This will be The Final Post for the DadLadTour blog.

Fret not, dear reader. It won’t be the final post. As in the last one, no more to follow. But this is The Final Post. Confused? Then read on and all might  – probably not, as I’m a tad emotional as I write this – become clear.

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It is currently just after 6 A.M. on Saturday 7^th June 2025. One of our mutts, Luna, woke me shortly before 5 by scratching at the bedroom door. I got up to let her out but Luna didn’t want to go outside, she wanted feeding. Now, I steadfastly refuse to feed the mutts until at least half-five, and I persuaded her to go back to bed. Which she did…for a short while.

Then, a few minutes before six, she recommenced with her annoying scratching on the door. Unable to get back to sleep, and with yesterday’s events tumbling through my mind, I succumbed to the inevitable and got up to feed her. Ah, the joys of dog-ownership.

So here I am, wide awake. Luna has munched her breakfast and has taken herself back to bed for a few more hours. While the rest of the house sleeps on, I sit at my laptop with a cuppa cawfee beside me and tap away at the keys.

I’m going be honest with you in a moment…

You’ve read a few of these blog posts – you have read some, haven’t you? – and, subsequently, I feel we’ve got to know each other a little. Because of this close bond we’ve now formed, if I can’t be frank and honest with you, my growing band of readers and subscribers*, then who can I bare my soul to? 

(*Last count…there was six of you.)

Here’s the honesty bit…

For the past few weeks I had been dreading the arrival of yesterday. Friday 6^th June was an occasion that could – fuck it*, should – have taken so many, many, many more years to arrive. It was a day that I never imagined having to undertake. A day that I never want to go through again but, as will inevitably happen, I will have to.

(*Apologies for the cussing. Old habit – one I am trying hard to break, mostly unsuccesfully – but some things, without a good-old cuss word to accompany them, cannot be adequately emphasised.)

Now, I’m a grown man, reasonably mature (?? Ha!) in attitude and nature – well, as mature as any bloke can be, for we all retain a slightly immature side to us. Don’t we? I’m not far off sixty-years-of-age but, despite my pretence at having cracked adulthood and being all grown-up, yesterday I wept like a child. For yesterday, I said farewell to a good friend – no, scrub that, Phil was a great friend – of forty-six-years standing. You may have read my previous blog post in which Phil appeared. If you haven’t? Why not? It is golden stuff. Go and take a peak at it immediately and then return here to continue reading today’s nugget of gold.

While you pop off and do as your told, I’m going to digress a little from the subject of Phil. But I will return to Phil and, as promised at the start of this piece, The Final Post, in a few paragraphs.

A few things managed to distract me from the approaching sadness of a close friend’s funeral. These came mainly in the form of The Lionesses. (Hoorah!, you shout with glee, he’s back to the football at last!) It’s funny how the Women’s Game (notice the capitalisation I have afforded the term?) has buoyed me throughout my travails in recent years. I thought my love of football had gone forever but England Women in particular, along with Manchester United Women (MUWFC) and the WSL in general, have brought life back to a part of me that I long believed had withered.

And so, as yesterday drew closer – and, along with it the Euros and our forthcoming DadLadTour trip – I was kept occupied by Lioness type stuff. 

The first thing to distract me was Mary “Queen of Stops” Earps announcing her immediate retirement from international football. That was a stunning bit of news to absorb on a wet Tuesday morning. The announcement, coming so close to a major tournament, left England fans, and followers of the women’s game in general, in something of a shocked state. I suspect we will discover more in the future about why Mary chose to leave at this particular time. But, for now, it leaves England with a gaping twenty-four-feet* wide hole to fill. Hannah Hampton is the next in line as England’s No.1 – and the current favourite of Sarina Wiegman; a key part, I am sure, in Earps’s decision – but she has only played 13 times for her country. The backup keepers, Khiara Keating and Anna Moorhouse, have a combined tally of zero (0, zilch, nada) senior caps between them. As a Lionesses fan, this is more than a trifle worrying to me.

(*The regulation width of a goalmouth. Trust me, I Googled it.)

That aside, the girls played brilliantly last Friday night at Wembley and romped to a 6-0 thrashing of Portugal in the Nations League. Lauren Hemp and Alex Greenwood made their long-awaited returns after knee surgery, both players’ performances boding well for England as the Euros come closer. Aggie Beever-Jones netted her first hat-trick at international level and could have had a couple more. Chloe Kelly, still one of my absolute faves after her Euro22 Final shenanigans, came off the bench to score with a lovely header from a glorious cross supplied by the ever creative Hemp, who showed she has not lost any of her magic following her injury. Such was the dominance of England that Hannah Hampton was unable to showcase her talents – and begin to allay my fears – in this new post-Earps era.

That victory set up a “winner takes top spot” clash with Spain. The Lionesses played well in the first-half and led thanks to a goal from Alessia Russo on her 50^th cap. The second-half saw Spain demonstrate just why they are the current world-champions, and one of the front-runners for Euro2025 success. They simply blew England away with a brilliant display full of flair, superb technical ability, sublime skill and finesse. Spain are, quite frankly, terrifying to play against. They are sensational. They make you – almost – wish you were Spanish. At the end Spain should have won by a bigger scoreline than 2-1.

Immediately after that match, Fran Kirby announced that, like Earps, she was retiring with immediate effect from the international game. Kirby’s announcement did not have quite the same devastating impact as that of Mary’s, as her gradual drift to the outer edges of England selection has been a year or two in the making. But, still, Fran’s experience, attitude and passion will be a huge miss.

Then….duh, duh, duh….on Wednesday came news that Millie Bright was withdrawing herself from contention for the Lionesses squad for Switzerland. Another seismic shock! The news was just as stunning as Earps’s revelation from a week earlier. The Chelsea defender had already withdrawn from the squad for the games against Portugal and Spain in order to focus on her mental health. And so, with that news, The Lionesses are now without one of the best defenders in the game for Euro2025. I hope that this is not the end for Millie and that she returns, hale and hearty, to the game as soon as possible.

And then, on Thursday, Sarina revealed the squad of twenty-three players that she hopes will retain England’s title at Euro2025. Bright’s self-imposed omission means that Maya Le Tissier – the captain of my own MUWFC – makes the squad. It is my opinion that, had Bright been going to Switzerland, then, despite Le Tissier’s quality, skill and calmness on the ball, she would not have made the cut.

Meanwhile, the new kits that The Lionesses will wear in Switzerland were announced. And very nice they look too….I have ordered the home kit with “KELLY” and her squad number. Whilst the players have been announced, their squad numbers have not yet. These will be revealed much closer to the tournament. Hopefully my shirt arrives from www.Foudys.com before #SonInLawNo1 and I set off on our DadladTour adventure.

All these Lioness goings-on, along with a few decorating projects and my continued work on the design and build of a desk and bookcases and the fitting out of an office for #DaughterNo1 and #SonInLawNo1, kept my mind from yesterday and Phil.

So, as promised, we are now getting close to The Final Post bit.

Sarah (#WifeNo1) and I, along with Verity (another of Phil’s friends from decades back) journeyed down from Yorkshire to Bedfordshire for his funeral yesterday. I chose to sit in the back of the car while Sarah drove and Verity rode shotgun. I knew that the girls would spend the entire journey – roughly three hours each way – chatting constantly. Now, I love #WifeNo1 quite a bit and I truly value the friendship of Verity, but I also need some “quiet time” on journeys. Also, I have a reputation for being grumpy to maintain and carefully nurture; I am not called GrumpPa without good cause.

So, by sitting in the back, I could put on the noise-cancelling Bluetooth headphones that I wear when using power tools, and pass the journey in a world of solitude while listening to our old friend* Odysseus as he struggles to get back home to Ithaca. (* See several previous gems from this blog.) It was the peace and calm I desperately needed ahead of the funeral to come.

I know of a couple of boys from our school-year group who have died. There was Nigel who died around twenty-years ago. He was only in his mid-thirties and, as with Phil, cancer took him very quickly. There was also Andrew who, I believe, succumbed to complications from diabetes about eight, or so, years back. But Phil is the first of my school-friends to go. And so, yesterday, was the first funeral I have attended for someone of both my own age and friendship group. And, boy, did it hurt.

On entering the crematorium for the service, two screens at the front displayed a picture of Phil from his days in the Royal Marines. My, Phil was a handsome chap! He looked so proud to be wearing his uniform, that famous green beret atop his head, his cheeky grin staring out at you. From the angle Phil is stood at, you can just make out a badge on his right shoulder. The green badge, with its golden wings and silver parachute, indicates Phil was, not only a Marine and a member of 45 Commando, but he was a specialist parachutist. Phil completed 87 jumps despite being terrified of heights; I’m told he hated every one of the 87.

A number of Phil’s Marine buddies came yesterday. Each proudly wearing a discreet silver pin in the shape of a dagger; the emblem of the Royal Marines. Old school friends who, like Phil, joined up, came to say goodbye, their membership of the Parachute Regiment subtly displayed. Each one thankful, like me, to have had Phil in their lives.

Zulu Company, Phil’s mob, was a specialist Arctic warfare unit. His love of skiing was born there and he, and Nick, enjoyed many skiing trips thereafter. Nick spoke eloquently – often through tears – about Phil and, with his words, he brought some light and laughter as we remembered our dear friend.

I met Dip, Phil’s wife who he married in his final days, for the first, and probably, only time. She’s a lovely lady. I also met, E and D, his children. E, Phil’s daughter, looks so much like her father. His son, D, stood tall and proud, just like Phil.

And so, we come to the much vaunted and promised Final Post.

As the service neared its end, and as befits a departed serviceman, the Last Post was played. Now, I have heard this played on countless previous occasions. I am the son of a soldier, the grandson of an airman, and the great-grandson of a sailor, and hearing this tune always brings a sense of great pride and gratitude to me. Each hearing has been solemn and beautiful and I cannot help but be moved by the dignity of the music.

But, yesterday’s version was the most moving, beautiful and perfect I have ever heard. It was played by another ex-Marine, a cousin of Phil’s, and towards the end of his playing, a few of the notes wobbled slightly. He was emotional and was struggling to play to the end. But, ever the Royal Marine, he did. And he did Phil proud. His playing ended and silence fell. A silence broken by the bugler’s sobs.

At the wake, three large boards stood on easels. Each board crammed with photographs from Phil’s life. In every picture, Phil’s cheeky face peeps you at you, his eyes glinting with mischief and glee. I spot a photo of Phil wearing our old school athletics kits – white shorts and a white vest with a broad horizontal red stripe across the chest. I smile as I look at the image; I had completely forgotten that sports kit over the intervening four decades. Like Phil, I had too had the same kit.

There is another of him from around the same time. In this second photograph, he is dressed in the blue and red kit of the school rugby team. Both photographs show Phil – presumably at around 11 years of age – proudly wearing his new kits. I assume his mother, as every parent does, took the snaps at the start of Phil’s first year at grammar school. That would date them to the autumn of 1979.

Phill is thin in these schoolboy photos, all elbows and knotted string for legs. Other pictures show him as a young man, a Royal Marine. He’d filled out a bit by that time and, in today’s parlance, he looks buff. Fit, healthy and good looking. A handsome man. We move on to later photos in which, as we all have, Phil has gained a few extra pounds. He is surrounded by friends and family. In every picture, Phil’s cheeky face smiles at you.

Then I see the most recent photographs. One is from his wedding to Dip just a week before he died. Phil, due to the cancer, is once again the skinny lad I knew from school. And this image breaks my heart all over again.

There are a few more pictures of Phil since his diagnosis last December on those three boards. In every one of these he is smiling or doing something daft. A peg on his nose for some strange reason; wearing a daft woolly hat, some sort of odd smock and zip-up slippers while standing in his kitchen. His irrepressible cheekiness and zest for life obvious; never a hint of the pain he must have endured.

The photos bring me joy. I can remember some of these times. And those memories gladden me. I am determined to leave strict notes for similar boards to be shown when it is my time to stump up for a cold buffet for my many, many, many* mourners. (* Probably just those six subscribers I mentioned earlier.)

I want #GrandDaughterNo1 to be able to ask her Dada, Liam (aka #SonInLawNo1), questions about why I am stood by a lakeside in an England shirt, wearing my work ear-defenders/headphones and a goofy grin. I want Liam to be able to tell her it was taken when her GrumpPa and her Dada went to Switzerland on a boy’s adventure in the summer of 2025, and her Dada snapped GrumpPa beside the shore of Lake Geneva as he listened happily to “Smoke On The Water” by Deep Purple.

You probably won’t have seen the 1991 film, “Once Around”, starring Richard Dreyfuss, Holly Hunter and Danny Aiello. It is not an especially well known movie but it is a lovely film and, in it, Aiello’s character sings a beautiful version of “Fly Me To The Moon”. Since seeing the film, that song has long been a favourite of mine and one that I happily murder from time to time.

“Fly Me To The Moon” was playing as we left the service. Now I will forever think of Phil whenever I hear it. I’ll play that tune, too, as I stand beside Geneva’s lake in one month’s time.

And I’ll smile and give thanks that I knew Phil and that I was lucky enough to go once around with him.