This is a picture of my Dad taken in 1946. He was in Port Said doing his National Service with the Royal Engineers. Dad was a corporal and later on when John Biffen was in the news (Bernard Ingham described him as a semi-detached member of the cabinet) he used to tell us that Sapper Biffen was in his platoon. After Dad died I wrote to Lord Biffen (as he then was) and although Dad’s name didn’t mean anything to him he did indeed confirm that he served in Port Said with the Royal Engineers in 1946. Dad did a few different jobs but the thing he did most was a driving instructor. He was a good driving instructor if you didn’t mind passive smoking but not a good businessman. His accountant once told my Mum that he was the only person he’d ever met that actually exaggerated how much he earned to the Inland Revenue.
I digress I mentioned Port Said because when later on in life illness (Huntington’s Disease) prevented Dad from working he used to sit for hours on end reading teach yourself Arabic books and listening to Arabic cassettes too. He liked the Palestinians that he met in 1946. In fact he got demoted to Lance corporal for drinking out-of-bounds with them. He suffered a stroke in 1992 and shortly after, his mental health took a turn for the worse. He started talking about moving to France in order to set up a school of Philosophy and he was insisting that various family members help him with the arrangements. You might not realise just how deluded that was but believe me it was. He was becoming increasingly agitated and was determined to leave hospital and head for Dover. I urged the relevant authorities to consider having him sectioned. A meeting was set up and I wheeled him in with tears streaming down my cheeks feeling worse than Judas Iscariot (Judas betrayed the Son of Man but at least he did not betray his old man, so far as we know). An Australian psychiatrist asked Dad all sorts of questions (Name, Date, Prime Minister) all of which dad breezed through. Then Dad got too confident. “What’s three times thirteen, Mr Gordon?” “37″, Dad snapped back. “Actually it’s 39″ Momentarily, Dad was defeated and deflated but then he turned the table on the Psychiatrist with a question that the Psychiatrist did not understand (either because of Dad’s native Glaswegian accent or his slurred speech from the stoke or possibly a combination of both. The Psychiatrist looked to me and my Mum for help. We were initially too busy trying to suppress laughter to help because we had heard Dad clearly say “Okay, you tell me – what’s the Arabic for air traffic control tower?” The Psychiatrist responded very gracefully “Touche, Mr Gordon!”
In the event Dad agreed to go to the “Vale Unit” (Dingly Dell as he later called it) quietly as he realised there wasn’t much alternative.





