So my grandfather passed away on Saturday afternoon. He died in his sleep, and was so thin and frail that it was the best way for him to go.
Mum gave me a signet ring of his – engraved with his initials – when I met her at the airport on Sunday. I’m not one for signet rings, but this one is special. It’s a little piece of him for my pinky.
I miss him and I’m sad. He was an eccentric, a Free Mason, a dude who always had to be making or fiddling with something. Who always had pin-up calendars of chicks with gigantic breasts in the garage, who flew a different country flag outside his house everyday, who would walk up to complete strangers and have long conversations with them, anytime, anywhere.
He collected a mound of shit – everything from model cars to other gimmick stuff, and he had a sharp sense of humour. My grandfather, who I called Baka, because Mum calls him ‘Papa’ as a French thing, and that’s the variation I picked up as a baby.
He’d get bored and roar around the old age village, and once almost knocked an old lady down, which caused a huge furore in gerry atrick circles.
Sometimes he drove us crazy because he was HELLUVA stubborn, he had sweets stashed everywhere, [and a set of dentures as a result], and he’d glaze his cars in an extra coat of home varnish. Seriously.
He died at 83, so had a good long life. And he had a good heart – he’d do anything for his children and grandchildren. He was very special to all of us, of course as he was family, but also because he was special. In a very eccentric way.
He’d make an impact on every person he met.
(Eccentricity isn’t something foreign in my family tree, as you may or may not have gathered.)
So you’ll be missed Baka. I am relieved for you that you’re in peace now, and I love you.
I am trying to ascertain whether I go down for his funeral this week, or the scattering of his ashes in January, when the whole family will be there. Either way, I will pay my respects to my loyal grandfather.
I can’t stop thinking about him and wondering where he is now. And if he knows we’re all thinking of him. And if he’s happier.
In other less sobering news, the Killers concert blew me away. They spoke to me man. The Killers is bittersweet music for me, I love all their stuff – both technofied and rockified.
However, I have listened to their songs on OCD repeat during amazingly happy times and where I have been so sad and grief-stricken, and somehow they’re the ones who pulled me through.
They played my favourite favourite - Jenny Was A Friend Of Mine, and This Is Your Life, and I went a little berserk, but they didn’t play On Top, which would’ve made the line-up 100% perfect.
Either way was great to go to a concert with Ant and Gilb and company, wear a shirt that says Buenos Fucking Aires - it’s a rock concert not a boardroom – and just let go a bit.
I didn’t know they were from Las Vegas, good God! They sound all North London, I mean come on!
‘That’s the point Peas,’ said Ant. ‘Britain discovered them before America did.’
Well blow me down with a feather. They even have the accents dialed. How did I miss that?
