here's a copy of the speech i gave at my fathers funeral, i had to leave out a few bits due to the time constraints but this is more or less what i came up with. jet lagged after a 40 hour journey, disheveled and somewhat dazed. it was all a blur but i gave it my best shot and figured i would just be me, fuck all the ceremony, fuck all the pretense, this is me and this is how i feel about my father.

Funerals.

I never attend if I can help it. I didn’t go to my best friends, I probably wouldn’t even attend my own. Not because of lack of respect or fear or the overwhelming emotional grief but I like my final memories of the people who have lived to be living ones. I like to recall the ‘spirit’ of the individual, not the inanimate vessel. For me death is not the end, merely a station on the soul’s journey.

It is only by default I am here, having flown almost 40 hours from the other side of the world, I thought I would miss this bit but my brother tells me if you die at home you have to jump through a few beurocratic hoops.

I didn’t really want to attend my father’s funeral because I felt that should be a private ceremony between me and him, and so I will generally be addressing him.

However here I am and am overwhelmed, not surprised by the amount of people who have turned up. Some of you are family, some are friends who are close to my father and some knew him in a lodge or religious social network of some kind. I guess we all share one thing in common, we are here to celebrate, and remember, and pay respects and honour a man called Maurice Mission who as it happens, is my father.

I would like to tell you some very personal things about my dad, I’d like to share them with you not because it’s his funeral, not because it’s expected, but because I think if you knew my father you would understand the kind of man he was to me.

My first vivid memories are him being a very practical man, a builder, a mechanic, an engineer a tradesman. He would sit me down age 5 and begin demonstrating how to build shelves, put a circuit board together, mend watches, fix broken cars, painting and decorating the lounge room, he made sure he explained everything he did, and yet I confess it went in one ear and straight out the other. I recall he was explaining the art of using tools and I immediately picked up and electric drill and shoved it into the mains socket. He grabbed me before I switched it on, looked at me with such disappointment.

Let’s face it dad, I was never going to be an engineer.

Once he was teaching me to swim in a pool in Spain, he turned his back on me and in I went pulled down by my inability to understand the mechanics of swimming and what he had showed me 2 bloody seconds ago. Under the water I watched people’s limbs glide past obliviously, through the deep blue. I had no idea I was even drowning until he dived in and pulled me out.

Everything he attempted to teach me, maths and money, science and construction just disappeared into a black hole inside my brain.

But one thing he did give me, was an imagination. His bedtime stories were the best. He would make up the most amazing tales, lost cities in the jungles, alien planets, discontented knights on a romantic quest, fabulous creatures lurking the centre of labyrinths. There was magick, angels and demons, he would speak about ghosts and poltergeist’s, apparitions and spooks from the other side. Telepathy, telekinesis, the occult, ouji boards, Atlantis, lost tribes from the Amazon, space ships, ancient technologies, lost histories, and on it went endlessly.

I fell in love straight away, lit up like a light bulb or burning bush, this is what I wanted to know about.

As a kid I just wanted more, ‘DAD, DAD, TELL ME WHAT HAPPENS NEXT, TELL ME ANOTHER ONE, DAD PLEASE, PLEASE. It was an ignition of my imagination.

But poor dad knew my interests were never going to pay the bills, never going to compete with all the other kids who were going to be lawyers and doctors, I think he was a little bemused at me, the square peg in the round hole. I mean how many jewish writers did he know, how many science fiction writers and how many creatives made a good living from their imagination.

But the fuse had been lit, my imagination was aflame. And nothing would ever be the same again. He would be baffled by my love of books not understanding that it was his own stories that started it.

And finally decades later, when I wrote my first novel his only criticism was, ‘too much swearing Gary, you have to take out all that swearing.’

Dad was also mystery to me, when I got older he stopped talking about his amazing family, his life back in India, his own father was the owner of a circus. very wealthy until he gave it all away. I once saw some photographs of the performers, it was a classic circus with animals and weird bearded ladies, freaks and outsiders, tattooed men, a strong man in a leopard skin outfit, a guy who dived into water, a man who was shot from a cannon. They even had a huge big bear that escaped and terrorised a small town.

His own parents lived in a haunted house, they had servants and a cook, and often they would leave as they could not deal with all the poltergeist activities. His mother was a psychic who had dreams that would come true, she was beautiful but as soon as she lost her youngest son she died of grief. His dad was a strange man I met only twice, he was Gandalf to me, a wizard, the living embodiment. I met him when he was very old and poor but he seemed like the wisest man ever. He had a huge long white beard and a big staff. He blessed me and mumbled some words, he had deep rich penetrating eyes and after he died I used to dream of him often, in fact I had very vivid 'messages' in dreams where he communed with me, often with his staff and always when I was in the presence of my dad. He is a big influence upon me in some ways.

Dads stories got me through life.

I hated skool. All I ever did when I was young was stare out into the grey landscape and skies, at the endless drizzle and drab mass of faceless zombie peers as I dreamt of a life under blue skies, strange exotic landscapes and beaches where the friendly surf just rolls in, sunrises over a perfect oceanic horizon, sunshine drenched days and sunsets they put on postcards. Meanwhile the teachers voice droned on endlessly about logarithms, tangents and cosines.

I hated England but survived it, as I had my imagination filled with exotic adventures, dreams and alternatives. I knew there was more to life because my father had filled my mind with it. So, I searched for it, travelling and being open to adventure and explorations. I found it, but that’s for another day and maybe my own funeral.

As dad aged he began to withdraw, silent and strong but more contemplative. Over skype, it was my time to tell him stories and we had some great conversations.  

My visits to London I would always borrow his jacket which he eventually gave me, he loved his suits and to dress sharp but he was from a generation where it was all very 1940's. Often he would bemoan my hair, it's too long he would say, it's too short. Shaving everyday was an important part of his routine, he loved his little rituals, even until death he shaved each morning, with a razor. But he looked great with a beard. Eventually he gave me the jacket I loved, despite trying to offload me with his old suits and shirts, it was only the jacket I wanted.

Now I’m no expert about Judism. It’s not my bag but I read about something called the Tzadikim Nistarim, and like most things I have no idea if its true but basically for those that don’t know there are 36 righteous men who are living upon earth and while they are alive the world can be saved. 36 righteous souls sustain the whole of humanity. They are humble people, sometimes even they don’t know who they are, such is the power of their humility.

These 36 are I guess what you could call superheroes, they come to show God that humanity is worth keeping, a worthwhile creation and therefore justified existence.

Obviously, all our dads are our own superheros but my father was as close to one of these 36 druids as you could freaking get. He was humble, kind, compassionate and funny. He respected God and his laws, he was very righteous.

There is a beautiful moral point to this legend, which many scholars have noted. Since we do not know exactly who these 36 righteous ones are among us, we should all strive to be kind to all whom we meet, for one never knows if you may not be offering kindness to one of the very 36 on whom the survival of the world depends.

Also each person should strive at all times to conduct himself or herself with honesty and charity according to God’s law, for who knows if you or I might not be one on whom the world depends?

Kinda beautiful right?

He was a happy guy, but as we spoke later in life, as we both got older we saw the wicked in the world and our conversations became a bit darker. It was harder for him as he was still holding onto the faith he had in the institutions.

Dad was more English than most English people and by English I mean old skool, empire English. Whereas my mother was a cynic and she hated the all the institutions and human nature with a healthy cynicism. Dad held a respect for anyone in uniform or a position of authority, he respected rules and order but as we spoke in later years he begun to see through the empire of dust, the corruption and betrayals. We both knew whatever apocalypse you choose we were living in its onslaught.

Maybe with one less Tzadikim Nistarim in the world, the centre can no longer hold.

Last time I was in London he was in a decrepit hospital for most of my stay, he thought it was the worst place he had ever been in. One time he called me over and said, 'Do me a favour son, lend me a couple of pounds to get a taxi. I have to get out of this bloody hotel, it's terrible.'

He was very serious.

I laughed and explained the situation to him, but inside all I wanted to do was take him home. 

Anyways, my father is at peace now, we remain, a geographically fractured family and extended family friends who come together in grief and I have to do my duty as the oldest son to make you understand my father was a man of the light, and we should look to the light always to guide us out of darkness. He could never understand the dimensions of god, but he believed in the concept with all his soul. And now he is part of that my grief is minimal but the loss is huge. My father was a big influence upon me, a man who gave me my own sense of righteousness and moral framework, possibly a little late in life, but it’s not a race. He was a man who showed love to all creatures that God had created even the pigeons that my mum hated nesting on their balcony, my father felt a deep compassion for them. 

And that is who he is, who he always will be.

I see him in my own son who shares his greatest qualities, and I am grateful my beautiful son got to experience his grandfather when he moved to London about 20 years ago from Sydney. He embraced a family he had never really known and loved them in my absence, he really became me in a strange way, while I lived the live I had always wanted, in the sun, under perfect blue skies and the golden beach at my doorstep.

Far away in Australia I would honour my dad every time I had an ice cream. My father was a great ice cream maker, one of the many obsessions he flirted with, coin collecting, jewellery making but the ice cream phase was the one close to my heart. He would always use natural and fresh ingredients. Our favourite was rum and raison as he always poured in a whole bottle of rum, and an hour later we would all get drunk on the results. So, whenever I had an ice cream in Australia I’d be reminded of dad, the best ice cream maker ever and his generous rum. Now I just drink the rum and forget the ice cream due to an ever-expanding waistline.

When he was a younger man I remember he started to smoke cigars and one Xmas he sat at the head of a big family table, when my mum’s parents were alive and uncles aunts and cousins were much younger. He held everyone's attention as he explained the art of cigar smoking, suggesting and demonstrating the best way to prepare a big fat Cuban cigar was to dunk it in a tall glass off whiskey. We all watched this ritual, wondering about my father’s new-found passion for these fat cylinder like cigarettes, a horrid dirty looking colour and much smellier than mums’ elegant menthols. With a huge proud grin he dunked the cigar into his single malt and stirred it around, giving it a thorough soaking. Then imitating Clint Eastwood he slowly brought it to his mouth and lit it. The only thing was it was soaking wet and wouldn't light. We all laughed and he must have felt slightly embarrassed putting it aside. Much later when I was alone with him and we had eaten a big feast he looked at me contented and picked up the now dry cigar, he put it in his mouth and smiled at me again with that Clint cool style he always emulated and unbeknown to us a Hamlet moment looming, lighting it. The whole thing just exploded in flame. And he dunked it out with a look of shock. The cigar smoking phase did not last long but he always had the good nature to laugh about it with me.

Yeah dad was quite old fashioned, an anglo indian jewish druid who loved Clint Eastwood. I think it was that righteous archetype, the man who always did the right thing, right action, with minimal fuss and maximum body count.

One thought that often lingers when I was with my dad and my son. It's weird, he, me and my son all left our countries of birth and hot tailed it to the other ends of the planet at the same age. Is that DNA? Some sort of genetic bomb, or are we just following our destiny.

One thing is true no matter the distance, no matter the time, no matter the space, we were and always will be more than close. Even in death my father will always be close to me and light my way.

So, I say to you all now, let’s share our memories, let’s remember my father, let’s think about my father and what he gave us all and, let’s look to the light.