, larger-than-life character who adored us. The only thing that ever embarrassed me about Dad, and I was secretly proud of course, was just how hard he’d try on our account. He simply cared - about our happiness, our aspirations, our daily routines.

Despite his unshakeable self-belief and his imposing presence, he was a gentle and kind man. He saw the best in everyone and got the best from everyone. His standards were very high but he was always the first to help you meet them. As a grandfather, he adored Lauren and James - his eyes lit up every time they entered the room. Unfortunately, the ravages of Alzheimer’s denied him any real connection with Jessica or Alexander, but it’s beyond a shadow of doubt he would have loved them just the same.

And Mum - well, she was his life. As my conversations with Dad in recent times became depressingly shorter and less reliable, the one constant was just how much Margaret impacted his life and his heart.

The boy from Aramac lived his dreams and I’m eternally grateful and proud to have been a part of them. It was a truly wonderful and remarkable life. It was pure artistry. It’s fair to say “you wouldn’t read about it”.

Rest in peace Dad. I love you.

February 22, 2008.