Instead of choosing 1 story to tell about my father, I decided to choose 100. Because my dad wore many hats throughout his life, he donned many coats, he fought with many swords, & he rang many bells
My father. Graham. Born. I suppose, indignantly. On 16 August 1953. To Marjory.
He was the son of Reginald, a publican, a people man, who played football with Indians, back during the war.
My father, Graham. Brother to Sally whom he totally adored as she did he, grew up in Ely, in a pub where sometimes people would steal the seats, leaving patrons to sit on bread crates, one of many stories told around the empty dinner plates.
My father dancing when he should be still, full of energy, humour, seeking all life’s thrills.
My father sneaking into St Fagans with a friend, climbing a fence, twisting his ankle, only to discover that the tuppence required for entrance was not required on that Bank Holiday weekend.
My father. A student taught by Mr Eastwood, who later taught my sisters and me, too.
My father, naughty as can be, naturally. My father falling in love with photography.
My father tying a string around Sally’s toe, with the other end tied to a polo, thrown out the window so that she can sneak him in after a night on the town.
My father, in his Afghan coat, getting a lift with the police back to the Dusty Forge, where the tropical fish tank was full of whisky and gin.
My father meeting Beverley in the early seventies, learning to drive in a little car. Elbows out the window with the steering wheel against his knees. Causing trouble on the Gabalfa Interchange.
My father marrying my mum, and soon after comes their first child. Suzanne. The apple of his eye throughout his entire lifespan.
My father, the steel worker, testing wire, building the bridges that he’d traverse a thousand times.
My father pacing outside the hospital room as my mother was being resuscitated after her caesarean.
My father and the apple of his other eye, Julie. His second child, but I can assure you, not his last.
My father and his love for history. Painting model figures of fantasy realms, playing wargames on boards, until finally creating his own real-life horde.
My father running down the street shouting: “I have a son! I have a son!”
My father adoring Peter Bentham Hill.
My father in awe of history. Wrapped up in history. Looking to make history in more ways than one.
My father, a proud uncle to Lee and Katie, whom he loved greatly.
My father. Together with Tom Norbury, Noel Roberts, Clive and 13 good men and women, forming Birches Regiment of Foote in the Sealed Knot.
My father and my mother throwing leather bags at people on traders’ row until they shouted Knot the Baggage. The name of the satirical pamphlet which they sold on camp.
My father. Dressed in elaborate black pearl drop britches, wearing the bright red jacket of Birches as they grew and grew in size.
My father the sword fighter. Making men out of boys. Bringing true camaraderie to all who trusted in him.
My father studying Kyokushinkai Karate. On Blue Peter, under a freezing waterfall, punching while chanting: “Ishi, Ni, San, Shi, Ishi Ni San Shi.”
My father kicking down the door of our neighbours’ home while the whole house was aflame and carrying him to safety.
My father seeing the oncoming vehicle speeding towards them and turning the car so that he took the brunt of the collision.
My father being cut out of the car by the fire brigade, as they listened to him fight for life. “Ishi, Ni, San Shi. Ishi, Ni, San, Shi.” He chanted to stay alive.
My father in a wheelchair for 18 months. Almost every bone in his body crushed in the collision.
My father. Coming to see me through the gates of St Monica’s while he was still in a wheelchair, passing sweets through the railings.
My father buying the Apache motorcaravan. Rocking across the country in style. Everyone saw him pass by at one time or another. There goes Graham in his Mercedes Motorhome.
My father. Clad in full armour. Sprinting across the battlefield. Becoming known as Robo-Taff. The Welsh legend of many smoky Sealed Knot battlefields across the country.
My father playing the lead in witch burning after witch burning like only an old-fashioned gent could or would. The witchfinder general himself.
My father’s famous parties and banquets, occasions which he shared with the likes of Flabber, Jammo, Les, Aidy, Lawrie and many others. A friend for life.
My father being made redundant from Allied Steel and Wire while we holidayed in France.
My father the Town Crier. Walking the streets of city centres up and down the country. Shouting out loud: “Oyez Oyez Oyez.”
My father, the proud grandfather to Alicia Jade, then Jamie and Charlotte Holly, too.
My father, almost crashing on the crossroads of Crwys Road and Cathays Terrace after Katie died because his eyes were too filled with tears to drive. His heart broken.
My father. The Trencherman and trader. The constant entrepreneur.
My father buying his first Victorian Santa costume, hat and beard.
My father successfully resuscitating a dead man outside the Pineapple to no acclaim. Just another life saved.
My father, the man with a costume to lift every occasion. My father, the wizard, the knight, Isambard Kingdom Brunel, Barry Potter, whoever you can conjure up, he could make it manifest.
My father, the man who made stuff happen. From a long line of people who made stuff happen. A gift he’s handed down to me, and which I gave to my son.
My father, the historical reenactor, the well-known man about the circuit, with his shining armour glinting in the sun.
My father and his Lorna. Just like it was always meant to be. “Lorna” – A name he was obsessed with throughout all his adult life–a name handed down throughout our ancestors ever since RD Blackmore himself.
My father, in his twilight years, training the police in Kyokushinkai Karate. Ishi Ni San Shi. Ishi Ni San Shi.
My father. Family and friend to tens of thousands throughout his time.
Oyez Oyez Oyez! My father Graham John Vedmore has passed. Let his voice carry across the universe. Forevermore.
