Wrestling ref who wouldn’t submit!
NOTHING ever held Barry back in life. Not the TB he had suffered as a child, when he’d be wheeled out from his hospital ward in all weathers for ‘air’ and wake to find snow on his sheets.
Or the accident he had after he was discharged, which caused his right thighbone to stop growing and meant he had to wear a surgical boot for the rest of his life.
Not even being turned down for his dream job in the RAF because of his disabilities defeated him.
Barry simply changed tack, trained as a chemist, and got on with enriching his own life and that of everyone around him.
He was a commanding officer in Bletchley Air Training Corp, a wonderful pianist and singer, a keen amateur dramatist, and possessed an in-depth knowledge of wine and whisky. But, mostly, he was the best husband and father.
We met in 1958 at technical college in Middlesbrough, where Barry was the first student chairman of the entertainments committee. Our first kiss was backstage at one of his shows.
Three years later we married, spent our honeymoon in Huddersfield and went on to have two sons, Mark and Andrew (and now one precious grandson, Thomas).
We were in our late 30s when an American family moved into our village and set up a wrestling club for boys. Barry immediately became involved, not as a wrestler, but as a referee, and for 25 years we spent every weekend driving to competitions all over the country.
The day he died we were meant to be going on holiday. I’d spent the day packing, but Barry was quiet and went to bed early. The next morning his alarm was ringing. But he had gone.
Barry leaves an enormous hole that no one will ever fill.
Barry SanderSon FletCher, born September 3, 1935, died May 4, 2018, aged 82.