He Used to Carry me on his Shoulders High

Hello, my name is Peter.

This is my eulogy to my dad; the word ‘Eulogy’ being from the Greek for ‘Good Truth – words that praise’.

For he was a father extremely worthy of praise, as my brother, James, will agree. And he would appreciate, too, the definition; for he was a lover of words and of language. And of thoughtfulness.

Our dad, John Roberts, was born a twin in the April preceding the Second World War, in Salford. His twin did not survive the experience – indeed, our grandmother was not even told there had BEEN a twin until many days later. My father joked that, as the older child was always going to be called ‘John’, he was at least saved from being called ‘Adrian’.

It was to be five whole years before his brother, Bill, came to join his childhood. Our Uncle cannot be with us today due to ongoing complications with a brain tumour; our thought are very much with him and our Auntie Sandie today, and we can only hope for a speedy and full recovery.

The birth was a rough entry into a rough time in history, and worse was yet to come: Following their father’s untimely passing due to gas inhalation injuries from the First World War, both boys ended up at The Royal Masonic School for Boys, a charitable boarding institution just outside London. And whilst this led to a lifelong hatred of the public-school system, it shaped his future.

He was to remain lifelong friends with several boys he met there. And it was there he wheted his passion for languages, which he took to as a life-raft. I have never met anyone so addicted to Grammar as he.

And so he won a scholarship to Oxford, becoming the first in the family to attend university. His only regret being that a lack of Classical Greek denied him from reading Humanities.

Storming a double First Class Degree in French and German (despite, I am told, being somewhat of a bon viveur), he spent the rest of his life a scholar; both professionally and as a primary hobby. His was a brilliant and clear intellect, particularly in the fields of history, theology, and linguistics. Indeed, during research for his Doctoral Thesis, he uncovered ten new words in the Ancient Burgundian language, making him the world expert in that language; extinct since the Sixth Century. This interest was heavily connected to his love of Wagner’s Ring Cycle of operas around Burgundian legend.

But all this risks making him sound dusty. He was not dusty: he used to carry me upon his shoulders high, singing nonsense songs about ostrich and elephants. He dressed in a kaftan at parties, and spent forty years trying in vain to learn the recorder.

His passions included: cinema; detective fiction; Australian Soap Opera; theatre; opera; politics; real ale; animals; environmentalism; comparative religious studies; teaching; hill-walking; cooking; amateur dramatics; and live musical performance from Soul, to folk, to orchestral.

Taking some clothes to charity the other day, I discovered a pair of 3D cinema glasses kept in a coat pocket ‘just in case’ he should stop into a multiplex. He was a fan of Amy Winehouse; Blondie; and Florence and the Machine; however he also thrilled to Wagner and Mozart – he has requested a portion of his favourite, ‘Die Zauberflöte’, Mozart’s ‘Magic Flute’, be played here today; and we will be hearing ‘in diesen Heiligen Hallen’ in a wee while.

And onto another central part of his life: his cookery skills were impressive: 400 of his 10,000-strong book collection are devoted to recipes. He and his dear sister-in-law, Sandie, held an annual cooking challenge to host a feast from a country or time period. Over the years these ranged from Roman, to Mongolian, to Turkish. From Mediaeval Mesopotamian to Filipino. Reinventing the ubiquitous Roman sauce called liquamen, mainly composed (or DE-Composed) from the innards of fish; OR fermenting an alcoholic drink out of Horse Milk, both still stand out in my mind.

But to return to books. We were once standing in Waterstone’s in Sauchiehall Street, when looking around, he remarked to me that his saddest thought was that there were all these books in the world and that he would never get the chance to read them all. His personal collection alone would take Twenty Seven years to read – at a book per day.

As Children, he read to us every night. From ‘The Hobbit’, from ‘Swallows and Amazons’, and from ‘The Aardvark who Wasn’t Sure’ (which remains a favourite of my brother’s). This gifted my brother and me with his omnivorous bibliophilia.

And he imparted so much MORE as well. To me he wasn’t an academic, or a lay preacher at St Margaret’s Episcopal Church, that helped him so much through bitter times. He was my Dad.

He gave all his love to his two boys, and shared with us what it was to be bright, and enquiring, and kind, and interested in things, and reflective.

I cannot describe how delighted he was to become a grandfather, to Adam over the past couple of years. He was born to be a family man, and he

adored his grandson. James, I know, worries that Adam will grow up not knowing his Grandad. But that is only partly true. He will be kept alive in our hearts, and in our stories, for ever more.

He was named for Saint John: patron saint of booksellers, theologians, and scholars; but also of love, loyalty, and friendships. He could not have been more aptly named.

Crucified by his disease, he has now risen once more. I miss him terribly, and yet I am so happy he can never suffer again.

I am only said he never got to see how Neighbours ended.

It is heart-warming to see so many of those who knew him here today. Including his cousin Nan, who was his first and oldest friend, and family.

E..., a treasured university colleague.

B... C... and family, close friends since they were lonely boys in a strange school.

So many from the island, and from his church. Thank you.

I would just like to finish with a quote I found in a book called, ‘Feast’. A quote that I think is somewhat apt:

“He sought not material riches, but rather the riches of history, of time, of taste, sound, sight, thought, and exegesis. And he lived therefore the richest life imaginable. Able to rise again from tragedy, able to solace in the past, able to taste the foods of peoples long vanished.”

We all die. But my father lived very well indeed.