Bodyguard

by Craig Summers

  The funeral was Tuesday 6 April. My daughters and Sue were over – they went straight to see Dad before they sealed the coffin. The Spaniards often leave the lid off or open but that wasn’t for me. Kate went in first but came out bawling. Walking down the aisle, Charlotte said she didn’t think she could do it either.

  ‘Don’t worry about it; you can,’ I consoled her. ‘You just have to remember Dad as he was. He doesn’t look any different. Just come with me.’

  I held her, walking forward to the coffin. She looked inside, saw him, and turned around in tears. ‘I can’t do it, Dad,’ she cried.

  That just left me to say goodbye for the last time. I didn’t linger. I couldn’t. In some ways it was easier to leave this time, because the girls needed me outside. That gave me the reason not to spend any more time than I needed to. One thing remained consistent with all the bodies that I had seen, even though this was different. There was nothing more to say. Nothing was bringing him back. I said farewell, then followed the girls out.

  I didn’t know how to behave – death was all about organisation, filing a report and putting recommendations for next time. I had never seen it as something close to home.

  Kate wrote a poem that she wanted to read with Charlotte, I somehow composed a eulogy that I didn’t realise I was capable of, and between us, we all figured out Dad would only want to go out to the sound of Johnny Mathis. Different generation!

  I got talking to Mum’s brother, Graham – a decent, salt of the earth guy who once had trials with Wolves. He looked up to my dad – we filled the void chatting, and he told me more than Dad ever did really, explaining how Mum and Dad got together, even recalling their first date. It took me back to how Sue and I met while I was on leave from Ireland, in the Nelson pub in Poole, Dorset.

  There was time to kill before the funeral. Fifty locals of similar age to Dad were coming. I sorted the money behind the bar. I needed it over. I decided to go for a run to get it out of my system, loading up the Springsteen to clear my head. It was an odd thing to do, but I was so unused to a funeral in a personal capacity.

  Dad wouldn’t have wanted suits, so I insisted on smart casual and took the lead. Outside the church, dozens of friends of his, who had made up Little England along the Spanish coastline, all came to pay respects. I recognised many from the bar. They probably knew that this day would be theirs soon enough but it told me he was well liked and that made me happy. To make the move out here so late in life and then for Dad’s life to have been unhappy was no way to go. I hoped he would have called these the best years of his life.

  It was a strange conveyor belt process. A Spanish family were in an adjacent chapel at the same time burying their own. Sue sat with Mum on the front row. Misty was playing in the background. After a few words from the resident English vicar, it was my turn to deliver the eulogy. I didn’t do this kind of thing. I delivered safety briefings and shouted a lot in tense situations. I wasn’t the kind of guy to whisper gentle thoughts. Out of my comfort zone, all I cared about was not letting Dad down.

  John Lawrence Bigham Summers was born in Ardrossan Scotland on the 11th of the 11th in 1930.

  John was one of nine children born to Mary and Joseph and spent the early part of his life in Scotland, where after leaving school he worked on the farm looking after horses.

  At the age of 18 John went into National service where he completed his two years’ service with the Royal Artillery stationed in the UK. John realised that the army held a future for him and he decided to enlist full time back into the Royal Artillery.

  John’s potential as a sportsman shone through and he soon passed his PT exam to become the unit instructor. John loved his sport and played rugby, hockey, football and almost anything with a ball!

  While serving overseas in Hong Kong he decided along with his mates to send off for pen friends and this is where Doreen came into the equation, forever the young, suave good-looking PT instructor with his film star looks, as he told everyone! The photo captured Doreen’s heart and the letters quickly flowed over a period of three years, before they eventually met for their first date. It was love at first sight for both of them and they were married in 1955 after a whirlwind romance.

  The next few years were spent in Malaya, Germany, which included seeing active service twice in Cyprus and Malaya.

  During that time Doreen gave birth to their son, Craig, born in 1960.

  John’s military service came to an end in 1972 after an exemplary career of twenty-two years.

  John and Doreen decided then to settle in Essex, with their son Craig, where John worked for the Post Office and then BT over the next eighteen years.

  John still kept himself busy after retiring at the age of sixty. John and Doreen kept travelling the world on holidays which they both enjoyed. They returned to places that John had served in his military career to show Doreen what it was like. He also loved meeting up with his old buddies at reunions.

  John was still active and enjoyed his golf and watching sports as often as Doreen would allow!

  In 2001 they both moved to Spain for the sunshine and the laid-back lifestyle of which they both took full advantage of until early 2005 when John was diagnosed with cancer. This was a blow to them both and affected their way of life and travel.

  However, John the fighter did not show any signs of pain or let anyone know how he was feeling and the strength of the man was slowly wilting. Doreen was also fussing around him, which she is famous for with everyone, and as the years went by John slowly got worse.

  In Dec 2009 he was taken to the hospital with pneumonia and a heart attack, which he pulled through and soon returned home to his loving wife.

  Time was running out for this straight talking, good-looking man who told it as it was, and I believe he knew his end was near when he asked Doreen to renew their marriage vows.

  And on April the first 2010 the big man could not fight any more and passed away peacefully.

  John leaves his wife Doreen, son Craig and his wife Sue, and five grandchildren.

  Kate and Charlotte followed, each reading half a poem. I was relieved it was over and took my place back in the front row. I was on a different sort of auto pilot to normal, wanting it finished but desperate to do it justice. I glossed over the prayers – those were for Dad and meant nothing to me. I may have changed my perspective on death, but I had seen too much for Dad’s passing to show me the door to an afterlife or a religious re-birth. That was all nonsense to me.

  Before I knew it, ‘Time to say Goodbye’ was on and it was the moment to leave. There would be another one along in a minute. That was how it was. We all filed out, leaving the coffin behind, then with great relief hit the bar. I said a few more words, thanked everyone for coming, and toasted my dad.

  I was knackered, and didn’t want to go through that again soon. Almost as light relief, we found Arsenal getting hammered by Barcelona in the Champions League on a TV in the next room. I asked Mum if she minded if we watched. Most of the blokes followed, and the woman stayed as one. You can justify everything by saying it’s what Dad would have wanted, but if he had been there he would have had the game on. Of course, it took our minds off things. By half one in the morning, we called time on a long day. Tomorrow was another day.

  I took Sue and the girls to the airport and spent the next twenty-four hours sorting out more paperwork, returning home on the Friday. It had been an exhausting, expensive few days.

  And I knew I hadn’t mourned properly. On my wall at home I hung his medals. Every picture that I would never normally glance at stared back at me. What were once passing thoughts dominated my mind. If Dad were still alive, I should have said a few things – after I split from my first wife I felt that they had taken her side. I regretted that now and wished I could put that right. I loved him more in death than in life, but then don’t we all? If I had my time again, I would have found a way to love him in life, too.

  SOUTH AFRICA

  I tried to th
row myself back in to work. It wasn’t right though. Normally, I would be relishing a major football tournament overseas. The loss of Dad and Big Brother watching me at work had taken the gloss of things and by the time the departure day of 3 June came, Sue’s and my prediction about both our dads had come true. Sue’s dad passed away the night before.

  Two in two months.

  He was a typical no-nonsense working-class man, the father of nine. Life was pit, pub, dinner and sleep, taking Sue’s mum out once a week. That was how it was. I got on very well with him – probably because I saw a lot of my dad in him. My relationship with them was also so much better than with my first wife’s parents – they always felt she could do better than me.

  Sue spent the last days with him. It was obvious the end was near, and so strange that both men went at the same time.

  ‘I genuinely want you to go,’ Sue said to me as she broke the news while I was packing for South Africa. She was upset, but it was his time. He was eighty-seven. I never really know with Sue if she means stuff like that or if she wants me to drop everything and head up to Mansfield.

  ‘I will be back for the funeral,’ I promised. So I told work that I would have to make several trips, and headed the next day to Heathrow to fly to Cape Town. At Terminal Five, things went from bad to worse – of all the days to find I was in Economy! There were so many of us flying out that day that the plane was packed. In total, the BBC flew nearly 300 people to South Africa. With my Gold Card, I had managed to pick my seat, though. The only way to do this, I thought, was more leg room at the bulk head seat and a few drinks all the way to South Africa. Grim, but beyond my control.

  I had passed through immigration when my phone rang. It was the floor manager from Match of the Day. ‘Where are you, Craig?’ Chris White asked. ‘We’re in Wetherspoons – come and join us.’ I found him there with a couple of the assistant producers. Everyone seemed to be thinking the same – down a few to knock you out for the flight.

  ‘Why don’t we use my lounge access and have a few freebies in the Business Lounge?’ I warmed to the theme. We were flying out of B gate – I knew there was a lounge up there. We chewed the fat, waiting to be called, and sunk our pints. Whitey had six weeks at the World Cup, then was flying straight on to Scotland for the Open. Finally, they called us – I was dreading the eleven hours in Economy. We decided to down one final beer. I didn’t do Economy.

  ‘Help me, help me,’ I suddenly heard as I was coming down the stairs out of the bar area.

  Down below was a BA employee with his mouth jammed tightly. It looked straightaway like he was having an epileptic fit. I handed Whitey my bag and rushed to help. ‘Have you called for paramedics?’ I asked the other BA staff. ‘We need to stop him swallowing his tongue or biting it off. I need something to prize his mouth open.’

  The BA girl handed me a plastic fork. ‘This is no good,’ I looked at her unimpressed. That was the summit of her first-aid training.

  ‘Final call for BA flight …’

  Chris picked up the tannoy among the commotion.

  ‘Look, we’re both on that,’ I alerted them.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ the BA staffer said. ‘We’ll let them know you’re going to be slightly late.’

  The epileptic began to respond a little once I loosened his uniform. I asked him if he was on any medication – they were in his jacket. Then he began to shake, just as the paramedic was arriving on his bike, and that was my cue to go. We were way late now.

  ‘Thank you so much; you’ve saved his life,’ said the BA manager who’d come over to thank me. I told them that was nonsense.

  ‘Yeah, yeah, you saved his life,’ Whitey agreed.

  ‘I just stabilised him,’ I said, calming them all down. ‘We’ve got to board now.’

  As we walked over to Boarding, I was asked if we had the tickets. ‘Yeah, we’re in Economy,’ I replied, handing them over.

  ‘Don’t worry about that; I’ll sort that,’ the steward replied. I winked at Whitey.

  We were the last two to board. The in-flight supervisor approached us. ‘I would just like to say thank you for looking after our colleague. Come with me,’ she said.

  There were two Business Class seats left. We looked at each other. ‘This is a great start,’ he said.

  ‘Would you like some champagne?’ the stewardess offered.

  ‘Why not?’ I replied. It was the least I could do!

  The rest of the BBC crew had been waiting for us back beyond the curtains. Whitey did the decent thing and popped down to tell them the story! I was shattered again, after another whirlwind twenty-four hours. In less than a week, I would have to make this trip back for the funeral. I didn’t bother to ask any more questions about the BA guy back at Heathrow and temporarily parked Sue’s dad in my head. I had got my seat and was heading back into the zone.

  Knocking back my drinks, I ate everything they threw at me and got my head down – lights out all the way to Cape Town. I only woke as we were landing. It had been a great beginning, but it didn’t feel the same. I was living every boy’s dream, to be out there at a major sporting event, looking after some of my sporting heroes. Alan Hansen and Shearer, Gary Lineker, Roy Hodgson, Lee Dixon, Jürgen Klinsmann and Clarence Seedorf, among others, were all on my watch. It was a jolly for six weeks, and I knew it.

  I was determined to milk it. Things had moved on so much since I filmed undercover at Euro 2000 and again at Germany 2006; my life was changing at a pace even in just the past two months, and dark forces were definitely operating within my department. This time, there was no need for undercover filming: South Africa 2010 didn’t attract the scum element of the English soccer fan. Those who were there mostly had money and tickets; they went for the football – not the afters. That meant I was just a chaperone to the stars, in a country where you still needed your wits about you. Mindful of the fact that Sue was having a tough week at home, I was determined to make the most of it, in case for one reason or another it didn’t happen again.

  I had met many of the ex-players before in some capacity. They had all been invited to a special briefing the week before at Television Centre. I loved that. When I walked in, they had all stared at me. Those who didn’t know me must have been thinking, ‘Who the fuck is he?’ I was that in awe that I needed a drink of water to avoid clamming up. I told them a bit about myself … how I normally went with News but this time was responsible for Sport. This was new to me – I was a bombs and bullets guy. In front of me, I had pupils Hansen, Shearer and Lawrenson in my own classroom! Gary wasn’t there for some reason – golf, or a crisp advert, or something … I can’t recall. They lasted about three-quarters of an hour. I’m sure this meeting was an irritation to them but they tolerated me! Millionaire ex-pros wanted to talk football on the telly, play golf, and not do much else.

  My main message had been common sense. There was petty theft out here, and a little street crime. They needed to be careful in bars and be aware that credit card cloning was now rife in Cape Town – when punching in your number, make sure there was nobody at your shoulder, and don’t let the waiter take the card. Use a real wallet and a fake wallet with some out of date credit cards. If you need to hand anything over at gunpoint, you hand the fake one over and you’ve lost nothing; if you are stopped, don’t argue for a second, just give them what they want. Watch yourself in your own hotel room, too. On their salaries, the cleaners would think nothing of pinching anything. By the time they had got home and moved your stuff on, it would be long gone. I gave them each a flier with key numbers and venue info on them. We would see in time who would throw them away the minute the class was over!

  Mark Bright and I chatted a lot as we had a mutual friend; Shearer asked about safes in the hotel; Hansen never said a word and Lawro chipped in with the odd camp comment, before calling time on my session and directing everyone to the bar. I would soon find out why Shearer was so bothered about the safes.

  The first job in Cape Town was to pick u
p my accreditation and meet Ernie, whose company was to look after the main security for our roof studio. It had just been a shell when I was last out in January. Now this old morgue was to become the BBC compound. Before we had even gone on air there had already been an attempted break-in to steal a couple of air-conditioning units, of all things. I ordered sensors for the roof. The studio itself was getting a lot of stick in the press at home. We had built it on the top of Somerset Hospital, in the shadow of the new Cape Town Stadium, and had installed a lift and a walkway on the end of the building. Of course, they said we were wasting huge amounts of public money – or in fact, were we just trying to get the best backdrop to the Match of the Day studio? Predictably, the Daily Mail twisted the knife, implying that Shearer and Hansen couldn’t face three flights of stairs, nor did they want to mingle with gunshot and stabbing victims, a ward where forty per cent of the children were in intensive care, or another were many of the neo-natal intake were HIV positive. Our only concerns were Gary and the lift. He had the odd vertigo issue.

  It was the usual bullshit. We got it at most tournaments. The essentials were that access in and around the complex was safe, that footage of Table Mountain would be cracking, and that we didn’t get in the way of the hospital. In fact, we agreed afterwards that they could take whatever they needed that the BBC didn’t want and before we went live every doctor and nurse was invited in to look around.

  Immediately, the atmosphere was unlike any other tournament. I would get the BBC bus in and file situation reports back to London, while still cracking on with other paperwork, waiting to see if any of my stars wandered into trouble. I wasn’t singing ‘No Surrender to the IRA’ this time or avoiding vomit in the back of a Stuttgart police van. I was waiting for nothing to happen.

  At night, I felt a little bit of a spare part. I was on a per diem allowance of £33 from the BBC. My guess was that Lee Dixon hadn’t even bothered to see what expenses the BBC would offer him. It rapidly became Dicko’s job to pick the wine – but only after he had consulted his iPhone to peruse the list that Heston Blumenthal had pre-selected him. There was no hovering around the £15 per bottle mark now; Lee went straight to the £200 range. Oh, and several bottles, too. When the bill came, we would all chip in. Lee or one of the other ex-pros would invariably pick up the tab for the vino, much to my relief. It was a different world. The funny thing is, I hated him as a player, being a Hammer. In the real world, he was a top bloke.