A Geordie In Girona

On the back of Newcastle United winning the Carabao Cup in March, I had planned to write a follow-up to my previous post so I could rave about a Newcastle team who had finally ended a Wembley hoodoo that stretched back 70 painful years. I had also intended to mention my dad. He was fortunate enough to be at Wembley the last time they lifted a cup in 1955. Now in a care home, I didn’t want him to be alone on such an important day, so I had travelled back from Spain to watch the game with him. Sadly, my dad passed away in hospital just a few weeks after our cup success. He had lived a long and happy life but at 96 it was all becoming a struggle and I believe he only held out for as long as he did just so he could witness the club he loved finally lift another trophy. So, with his passing, there has been a change of plan – rather than writing about that glorious Sunday in March when Newcastle put their Wembley curse to bed, I shall be waxing lyrical about the life and times of a true gentleman instead, my wonderful father, James Hunter Alexander.

My dad was born on the 25^th February 1929 in Newcastle, the youngest of seven siblings. His mother, Isabella, was also the youngest of seven children, thus making my dad, quite incredibly, the seventh child of the seventh child. Could this mean he would grow up with wizard-like qualities? Who knows, but it seemed the script was already written for him to lead an extraordinary life full of magic and high achievement. ‘There was an Englishman, an Irishman and a Scotsman’ may sound like the beginning of a joke, but in the case of Isabella, my grandmother, it is actually an accurate description of her marital history – she was married three times, first to an Englishman, then an Irishman and finally to a Scotsman. The Englishman gave her Agnes, Tommy and Ernie, before sadly being killed in the First World War. The Irishman gave her Kathleen and Norah, before also perishing in the same conflict. Then the Scotsman, William, my grandad, came down to Newcastle from Scotland in a bid to find work. Needing somewhere to live, he lodged with Isabella who was struggling to bring up five children of varying ages. At some point sparks must have flown between the landlady and her new lodger – they tied the knot and Billy and my dad soon followed. The void of not having a father-figure in the house was filled once more.

My father was born just in time for the Great Depression, a period of severe economic downturn in the 1930s. Impacting the country’s manufacturing sector, it lead to high unemployment and caused widespread hardship. Needless to say, my dad didn’t have much when he was growing up. In fact, things were so bad for him that he couldn’t afford new shoes. He was forced to continue wearing the same pair even though his feet had outgrown them which led to him having toes that looked a bit squashed as an adult. He lived in Benwell just off the Scotswood Road. Back then, the Scotswood Road was a hive of activity with numerous factories and more than 50 pubs to cater for all of the thirsty workers. Nowadays, the landscape is completely different and only one of those pubs still remains. A number of streets ran parallel up the steep incline from the bottom of the Scotswood Road. My father told me that in the winter when it snowed, he would go sledging down these streets with his little friends. They had no way of stopping at the bottom of the hill and would go flying right over the Scotswood Road. It’s not something you could possibly do nowadays as there is a constant flow of traffic. However, back then my dad explained it wasn’t a problem since there were barely any cars on the road and you were more likely to crash into a horse if anything.

In 1939 the Second World War broke out and my father was evacuated because Newcastle, with its high concentration of factories, was seen as a potential target for Nazi bombing raids. Most children were evacuated to the Lake District to the west of the country, but it was decided that my father should go up to Kilmarnock in Scotland to live with his dad’s sister, Auntie Mary and her husband, whose surname, Hunter, had been given to my dad as a middle name. He would also spend a lot of time with his cousin, Joe, who was Mary’s son. Naturally, leaving his family behind and moving somewhere completely different was a huge thing for a 10 year old boy to deal with. It was made even harder for little Jimmy as he would find himself being the sole representative of England in a class full of Scottish children. This situation was made all the harder during Scottish history classes, particularly when the class heard about the heroic Robert the Bruce and his Scottish victory over the English at Bannockburn. The children, instantly recognising an opportunity to tease, turned to my dad and started laughing and chanting, “Bannockburn, Bannockburn.” Despite being the butt of a few jokes, my father soon settled in and became one of the stand-out students. He was 16 when the war ended in 1945 but, rather than returning to Newcastle, he continued his studies in Scotland. Highly intelligent and very good with figures, he excelled at school and would go on to study accountancy at Glasgow University. However, due to National Service – which was compulsory after the war – his studies were interrupted. He joined the RAF and served for two years, first in Norfolk and then in Lancashire, as a wireless engineer. Afterwards, he was able to go back to Scotland and complete his studies, becoming the first in his family to get a degree.

After qualifying, he moved back to Newcastle and soon found work as an accountant working for the Essoldo Cinema on the Westgate Road. He then went on to work for another firm of accountants in a building in Old Eldon Square which is still standing today. When I pass it, I often look up at his office and imagine my dad working away there as a 20-something in 1950s Newcastle. Upon his return, he went to live with his mother. She was now a widow and, as the rest of my dad’s siblings had married or had moved down south to London or nearby places, my father took it upon himself to make sure she was well looked after. First they lived in a high rise block of flats in Cruddas Park and then they moved to a newly built semi-detached house in Blakelaw. There was an indoor toilet and central heating so, compared to the house my dad was used to as a child growing up on the Scotswood Road, this felt like luxury.

As an avid Newcastle fan, he was lucky enough to be around during the cup glory years, travelling down to Wembley to witness them lift the FA Cup not once, not twice, but three times in ’51, ’52 and ’55. My dad also played football and was a member of Benburn Athletic – an amalgamation of two areas of Newcastle, Benwell and Denton Burn – playing on the right wing and regularly scoring goals. They were fairly successful at amateur level and my dad would occasionally show me the medals he won. He also told me about the time he broke his nose when he clattered into a goalpost after scoring a goal with a diving header. Not only a talented player, he was also the team secretary. This meant he was heavily involved in administering the day-to-day running of the club. If someone was injured and couldn’t play, he was notified by telephone and then he would have to tell one of the stand-by players they were playing in the next match. This wasn’t quite as easy as it sounded. Although there was a phone in his house, due to the fact he was secretary, nobody else had phones which meant that to notify one of the other lads they were playing, he would have to get a bus to their house to tell them face to face. If they weren’t in he would have to try and find them. If it was a Friday evening, the first place he would look was in their local boozer. If they were half-cut, my dad had to coax them out the bar and back home so they could sober up for the match the next day.

At some point in the early 1960s, my dad was offered the position of partner in a chartered accountancy firm. It was the opportunity of a lifetime but there was one slight drawback – it was in Sunderland. As a huge Newcastle fan, the prospect of working and being amongst mackems (Sunderland natives) might not have been particularly appealing, but it was too big an opportunity to turn down so he accepted. In later years, he would tell us that one of the clients he looked after was actually Sunderland Association Football Club. We would always joke with him, asking why he never sabotaged their books to make them go bust. As the swinging sixties was entering its Beatles phase, love would soon begin to blossom for one of Newcastle’s most eligible bachelors. In 1964 my dad met the love of his life, Marlene Elizabeth Morris. They met in the Hindu Temple on the West Road. You might think this was a strange place for two lovebirds to meet in the swinging sixties – and you’d be quite right. However, back then it wasn’t a Hindu Temple – it was a nightclub called the Millvain. In later life, we had some Asian friends at school whose parents frequented the very same Hindu Temple on a religious basis and we would often have a bit of banter with them, joking on how this was the place my parents met all of those years ago. Love didn’t blossom straightaway between my mam and dad. They were introduced by mutual friends but, at the end of the night, it was another blond piece – Joan her name was, or so my mother has told me on numerous occasions throughout the years – who my father gave a lift home to. Fortunately, a second encounter steadied the ship of love and it became clear that my dad only had eyes for the beautiful Marlene, and who can blame him!

Although there was quite an age gap between them – my dad was 34 and my mam was 20 – they were perfect for one another and fell in love. They courted for four years before finally getting hitched. By this time, my dad had saved enough money to buy a new house. During their courtship, my dad would often visit my mam at her house. She lived with her grandparents. They had moved in to take care of her after she had tragically lost her mother at 13 and her father when she was only six. Every time she brought a boy back, her grandad would end up chasing them away. Most of them didn’t even get past the front door. I suppose that after such a sad childhood he was just overly protective of his only granddaughter, probably terrified that some bloke would take advantage of her. Apparently my dad was the only one he would allow in the house. Even so, after a while he could be heard shouting through the walls into the front room, “Get those lights off and stop that slavering on!” My mam also remembers my dad’s mother with fondness, describing her as a lovely gentle woman. However, she recalls there were one or two teething problems to sort out and, during one of their early encounters, my gran said to the young Marlene over a pot of tea, “You’re a lovely lass pet, but you can’t make a decent cup of tea.” Inexperienced in the art of tea-making, it was left to my gran to show her how to prepare it the proper way – strong with just a dash of milk. After all of these years, my mother is still a dab hand when it comes to making tea and it’s all thanks to grandma Isabella for showing her the way.

On 11^th May 1968 they finally married and enjoyed a sun-kissed honeymoon in Mallorca. As mentioned, football was always a big part of my dad’s life. However, this had never been the case for my mother. Previously, there had been no talk of football in her house so she couldn’t understand why my dad was “so interested in watching all those blokes chasing around after a ball”. Over the years, her position has softened, probably due to the constant exposure of it in her life. And it didn’t take long for this exposure to start creeping in. Their wedding day clashed with the final match of a season that could still see either of the Manchester clubs winning the title. What made it particularly interesting for people from the North East was that Man City faced tenth-placed Newcastle United at St James’ Park and Man United were at home to bottom-half Sunderland. Going into the match, City were level on points with neighbours United. City held the advantage on goal difference but still needed to win to be sure of staying above their cross-city rivals. Anyway, the honeymooners, who were due to fly out to Mallorca the following day, were settling into their first night of wedded bliss in their room. Staying at the Gosforth Park Hotel, a top venue back in the day, my dad was sat there in his element – he was glued to the television eagerly watching the day’s football unfold on Match of the Day. Meanwhile, my mam was enjoying the silver tray tea service my dad had cunningly ordered at reception a little while earlier. Along with a beautiful pot of tea, there were also plates full of sandwiches and other fancies, all kept under large silver cloches which are those dome things you would see in fancy restaurants to keep the food fresh. Although the moment would mark the first of a million football-based interruptions in their marriage, my mother didn’t mind one bit – with service like this, she was in her element as well! For anyone interested in the football, Man City won 4–3 at St James’ and Man United lost 2–1 to Sunderland so the title went to City.

After getting married, children soon followed. First there was my brother Jonathan in 1970, then myself in 1974 and finally Richard in 1977. My childhood was a very happy one and I couldn’t have asked for a better father. Not in the slightest bit domesticated – which goes a long way to explaining my grandma’s eagerness to brush up my mam’s tea-making skills – he would come in from a long day at work and, after eating a dinner my mam had prepared, he would help to put us to bed and read us a bedtime story. As we got older, he would help us with our homework, patiently going over maths problems which I particularly struggled with. As kids, we never wanted for anything and every summer he would take the whole family on holiday, staying in the most wonderful hotels along the Mediterranean. One year it would be Torremolinos in Spain, then the next it would be the Algarve in Portugal, then Mallorca, Corfu, Tenerife, Rhodes, and even Dubrovnik in Yugoslavia in 1987 before it became Croatia after the war.

My father had been a keen golf player but, as a married man, it was a pastime he would have to sacrifice as he found himself having to dedicate more and more of his time to his family. One pastime he would never sacrifice, however, was going to watch Newcastle United play at St James’ Park, an activity he continued to do every other Saturday when the Magpies were at home. Newcastle was in his blood and I don’t suppose that it comes as any surprise that this love for the club would be instilled in his three sons either. When we were old enough he bought us all season tickets. I remember some of my happiest childhood memories being sat with him in the East Stand in the 1980s, watching the likes of Kevin Keegan, Chris Waddle, Peter Beardsley and Paul Gascoigne. I instantly fell in love with Newcastle and everything related to the matchday experience. Before the match, my dad would treat me to a big bag of sweets and at half-time he would get me a Bovril. I loved watching the game and I loved the passion that spilled out from the terraces and on to the pitch. Although following the club has brought me many years of heartache, that feeling of love for Newcastle United has never withered. Just like for my dad, Newcastle United will always be in my blood.

With relations in Scotland, Newcastle and down south in the London area, Dad’s family was very important to him. It was his big sister, my Auntie Norah, and her family who we seemed to have the most contact with. She was a good bit older than him and had moved down south to a place called Welwyn Garden City. Every year, my dad, with us three boys sat in the back of the car, would make the pilgrimage down to Norah’s. As soon as we passed the Tyne Bridge just outside of Newcastle, there would be cries of, “Are we nearly there yet?” From our many visits to her house, what is clear is that Auntie Norah loved having her young brother and his family staying with her. She pulled out all of the stops and spoiled us all rotten. Every morning she would get up and make us the most incredible fry-ups which included bacon, sausages, fried eggs, fried tomatoes, mushrooms and fried bread. And there was always plenty left-over for seconds which her nephews – whose eyes were much bigger than their bellies – would never turn down. Her Sunday dinners were also the stuff of legend with Yorkshire puddings, meat and vegetables for as far as the eye could see. I also remember that in the evenings, it would get to a certain time and then Uncle Ken, Norah’s hubby, would suggestively say, “Fancy a brandy Norah?” in his broad southern accent. It became something of a catchphrase and my two brothers and I would use it to impersonate him for many years to come. Quite partial to a drop of the good stuff was my Auntie Norah, and an incredibly kind host to her greedy little nephews as well.

As the years went on, my dad found himself having to spend more and more time dealing with his business in Sunderland. Eventually, he took over the company completely when his partner, who’d invited him to join the firm in the 60s, retired. This led to him having to work later in the evenings and, occasionally, he would have to work Saturdays as well, but only if Newcastle weren’t playing at home, obviously. Eventually, the time came for my father to retire as well. He managed to successfully sell the business, but even so, he would still continue to work for another year or so to ensure client-retention and a smooth transition for the new owners. The money from the sale of his business meant my parents were able to move into their dream home in the Ponteland area. It was a wonderful place and had a river in the back garden with stepping stones to get from one side to the other. One drunken night instantly springs to mind which involved me falling into the river after slipping off the stepping stones. However, I think we should leave that story for another day.

Their new home was the ideal setting for my father to enjoy what was a long and happy retirement. My youngest brother, Richard, had two little boys, Bobby and Albie, and my dad’s eyes always lit up when his grandchildren came to pay him a visit. As a keen reader, crossword puzzle-doer and master of sudoku, he enjoyed anything that kept his mind fit and agile. He took up the hefty challenge of learning French with the Open University and gained numerous certificates and diplomas along the way. Always a physically active man, my father played badminton every Friday night with a group of like-minded souls. He also took up the gym, visiting three times a week. He tried to drag my mother along – almost 15 years his junior – but she was never as keen as him to lift weights and make use of the treadmill. He remained very active for many years but an operation for bowel cancer in his mid-80s resulted in his confidence taking a hit. His days at the gym and playing badminton would come to an end, as would his visits to St James’ to cheer on his beloved Newcastle United.

During retirement, my dad also took my mother on lots of fantastic holidays to some wonderful destinations. They went to China and enjoyed a cruise along the majestic Yangtze River. They visited the place where the Terracotta Army is housed and also did a bit of a walk along the Great Wall of China. On another occasion, they went to Italy visiting the beautiful Lake Garda, as well as Florence and Venice. During his French learning days, they went to Provence in the South of France to take part in a French course with other British people. The idea was that everybody had to speak French all the time but my mother constantly broke the rules because she could only speak English so it kind of mucked things up a bit. Another of their top holidays was their visit to Egypt. With a cruise down the Nile and visits to Cairo and the Great Pyramids, it truly was a dream holiday. You only have to look at the photo below to see how much fun they had!

It was my parents’ 50^th wedding anniversary in 2018 so my mam, dad, Jonathan and I – my younger brother, Richard, had tragically died the previous year – spent a few days in the Lake District to celebrate this wonderful moment. We stayed at the Daffodil Hotel, a magical place that took its name from the famous Wordsworth poem. We visited the picturesque village of Grasmere on numerous occasions which was only a stone’s throw away. We paid a visit to Windermere and took a boat trip onto the lake. We also visited Pooley Bridge and enjoyed another boat trip on Lake Ullswater.  One of the highlights was our visit to Dove Cottage which you may know used to be the residence of William Wordsworth, the Poet Laurette of England from 1843 until his death in 1850. This fantastic place is now a museum and it was wonderful to see where he used to live. Afterwards, we had a look in the gift shop and my father, as he so often used to do, bought a book. It was a book of Wordsworth’s poems. Outside, I was having a leaf through it and turned to the page of the only poem of his I’d heard of – that one about the daffodils which inspired the name for the hotel we were staying at. Just for the crack, I began to read it, “I wandered lonely as a cloud”. My father immediately joined in, “That floats on high o’er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host of golden daffodils.” By the third or fourth line, I stopped reading out loud and was simply listening, following the words on the page in silence, as he recited the entire poem word for word. Afterwards, Dad explained that he’d learnt the poem at school. I was amazed to think that this 89 year old man could still remember every single cherished word of a poem that he’d memorised as a small boy. My dad always had a razor sharp memory. Famously, he could recite every state in the USA alphabetically. But here is the twist – when I say alphabetically I mean alphabetically backwards, so he would start at the end with “Wyoming, Wisconsin, West Virginia” and plough through the lot of them, before finishing with “Arizona, Alaska and Alabama”. Naturally we would all be amazed by this feat: it’s one thing to be able to recite all of the states of the USA but to do it backwards, and without any pauses, was just flipping incredible in my eyes – I find it hard enough just trying to say the alphabet backwards!

For someone who had such an impressive brain, it was sad to see it slowly diminish in the latter stages of his life. His memory was getting shorter and we were finding that he was repeating the same questions over and over, unable to retain information. His bowel cancer operation also affected him on a mental level. He became more and more obsessed with the toilet, refusing to go out on short trips as he wanted to be closer to his own toilet. Physically, he was also becoming quite frail and mobility issues meant he struggled to get around. The last couple of years were especially difficult and, with my mother unable to cope with looking after him at home, health officials made the decision to put him into a residential home. He was taken to Kirkwood Court where he was looked after superbly by the carers and staff there who work under such difficult circumstances, both physically and emotionally. I would like to thank them for everything they did for my dad. Our family is so grateful to them and their good work will never be forgotten. Dad was taken to the Royal Victoria Infirmary in Newcastle at the start of April, suffering from pneumonia. Due to his age and weak condition, he wasn’t able to fight it for long and, sadly, he took his final breath on Saturday 5^th April. He passed away peacefully, holding the hand of the woman he loved.

Since his death, life has been manic. Anyone who has suffered a bereavement in the family will know there is so much to do. Some of the main tasks I’ve been involved with include; obtaining the death certificate, liaising with the funeral directors, sorting out catering, talking to the solicitor about the will, cancelling my father’s pensions, bank accounts and credit cards, putting all the utilities and direct debits in my mother’s name, checking the household finances and also looking through the entire collection of our old family photo albums to make some beautiful collages of my father which were displayed around the White Swan in Dinnington, the venue where everyone met up after his funeral. It’s been non-stop really and that sensation has only just ended over the past few days, now that the funeral is out of the way. The funeral company have been first class throughout the entire process. They made it much less stressful than it might have been otherwise, so I would like to thank everyone at WS Harrison, especially Jerry who we dealt with all the time and also Mandy on reception, for their wonderful support. During the funeral service, I would have liked to have stood up in front of everyone to say something about my dad. However, I knew I would be a shambles on the day. Therefore, I feel very grateful that my cousin Joyce – Auntie Norah’s daughter – was able to make such a wonderful and heartwarming contribution on the day on behalf of the family.

When there is a death and it is somebody who is very close to you, it makes you reevaluate aspects of your own existence and also makes you contemplate the meaning of life. My dad, for example, lived for 96 long years. Then one day he just stopped breathing and that was the end of it – almost a century of life finished just like that. It makes you think what the point is to it all. What happens next? Where is my dad now? What is he doing? I think it’s best not to ponder too much about this sort of thing because we’ll never get any of the answers until we die anyway. As for the grief we feel after a bereavement, it can hit us all in different ways and much of it depends on circumstances. For my father, there was a gradual deterioration that began about a decade ago. Due to his condition and age, we knew his death was coming at some point. His quality of life was only getting worse so rather than it being a tragic event, his passing meant an end to his suffering – in many ways, it was a relief that his life was over and he was finally at peace. I’m so pleased I managed to fly back and be with him to witness Newcastle lifting a cup again after such a long trophy drought. The joy and emotion we shared is something I will cherish forever. I’m also pleased I flew back again a few short weeks later to be with him at the time of his passing. I got there just a couple of hours before he died. It wasn’t long but it gave me time to say what I needed to say, which was basically “thank you for everything”. He’s gone now but he’ll never be forgotten. I will always carry him in my heart and I know he will always guide me. He did everything right in life. Whenever I find myself in a difficult situation, I will always think of what my dad would do and I’m sure that will be more than enough to steer me in the right direction. As the seventh child of the seventh child, it is no wonder his life was so long, happy and sprinkled with so many moments of magic. A witty man, an intelligent man, entirely selfless and always interested in others, he was kind, generous, trustworthy and, with a twinkle in his eye, great company to be around.

Ask anyone what they thought of him and they’ll all say the same thing – quite simply, he was a nice man.