Trigger Warning: Eulogy

I have to plan these things, because I'm not going to be around forever, but I still feel I should warn you of content and themes that might be upsetting, were you to run across this without your Mum checking that it's OK to read first.

This is a draft [unfinished] version of the eulogy that I want Tim to read out at my funeral. A eulogy is a short speech or reading that crystallises your feelings about the person who's died, and highlights their best points - funny things they've said, fun times with their friends and loved ones. I cried a lot while writing it, and will do so again before it's finished, but that's OK. That just means I understand the importance of what I'm writing and how it could affect you. I'm sorry if you find this upsetting, but I'll share it anyway.

Hello.

It is I – Al.

Yup, I’m just temporarily commandeering this vehicle in order to blether some sacrilegious balderdash for your entertainment.

One of the ‘advantages’ of knowing you’re going is that you can plan this stuff, and, as unwitting vessels go, Timmo here is significantly cheaper than the New Orleans-style Jazz band I wanted, so, there you go. Austerity, innit.  Mr Mason, had you been sat nearer the front, I’d have chosen you, Sir. Sorry today wasn’t your turn - there’s always next time, though.

So, yeah.

Shit.

Dudes, I have in fact finally died (elegantly as ever, of course) and now, I use my new powers of haunting to gently come amongst you, one last time.

This means that The Event has happened. Turns out I lost, like anyone who plays the game, existence, to the end.

I have to apologise unreservedly to anyone who was saddened when it finally did occur. As I write this, on a classically Tupperware-grey August afternoon in 2018, my passing away seems faintly ludicrous, albeit technically plausible from a medical point of view, but I feel nothing, right now, today, that would give it away. Which, if anything, only goes to show that you shouldn’t take betting advice from me.

And I want you to know that on the way to this point, I had many, many days when I have felt like a fraud, not ill at all, but bored, and stuck, and becalmed, outwitted, outgunned and overwhelmed, furious, resigned, hopeless, empowered, focussed and strong as an ox. All at the same time, sometimes. But I’ve had terrifying days, long, scary nights and seizures that made me wish this day would come sooner, too.

Despite all that, I’m glad it didn’t.

Dying itself holds no fear. I am not afraid of anything apart from pain, and while I will have suffered intermittently while descending the escalator from full-on, maximum-annoyance Al to the useless pile of malfunctioning limbs I undoubtedly became, I was managed, helped, counselled, cheered up, dressed, hugged and wept over by beautiful souls who don’t get the praise they deserve.

Every pain can be managed, be it emotional, spiritual or physical. Please, if you have anything spare, reward those who helped me and give generously to the collection for the nurses and staff at XXX and XXX, without whom I would have not been able to slip quietly into the next room, as I undoubtedly did.

My darling Tam, you are the strongest person I’ve ever met, but I know you get bored of hearing that. Folks, my wife is beautiful, and resourceful, and clever, and brave, but she has been going through this with me, and now I implore you to look after her and Leo for me.

Call her once in a while. Ping her a ‘hey, how are you?’ now and again. She needs you to help put herself back together now. She will front-up and say she’s fine, but she might not be, and she shouldn’t have to be doing this on her own. Cancer is a cruel, merciless thing. Dealing with its immediate aftermath is worse for her than it was even for me. As my friends and family, I’m telling you now: she needs help for a little while. Please be that help if you can.

Tam, rather than concentrate on the situation that my departure creates, I hope you can see it, in time, as an opportunity. You can do anything now, and as long as you have a roof over your heads, a family that loves you and friends who can see how much of your heart you’re pouring out for Leo each day, you will be fine.

I am totally heartbroken that I won’t get to see us grow up together as a family; beyond all the travelling, the fun times, the drama and whatnot, that was what I wanted for my life. My only hope now is that I can provide a start for Leo, some solace for you and all my love. I don’t have anything else left to give. I’m so sorry darling.

Please show the rest of the world you’re as great as you know you can be, and teach Leo to love life and waIk forward from here unafraid. He is my son. His constellation, and your initial, are etched into my skin. We are one, but we’re not the same. We carry each other.

I am, if anything, proof that having outrageous eyebrows and a great walk will only get you so far in this world. Thankfully, that little boy also has your heart, your charisma and your endless compassion. Lift him up for me, and watch him take on the world for both of us.

I hate people who won’t try for fear of failing. One glance at the brilliant men who are my greatest friends in all the world proves that I don’t judge a book by its cover, and I like people who don’t mind a dash of risk here and there. Boys, thank you once again for all things. I couldn’t, wouldn’t and definitely shouldn’t have done it without you. Oh, and Jon – please employ your notoriously burly physique to ensure that Mr Browning gets a round in for everyone here before he goes. Ta.[1]

Knowing that I wasn’t going to be around forever, I dearly wanted to prove to Tam and Leo that I didn’t give it up and hide; I took the doctors’ advice, sure, but I didn’t sit and wait – or tried not to, anyway. I fought this thing that has ripped the heart out of my family three times in the last 20 years. I did not lie down.

I knew I couldn’t do anything to effect the outcome, so I did everything I could to effect the outcome. I ignored as many symptoms as I could, and carried on. I went back to work, so that I could leave more behind for Leo. I scoured photos and videos, compiling them before it was too late. I contacted people I dislike intensely and asked them for help. The saying ‘you could be hit by a bus tomorrow’ spurred me on; I knew the bus was coming – I could hear it in my head every morning when I woke.

In Summary

I have truly loved my life. I have seen some amazing places, met some extraordinary people, lived, loved, lost and won.

I have been myself, but better, as per my best friends’ advice.

I have shaken the hand of a great and powerful Wizard

I have had a biro nicked by Paul Weller. Word to the wise – never lend the Modfather a pen.

I have seen Oasis live in front of 130,000 people, and 130. More is better.

I have been a regular patron of Jason’s Doner Van.

I’ve fallen over because of the Rolling Stones.

I’ve seen Radiohead break hearts in the rain.

I’ve shared long-buried family secrets while being thoroughly underwhelmed by Bjork.

I always remembered the fate that befell Deano, as we all should.

My wife has been chatted up by Russell Brand, which puts her in the top three percent of the world’s women in my book.

I’ve been asked ‘Ire you happy?’ by a toothless Irishman.

I’ve discussed complex geopolitical challenges with strippers in Edinburgh at four in the morning.

I have met strange, mystical Australians on trains, with overly sparkly blue eyes, who may or may not have been angels or something. Either way, they loved Holden Caulfield even more than I did.

I have watched my beautiful, ‘untrainable’ dog hit 30mph on the beach in brilliant sunshine, before ambling back at his leisure to my side. Untrainable my arse.

I have been underrated and overlooked my whole life. Wonky eyes, a funny walk, a funny run, no sense of direction and a bit of shyness make Al a confusing prospect.

I have listened as unwise people told me my relationship with Tam wouldn’t last six months, and been told I didn’t have what it took to be a writer, because I couldn’t keep everything in my head. How am I doing so far, though?

I have married my favourite person, on the best day of my life, surrounded by literally all my favourite people.

I’ve worked in Asia, despite not liking work or, for that matter, Asia, all that much.

I kept a list of people I hate. Ask Jon for details.

I have played bass alongside the best drummer I have ever met.

I have held my newborn baby, and heard his first-ever cry.

I have done 0-60mph in under three seconds.

I have felt the gut-wrench of unrequited love.

I have been that irritating dick with a new girlfriend who things everything is made of candyfloss and trampolines.

I have had some truly bollocks haircuts, and a couple of great ones.

I have had my heart properly smashed to bits.

I’ve feuded with people and not made up with them, because life’s tough, and arseholes don’t get let off every week, like it’s the end of He-Man or something.

I have been betrayed by those close to me, but also forgiven by those close to me.

I have made peace with being a bit crap at a variety of things, such as driving, cricket, catch, guitar, singing, card tricks, fatherhood and baking.

Despite sitting opposite Rob for quarter of a century, I still don’t understand the Israel/Palestine beef, or why anyone would do live-action roleplay. That said, as you can see, I do indeed prefer a fiery death.

I’ve been given a chance to prove I’m better than I think I am – everyone deserves one of those in life.

I have seen Southampton stick six past Manchester United. Ha!

I have seen England win a penalty shootout.

I know what a 110-hour working week feels like, and as a direct result, I know what setting up camp at a swim-up bar in Mexico at 1030AM feels like, too. Work hard if you like, but play hard afterwards if you do.

Whenever I have distanced myself from my friends - verbally or geographically, I have come unstuck.

Whenever I have phoned it in, people knew.

Whenever I have tried my absolute hardest, I have surprised myself at my own ability, and more often than not, succeeded.

Rudeness is fun, but it's not useful. Forgiveness is classy.

If you're given a choice to do a hard thing or an easy thing always, do the difficult thing quickly, first, then do the easy thing at  your leisure.

Pop stars and famous people are not prophets. Don't waste your time listening to them. Listen to your family. Real people are just that.

I have suffered, and triumphed. I have laughed a lot, and cried a bit, too. I am OK with all of the above, really. Please don’t be sad. Thank you for being all the help I needed, and for aiding and abetting me as I did this thing we call life. I love you all. I’ll see you again. Now, go out and get whatever’s yours, before it’s too late. Go and be a puppet, a pauper, a pirate or a poet if you like, because time is short, and life is tough. I'm out of time, but you are not. Carpe fucking diem, people.

I thank you for this most amazing day, for the leaping greenly spirits of trees, and for the blue dream of sky and for everything which is natural, which is infinite, which is 'yes'. 

I'm Sorry

I've been away from this for so long... I will update it with various things I've got going on today and then do as much posting as I can, so that when The Time Comes, it's worth a read.

As I write this, you are five months old, and rocking. I will put various videos I have of you here too.

Almost sitting up, vocal, chatty, full of joy and my absolute favourite human man- that's you!

Back from beyond

Brain tumours are so dumb.

He sits there, burrowed into my mind, plotting my downfall. Months go by, during which my son is born (hurrah!) and I lose my job (boo!). I get  through four rounds of chemo pretty much unscathed, besides a bit of tiredness. 

About three months ago, I started to lose all sense of direction. Big crowds, especially those in places I’ve not been to before, begin to intimidate me. Nevertheless, I negotiate the Rolling Stones live in a big venue; I walk about two miles a day with the dog. I go to London purely for the honour of being made redundant in person, during which HR ask me ‘how little I could survive on’ by way of an opening gambit. Charmers to the last.

Then last week, stuff started to shift on me - my anti-seizure meds are up a bit, and holding, but I’m not as sprightly as I was. Walking to our local shop, once a nonchalant trot of about 10 minutes, now feels like an expedition that needs to be considered before it’s completed. But I am still, broadly speaking, OK. My research has also proven that wine is an effective deterrent to most ills.

We saw the mighty Jenner clan last week, which was and will always be a joy. Hope, were it a candle, would flicker at the slightest breeze, having brought from the dark by friends and family, and those I need. Some mornings I feel like I will be dust at Christmas; until recently, others made me forget anything is happening. But now, all mornings carry a reminder that I am finite, and that below the waterline, the ship is, slowly, sinking.

But I am not sunk yet. When I had my op in January I worried that I wouldn’t be able to play shit bass guitar again. I was right. Slowly though, I have been able to pick up the pieces and play. Initially, playing itself made me dizzy; too much coordination needed, too many inputs, too much data requiring processing. But today, 303 days after my op, I played as well as ever, nice and loud, for 90 minutes. 

This is significant, because if I could have my time again, I would throw myself into learning and playing music more vociferously than i did this time round. Listen to Miles Davis, or Coltrane, or The Roses, or Metallica, or any decent musicians, and what you can hear is the result of someone wanting to make noises that are great fun, or emotional shorthand for something else, with and for their best friends. 

Being in the same room as a bunch of people intent on creating something with you that wasn’t there seconds ago, and if you stopped, would cease to exist altogether, is actual fucking magic. It is a glimpse of the inner workings of the mind. It is the higher state - pure creativity, emotion, clarity, faculty and freedom. It is as close to telepathy as you can get with your clothes on. 

Music has power. It started a civil war in Yugoslavia, and helped to end the war in Europe. It can evoke untold suffering and limitless joy. It is the only thing that can stop a room in its tracks. Humans are driven by it, inspired by it, die for it, are, sometimes, even made thanks to the atmosphere it can generate.

So, to know that I can still command my fingers to hold my bass in such a way as to make a sound I recognise as music, when I was warned that my treatment might - perhaps should - have taken that away by now, is good to know. The reason I started this by saying that brain tumours are dumb? Mine stopped me playing for a year, right? I couldn’t play stood up, like I have since I was 17. In a revolutionary moment, I sat down, giving my brain a rest, as it didn’t have to deal with balance issues that have been increasing for a year or more. With all those issues stowed, I could play, properly, again. 

All I can say is, sometimes it’s best to sit on your arse. 

‘The worst tragedy that could ever happen to anyone, in my opinion, is that when they die, they never sang the song that was inside of them. They were never able to give their greatest gift away.” 

“But the beautiful opposite of that is that if you pass away and you know that you’ve sung your song - that you gave your gift - that’s the greatest accomplishment I could ever hope for anybody.’ - Flea