Do you ever go through one of
those phases when you seem to be dragging the black tie out of the wardrobe
with monotonous regularity? It seems to
have been a bit of a theme lately for me.
At one time I used to issue a plea, to whoever's in charge, not to have
to use the tie again, until it dawned on me the only way this would happen
would be if they were drawing the curtain around me and playing the sombre
music. I'm not quite ready for that yet.
Not that I suspect anyone is
really 'ready for it'. In fact, if
anyone ever dares say, as I'm watching the dying of the light, "well, he's
had a good innings", I hereby promise to leap up and beat them to a pulp
with my remaining strength. After all,
what is a 'good innings'? 70? 80? 100? All I know is, whatever I end up with, it
won't be enough.
There have been three notable departures
in December. Of these, the one that
particularly surprised and saddened me was on New Year's Eve, when a good
friend of mine left the building at the tender age of 58. It was this that really made me stop and
think.
Andy had a long and respected
career with a local newspaper, rising to Acting Editor. He was a well-known writer on local sport and
music and was an enthusiast for both. Others
can talk about these areas of his life with considerably more authority than
me, and have, elsewhere.
I came to know Andy when we were
part of the group that set up the Burton Poetry Society, which evolved into a
thing called Valve, back in the early 1970s.
Quite how I came to meet up with Andy, and his best friend, Nick, I
really can't remember. Confusingly, they
called each other Jim and Tom respectively, which foxed me for a while. They were hippies, at a time when being a
hippy was still very unusual in Burton.
I admired them hugely for daring to be different, but also for their
enthusiasm and for their ability to see the silliness in everyday life.
Valve grew from a letter they
penned to the local paper (the same one that Andy would eventually work for),
in which they despaired of Burton as a cultural wasteland, and bemoaned the
lack of anything for young people to do.
Unusually, they actually proposed to do something about it, and the
result was a packed meeting in a back room of The Wyggeston Hotel. It was a testament to Andy's ability to make
things happen, that he managed to get the management of The Wyggy (and later,
The Compasses in Wellington Street) to give up a room for the use of aspiring poets,
musicians, hippies, failed hippies and students. I belonged to the last two categories. Neither
pub was exactly known for being at the cutting edge of culture, nor could they
realistically have hoped to enjoy a huge increase in sales from a bunch that
could easily make half a pint last all night…between them. I would have just given up without trying, but
Andy made it a reality. If he believed
in a thing, he failed to see why it shouldn't happen, and I admired that.
Valve grew and developed over
time, and the audience waxed and waned, but Andy was always there at the centre
of it, brimming with enthusiasm and good humour. We drifted apart, as the
forces of earning a living and making your way in life acted upon us, but I
always watched his career with interest, particularly as he had achieved his
dream of writing for a living. When my
first book was published, Andy was, as always, hugely enthusiastic and his
review in the paper was typically generous and encouraging. When I met him, for what turned out to be the
last time, late last year, he was clearly ill, but had lost none of his
enthusiasm and interest. I rather think
we need more Andys in this world, not less.
In fond memory of Andy Parker, a good friend, enthusiast, talented
writer and all round nice chap.
