Dad, the fun-loving singing postman
MY dad was one of life’s great personalities. Funny, energetic and charming, he loved good whisky, cigarettes and Elvis Presley. But most of all, he loved my mum.
He was born in dumfries — a huge, 10lb baby — and grew to 6ft 2in, even though his parents were barely 5ft 4in
Naturally musical, he sang in the cathedral choir, but soon swapped Mozart for Elvis and rock ’n’ roll.
By 18, his dark, good looks and fancy footwork were turning heads at the dumfries drill Hall each week. Including that of my mum, Catherine — or ‘ Lady Catherine’, as he always called her — a beautiful, blonde telephonist who, at 22, was four years his senior and a good deal more mature.
Love blossomed and they married in the cold snap of February 1963 — the snow was so deep he had to carry his new bride to the wedding car.
We children came thick and fast. I was born that July, followed by dermot in June 1965 and Corinne in 1969. Meanwhile, dad juggled work as a travelling salesman with singing in pubs and clubs.
He was good. decca Records offered him a contract — about the same time they took on Tom Jones — but he turned it down. It would have meant leaving his wife and children to go to London. Imagine if he’d accepted!
Instead, he took a job as a postman, and started a part-time career as an MC and singer in bands to help pay the bills.
His stage name was danny dee and he soon became ‘danny the singing postie’.
He was a walking party. Our house was full of family and friends, of singing and drinking. at any opportunity he’d whip out his guitar and teach us silly songs, despite only knowing three chords.
Behind all the fun, he had his share of health scares. In his 20s working as a travelling salesman and driving home from Brighton to dumfries, he hit a post box — oh, the irony — and was in hospital for months. Later, a fall left him with a fractured jaw and hearing loss in one ear. and at 59, a CT scan revealed a brain malformation that he’d had since birth, which had caused epilepsy.
Instead of moping and moaning he threw himself into retirement. He and mum travelled the world. He watched his beloved Celtic, whisky and lemonade in one hand, cigarette in the other. He adored his grandchildren and they adored him. He’d ask them: ‘How does it feel to be as good-looking as your granddad?’
He could be irascible and impatient and more than a bit of a rascal. But all his flaws were easily outshone by his kindness, generosity of spirit and sense of fairness. His epitaph summed him up — ‘I’ve had a good life. I did it my way.’