Eulogy Notes
Terence John Frederick Hughes, aka "Pops"
Ten things that come to mind…
When I was an early teen, Dad sent my sister and me Valentine’s cards so we’d believe we had secret admirers. He made no effort to hide his handwriting, which was always written in uppercase. Each year’s card carried the exact same message, “TO EMMA FROM ?”.
Dad used to make up limericks all the time, a healthy, hilarious (?) habit which I’ve also adopted. They were never crass or offensive, mostly childish and silly. And he used to laugh uncontrollably at his own rhymes, again, a method I’m also a fan of.
Dad wasn’t over-affectionate; he didn’t need to be. He was brought up by two strong Brummies, my nan and gramps. My grandparents had lived through World War II, with my Gramps serving as a Sapper. After the war ended, Gramps had remained in service, clearing landmines. Dad was from strong stock.
Everyone loved my Dad, he was funny, really funny and was surprisingly intelligent. I only say surprisingly, because he was far from being an A-grade student. My Dad’s general knowledge was impressive and he was a big reader. He was Book Smart, but probably not as the term is intended.
My Dad was incredibly competitive; he never let my sister and me win anything. Like, ever. Tennis - he thrashed us, running races - he out-ran us, a ‘friendly’ game of pool, he beat us every time, proclaiming, “What’s the point in playing to lose?”. Yet another trait I’ve inherited.
Which brings me on to Dad’s sporting career; he played football as a young man, and from what I hear, wasn’t half bad. He moved on from the middle-aged squash phase to his pub-sports era, segueing into darts, snooker, and skittles. If there was a bar and a competition, he was there.
Dad had an uncanny knack of getting people to do stuff for him. No matter where in the world he was, willing volunteers would overlook my mum and offer my dad all manner of additional help. From people at his work tying his shoelaces, to friends packing his case at the end of a golf holiday, wherever he went, an army of willful enablers followed.
Dad was the biggest support of my singing obsession. He drove me to recording studios, waited outside for me at auditions, took me to band practices, and he and my mum came to all my local gigs. Dad was a shorter man, he’d say 5’6”, but he’d be lieing (maybe in your Cubans Dad). Any how, as a young female singer in a band, I’d sometimes get boys coming up and saying “hey” after a gig, spotting from afar Dad would quickly join the conversation, on his tippie toes, and let the person know in a friendly but firm tone, “I’m her Dad”.
Dad was known as “Pops” to his grandchildren, and that's how we all came to refer to him. He was an incredibly proud grandad and managed to add three more willing helpers to his entourage. Honestly, his ability to get others to do stuff for him, regardless of age - A GIFT!
Dad is the reason I love music so much - he was always listening to music. I remember when he used to get ready to go out, he’d take his portable cassette player upstairs and have Chris De Burgh playing as loud as the system would allow. Our Christmases and family get-togethers were always full of music, usually so loud no one could hear anyone else talk (a wise move perhaps on my dad’s part). The week before he died, his friend was still sending him new music to check out, something he’d been doing for a long time. And I had shared The Dream by The Favors, an album that will forever remind me of the last week of his life. A week where he absolutely believed he’d be leaving the hospital, he had told me, “I need to be out soon, I’ve got tickets for the Bootleg Beatles in December”.