What is a tribute? And why not a eulogy? I choose the word tribute over eulogy because it speaks not of finality, but of love. A tribute is a conversation of the heart, not a formality; a way to remember someone not just as they were, but as they felt to those who loved them. Having written thousands of scripts, articles and journal entries during my life, I’d like to share a particularly personal tribute, the one I wrote for my father, John.

I remember…

That’s my Dad in the picture, holding me, with a big shock of blond hair when I was but two, possibly three, so this would have been 1969/70.

It was the only time I went abroad with my parents, visiting my mother’s best friend, who had moved to Amsterdam to live with her husband.

The Mill Shop is a famous landmark of the city by the side, and looking down upon, one of the main waterways. It remains to this day – a place of pilgrimage I wish I’d taken to recreate the very same picture with my young sons.

My memory of youth doesn’t stretch back brilliantly, certainly not quite as far as some, who seem perfectly able to recall the most incredible and unusual memories, but in my tribute to a man who inspired me most, I think I can confidently start with this picture from The Netherlands when I was two, possibly three.

What do I remember of this unique, wonderful, effervescent, hard-working, man of immense strength and unwavering support for his family?

I remember travelling on the ferry to the Netherlands, and as it approached the dock, it let out an almighty loud ship’s horn, and startled me to such a degree that I simply ran in a blind panic. I am told I ran and ran, and at first, my parents weren’t aware.

Whether it’s the stuff of family legend or my actual memory, at some stage, my father caught up with this panicked two, possibly three-year-old on the other side of the ship and didn’t let go of me for the rest of the holiday, or indeed life. I like to believe this picture is proof of that.

I remember he loved his cricket. As a family, with Mum, we’d spend balmy Summer afternoons and evenings watching him play village cricket, from a safe distance, parked behind the boundary. It was certainly his game, one he could watch for hours on telly, and one of his extra stretchy cricket socks doubled as the stocking I would hang each December 24th.

I remember his incredible work ethic. He’d have to travel, leaving the house on a Monday and returning on a Friday, once, sometimes twice a month. Each evening, he would call home in the days when a Post Office telephone operator invited you to accept the charges for a reverse call. I knew he was on the phone, as Mum would answer “Bengeo 2671” and then immediately add, “Yes” to an operator’s request to accept the cost. I would eagerly await those calls, just before bedtime, if only to hear his cheery “Hello Jamie,” at the end of the line.

I remember his love of Dorset, the village of Studland in particular, and our simple but wonderful sun-filled days making endless sand castles down on South Beach.

I remember the hotel we stayed in owned by Mr. Thurtle, who legendarily became known as Mr. Turtle, the man who owned a hotel with melon boats on the breakfast menu.

I also remember from that time Dad’s exasperated shouts of, “Wendy, Wendy, Wendy…” as he called after my mother the day she floated out into the bay below the hotel headed toward Old Harry’s Rocks carried by a retreating tide on a lilo, clearly asleep. Eventually, she woke, seemingly unaware of Dad’s concerned cries and people on the beach who’d gathered to see what this shouting and fuss was all about. She was equally amused by the fact that we were just about to call the RNLI as she paddled back in, with, I think, extreme sunburn.

I remember Dad’s pen, a Parker 51 classic fountain pen, gold capped with his name inscribed along the black barrel, a gift from his parents to mark his 21st birthday. He had such neat, wonderfully crafted handwriting, with flourishes that were impressive, but didn’t shout ‘look at me’. The pen lived in his office drawer, next to a bottle of dark blue Quink and came out for cheque signing and special paperwork and cards. He was fastidious about being the only user, “To save the nib”, he would say.

I remember the years we went camping, as both my parents were quite out-doorsy types. The truly rememberable summers were years like 1976, the infamous drought year, when each evening Dad would barbecue the evening meal, and let me take a thimble full of Woodpecker cider.

We weren’t lucky overall with the weather though, and after one particular year when the rain was doing its customary sideways camping thing, we arrived back at the site to find it flooded under a shallow tide of water. Our tent was at the top of the site, and try as he might, Dad struggled to pilot our Toyota Hiace van to that plateau. The wheels spun, mud caked the side of our vehicle and upon reaching our equally submerged tent, Dad ripped the sad looking piece of canvas from its pegs, threw it in the back of the van whilst my mother looked on horrified and we never went camping again.

I remember his love of bird watching with Mum. They could sit for hours in bird hides, shussshing me if I so much as breathed loudly. These were the days before you could sit a child down with an iPad and AirPods and win at least an hour of quiet. Perhaps this is where I learned a degree of patience.

Talking of which, I remember his absolute patience for my radio hobby and his complete belief that anything is possible in life. We’d wash dishes together each evening, and he’d listen to my demo tapes made as a volunteer at a community radio association. When I announced I wanted to be on the radio as a career, I don’t believe he ever once mooted it was neither a good idea or not achievable. He would drive an hour out of his way to take me for work experience before the start and end of his day’s work, and was the first to celebrate when I received my breaks.

I remember he loved his golf, come rain or shine and was as fastidious about the way his golf clubs were cleaned and serviced. I still have that bag to this day.

I remember him being the life and soul of every party. There’s no shortage of pictures showing Dad doing daft stuff at parties. And everyone loved him for it. I imagine he must have been the first person to be considered for an invite when RSVPS went out.

I remember the love and faith he had in his family.

And then, I remember him apologising just half an hour or so before he died in the hospital we’d all been called to, unexpectedly.

I asked him through my tears why he was saying sorry, to which he replied he regretted he could not be around for the children I would one day have, the grandchildren he would no doubt one day adore.

It’s suggested by folk far wiser than I, that you die twice in life. The day you pass on, and the last day somebody utters your name.

It seems I have a mission of privilege to ensure that my Dad’s name is uttered now and then for all these reasons of remembrance and more.

From the boy in the picture aged two possibly three – he never let go of me, and it has been the hardest thing letting go of him.

John Frank Bartholomew is his name, and I’d be honoured if you could say that out loud for me.