Paddy Campbell

Here is a story of Paddy Campbell's extraordinary life, as delivered by his son, at his funeral service, partly edited.

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Dad's popularity, and the quality of his many friendships, is manifest here today in this lovely big church, filled with lovely people. My father would be honoured and touched to see so many of you here today.

Since his passing I've thought a great deal about Paddy's specialness, and why it is that he enjoyed so many friends and so much love and respect. That is the question I will try to address in this eulogy.

One of his peculiarities was that he enjoyed a good funeral, and attended these events at least once a week. In this slightly unusual behaviour I find a clue to his essential nature.

He did not go to funerals out of morbidity, or a desire to snaffle a free sausage roll, or even as an excuse to drink, though that last one was a minor consideration at least.

He went because he loved people in all our variety, and because he loved human stories and lives. He was a great storyteller, and at funerals, even with people he barely knew, he found a place where people wanted both to hear stories and to share them. He was that rare kind of man who could go to a funeral, cheer people up, and make new friends.

He had a knack of connecting people with one another, everywhere he went. He pulled people together in pubs, at the football ground, at the gym and even out on the street. How many of us here are friends today because of Paddy's gregarious nature and his good humour?

Even famous people were not immune to his charms. Whenever he saw a famous person - Sir Alex Ferguson, Mike Tyson, Alex Higgins - he'd make a beeline for them, brushing away security men like they were street pigeons. It wasn't merely because he wanted to meet them - he felt it was important that they meet him! He liked how, if he ever saw them again, they'd remember him.

When the champion Namibian boxer Ali Nuumbembe moved to Glossop to train, Dad was among those who welcomed him and made him feel part of the community. Dad went to Ali's wedding in Namibia and charmed the people there with his frankness and curiosity.

Ali posted on Facebook last week that people in Namibia still ask after Paddy. I know this is true, because it's also the same case in Santa Cruz, California where I live. He only ever spent maybe a month of his life there in total, and hasn't been back for a few years, but my neighbours still ask after him.

An old friend of mine called Bernard, who has lived in Glossop all his life, recently said that he knew of no-one who had touched more lives in this town than Paddy. I think that's a wonderful legacy.

Dad was a generous man, who made sure no-one ever felt left out, and no-one stood without a drink in their hand. Whenever he saw someone in need, he helped, whether it was a skint hitchhiker or a kid who dreamed of going to Old Trafford or someone whose shower needed fixing or someone who just needed a few quid to tide them over.

When I was a lad, he drove to Italy one Christmas to deliver caravans to the homeless victims of an earthquake. But mostly his generosity was low key. For years, he taught youngsters to drive, without ever asking a fee. He and my mum put countless people up in our house when they needed a bed. And when neighbors were poorly or grieving, he always made himself available with practical support and all the usual jokes and stories to cheer them up.

For a while in the 1980s, he and my mother ran an old people's home. The dedication they both showed to their role as carers, especially as the old folks neared the end, was outstanding.

Paddy understood that we all need to help each other, especially when the chips are down. In helping people he made more friends and found more stories. It was never a chore for him.

He was brave too. He was born and raised in post-war Belfast, a tough place even at the best of times.

He was a Catholic who, like so many of his peers, including his brothers Frank and Teddy and his sisters Molly and Annie, suffered some of the worst poverty in Western Europe. They endured grievous prejudice and systemic oppression. And yet they were part of a community that was unusually close-knit and warm. This was another source for his repertoire of memorable stories.

In the early 1960s he came to England to work as a labourer, paving our motorways and building our houses. He married a pretty English Protestant girl, my mother, at a time when such relationships raised eyebrows. But he proved the doubters wrong, and as the marriage flourished, and kids came along, the doubters came over to his side and indeed came to view him as a godsend.

On building sites and as a factory worker he stood against the bosses and he fought the bullies and the racists. He despised injustice and unfairness.

He was a fighter. I mean, literally, he got into fights. And although this is not always an admired quality, eyewitnesses will attest - and I'm one of them - that he only fought bullies. He was five foot nothing and his opponents were always a lot bigger. His role was David against Goliath. And like David, he only ever needed one shot.

Of course, if he were here now, he'd be embarrassed by all this praise. He'd tell me to quit talking, or words to that effect. He'd want me to remind everyone that he was far from perfect so, sure, let's touch on that. He had his faults.

As I said just now, he had a temper like gelignite, but it never lasted long. He was never one for I-love-yous or displays of affection, but that doesn't mean he wasn't a fiercely loving person. He had old fashioned views about gender roles - I never saw him cook a single meal, and while he knew how to fix a washing machine, I doubt he knew how to work one. Also, regrettably, he was a Manchester United fan!

But weighed against that, he was a man who knew how to live life to the full. He did whatever the fuck he wanted, and he trusted it would all work out fine. Mostly, it did.

He liked listening to sentimental music, reading biographies, country walking, fixing things, football, boxing and snooker. He liked supping a few pints and telling cheesy old jokes. He liked to muse on the nature of the universe, and he had no shortage of opinions about the ways of the world.

He enjoyed a long, happy marriage and the admiration and love of his sons, his grandchildren, and his many friends. He'll be missed, but he won't be forgotten. His good humour, his generosity, and his bravery is why we loved him.

Paddy Campbell was one of a kind, and there'll never be another. I love you dad, and I'll think about you every day of my life.