Paul New 1965-2022
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| At his happiest with solitude and something to read |
My late partner Paul was a fan of Kurt Vonnegut's phrase from Slaughterhouse 5, so it seems appropriate to use it as the title of this post dedicated to him. As many friends couldn't get to his funeral, I thought I would share some of the awfulness that was 2022, and by contrast the positivity and love his funeral and wake engendered.
He died on 14 November 2022, two days after his 57th birthday. What had started out as "a bit of digestive trouble" early in the new year, turned out to be oesophageal cancer, which was not treatable with surgery. In August, he started palliative chemotherapy in the hope of giving him another 12-18 months, but in October he developed back pain which ultimately turned out to be the cancer spreading to his spine And liver. And lungs. On 10 November, he went to the Christie for his bloods and consultation prior to chemo on the Monday and was told he was not fit enough for the treatment. Oramorph and steroids were prescribed, with a view to building his strength back. The next day, he was rushed into Resus at the MRI after his blood sats had dropped to the mid-60s and he'd started hallucinating. On the morning of the 12th he was comfortable on a ward, but by late morning, the kids and I were asked to go in.
Despite the best efforts of the medical staff (and believe me, they tried SO hard) he was too weak to fight of the various infections, and was moved on to end of life care. Thanks to the neglect of 12 years of a government eager to sell the NHS off to private healthcare and refusing to accept that the pandemic was in fact not over, there was no side room anywhere on the enormous MRI site, so he spent his final hours on an open ward, with only a curtain for privacy. I will never forgive the politicians (of any party) who have allowed this to happen.
Because his final days were so rapid and traumatic, we hadn't had the time to discuss his funeral wishes with him (one of the few advantages a dying man with cancer has over those who go suddenly and unexpectedly). The only thing we knew for certain was that he wanted to be buried rather than cremated (although we never really discussed why) and so we planned for a burial in Manchester, in December, in what turned out to be the most prolonged cold spell for years.
In the days after his death, my son Josh and I started putting together a Spotify playlist of a whole load of songs that he loved, that reminded us of him, or which spoke to something which meant a lot to him (protest songs, mainly; the angrier the better). This was as much therapy for us as anything else but from this the first framework of a funeral service started to come into view.
He was not a religious man so we didn't have to include any hymns, and therefore had free reign to use whatever we wanted. We were keen to avoid clichés, so although he loved Ralph Vaughan Williams, we didn't include any classical music - do we really need to hear that damned lark ascending yet again, beautiful as it is?
Instead, we went for Hallelujah ("No, not that one!") as the song to which he entered the chapel. As we followed him in, I noticed friends and colleagues from all areas of Paul's life in addition to immediate family, as well as a small tribe of Josh's friends who had travelled from all over the country to come and support him. I also knew that there were many others who had wanted to attend but were unable to make it due to other commitments and a rail strike (and he absolutely would not have wanted anyone to cross a picket line on his account).
We were fortunate that my oldest friend, an experienced celebrant, agreed to conduct the service, which meant that she actually knew the deceased in life. There's nothing worse than someone describing your loved one where it's clear they have no clue about who they were or anything much about their life.
The tributes started with Josh reading a poem which he had been reading the day we broke the news to the children about Paul's diagnosis.Two Headed Calf by Laura Gilpin
Tomorrow when the farm boys find this
freak of nature, they will wrap his body
in newspaper and carry him to the museum.
But tonight he is alive and in the north
field with his mother. It is a perfect
summer evening: the moon rising over
the orchard, the wind in the grass. And
as he stares into the sky, there are
twice as many stars as usual.
This was followed by Prettiest Eyes by the Beautiful South, a song which sums up the love and friendship of a long-term relationship, and a personal favourite of mine.
We then heard further tributes from family and friends. First Megan, who read (brilliantly) a piece written for her about Paul's qualities as a dad. It was funny, full of affection and written with the "abundance of care" that the (anonymous) author ascribed to Paul himself:
Despite his lifelong assertion that “Your mother wanted kids, I wanted cats. I lost.”, Paul was a devoted and incredible father right up until the very end. He was the best dad in the world, though not in the sort of way you reward with a cheesy Poundland mug (though I may have tried a few times!).
Those that knew him will know he’s not much of a touchy-feely person, generally leaning away from hugs and avoiding expressing any genuine emotions in a way that people could hear. He always proved his love in other ways -- secretly spending all day on a train to and from Bristol to collect Josh’s beloved cuddly toy that had been left behind after visiting grandma, or letting me punch him because his exaggerated groans of agony would make me laugh until my bad mood went away. He chose not to treat his children like inferiors, always inviting them into the grown-up conversations and giving them the opportunity to try and understand, even if they ended up not doing. He was a man of carefully measured words and carefully considered actions, characteristics that made him perfectly suited to fatherhood even when he (continually, and only half-sarcastically) claimed to have no clue. No declaration of love could ever mean more than a great lover of cinema taking his children to see Happy Feet and, even worse, Mrs Brown's Boys: D'Movie.
He was good at using his own experience of (undiagnosed, but agreed by pretty much everyone except him) autism to advocate and encourage Megan and Josh whenever others weren’t sure how to. He indulged plenty of ridiculous things, like a phobia of doors and a desire to take every bus route in Greater Manchester, but he did more than that as well. He was the best at problem-solving and seemed to always know how to work through situations where emotions weren’t the solution. He often claimed that he was getting carers’ allowance without ever doing any caring, but it wasn’t true -- both of his children would agree that much of their continued survival stems from his abundance of care.
For all his wonderful acts as a dad, the best thing he ever did was relinquishing his dream of naming a child Colostomy.
Paul lives on through a shared phobia of moths, a dark sense of humour, a perpetual willingness to pop to the shops, and all the love and strength he left behind. These words aren’t something he’d necessarily agree with, and he might visibly cringe if he heard them said aloud, but they’re the truth. He was a better father than he ever gave himself credit for.
This was followed by Paul's oldest friend, who met him when they both joined Bristol Cathedral School as scholarship boys at the age of 11. A fascinating glimpse of the boy who would become the man we all knew; it was clear that the intelligence and wit was always there right from the start.
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I found this with his mum's photos.
Paul is the one in the middle at the back with the glasses and his tie crooked
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Next came one of our university friends, and godmother to Josh, who regaled us with tales of journalistic rigour and criticism on his part when putting together the annual Film Society booklet, full of works of varying quality but where Paul's always stood out as knowledgeable and often wickedly funny. Here we all are at my parents' house just after we'd won the BFFS' Film Society of the Year. One of the most joyously drunken nights of my life.
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| We are still in touch with all but two of these people 30 years later |
Finally we heard from a former colleague from his twenty-plus years' service with Manchester City Council (a career which ended prematurely due to one of the frequent Osborne-induced round of "savings" heaped on local authorities during the Coalition era). He was never happier than when on his own in a room with a spreadsheet, collating the data that would inform the city's homelessness strategies, but despite all his efforts to evade recognition or promotion he was widely admired and loved by those whose paths he crossed.
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| Manchester Housing, Southcombe Walk, Moss Side, early 90s |
At this point, it was time for a reading. We agonised over this - having had no chance to discuss what he might like, and wary of him haunting us should we make a bad choice, we were temporarily stumped. Then we remembered how he adored the tales of Noggin the Nog from his childhood; but how to achieve the unique delivery of Oliver Postgate, which made them so special? (He always maintained that he channelled Postgate's narration style when reading aloud to the kids when they were little. It works for everything except Dickens, apparently).
It was here that one of Josh's friends stepped in - he's currently studying Film and TV at university, and he roped in several friends and a lecturer to isolate the audio track from a YouTube video to produce an MP4 which could be played on the chapel audio system.
Which brings us to the eulogy. I make no claim to be a writer - at best, I'm a hack: I can throw something together at short notice with the basic facts but little creative flair (see any of my Film Society reviews as evidence of this - I was always the one who could put together a vaguely competent review of a film no-one had seen and which no-one was quite sure why it was on the programme). On this one occasion, though, I wanted to do him proud, despite the fact that his first reaction when I started this blog in 2010 was to say "Oh, please don't start blogging!" There is a lot of life to sum up (albeit a lot less than there should have been) and I hoped to capture the essence of the man I adored for over 30 years. So here goes:
Paul was born in Bristol in November 1965, and was adopted at birth by Ron, a GPO Engineer, and his wife Pam who had moved to the city from Somerset after their marriage. He grew up in Headley Park in the south of the city and at 11 was awarded a scholarship to Bristol Cathedral School, where he excelled academically. In 1985, he went to Manchester University to study English and American Literature. He had wanted to study Film, but found that the only courses on offer were on campus universities remote from any actual cinemas, which, as he said, meant he could learn the history of cinema but not catch anything on general release. He made up for this by joining Manchester University Film Society where, a couple of years later, I went along to a Freshers Week Cheese and Wine, a decision which as it turned out was momentous.
For a few months we were simply friends (at one point unsuccessfully trying to match-make for each other with other FilmSoc members) until the night of the legendary All-Night Film Show when, at 3am, he shambled along the corridor and leant against the projection box door - taken off its hinges for access reasons - took his John Lennon specs off and rubbed his eyes. It was at this moment I thought “What lovely eyes he has!” and that was it – for the next 34 years, we were virtually inseparable, apart from the 10 months I spent in Pennsylvania, to where he made an international phone call to propose to me in 1989. Sadly, we never did get around to the wedding (it was being planned over the last few months but time ran out on us) but that notwithstanding we had the most glorious life together.
FilmSoc has been central to our lives – initially, the summer FilmSoc annexe at our old house on Slade Lane, where many a review was written (usually at the last minute), films booked, programmes planned; and latterly the source of so many close friends, several of whom are godparents to Meg and Josh. Paul was delighted that this love of film passed down to the next generation, although he and Josh’s reciprocal film education will now remain unfinished.
Music was also central to both our lives. Paul loved music but was legendarily tone-deaf and never understood music theory. We watched documentary after documentary from the best explainers – Howard Goodall, Neil Brand and others – and he still understood not one word of it. Our tastes were diverse but grew together over the years, although I’ve never got the Jesus and Mary Chain and he never got Genesis! The children and I have found comfort over the past weeks in putting together a playlist of his favourites, songs that mean something to us or which make a social or political point.
On leaving university, Paul joined Manchester City Council’s Homeless Families Temporary Accommodation team. For several years, many of his colleagues were also our social circle, with loads of pub quizzes and the fabled trip to York races in 1996. I drove the team there in a minibus and then headed over to visit Philippa, our celebrant today, and her family who lived nearby. It was only on our return to Manchester that we had discovered our adopted city had been blown up.
Over the years, I came to know Paul’s home town of Bristol well. He always loved it, although he was torn between “These are my people!” and “Why does everything shut at half past five?” We visited Pam regularly as well as his grandmother in Clevedon, and Ron, who had remarried after his and Pam’s divorce. It was on one of these trips out to the pub with his dad in 1997 that we told him we were expecting Megan. As we said goodbye, Ron pressed petrol money on Paul, who protested that he was in his early 30s and working. “You’ll need it,” Ron said, “Now you have the babby on the way.” Sadly, Ron did not live to see his new granddaughter.
The role of surrogate grandfather fell to Pam’s partner of 30 years, Brian. Uncle Brian was a much-loved part of the children's lives, although I’m not sure his explanation of prime numbers ever stuck with Josh.
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| Paul, Pam and Brian |
A naturally quiet man and an only child, Paul often seemed perplexed by the sheer loudness of my family, but it was always him who would fall back to accompany my mother while the rest of us strode off at speed, and who regularly corralled the children at family events. He was a good son in law to Fred and Frank and brother-in-law to Sally; he was also famously ‘Aunty Paul’ to his niece Emily for several years.
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| A rare one of all of us. Taken on mum and dad's last trip out for a drink in 2016, nicknamed Operation Otter |
As you’ve already heard, Paul was the most wonderful father despite his assertion that he was deeply unsuited to the role. From day one, he and Meg had an invisible bond – it was always Paul who could calm her when no-one else could and he continued to be her guide and her champion, delighting in her (belated) educational achievements which were often despite rather than because of the educational system.
In Josh he had a kindred spirit – a love of film, a love of words, the same ferocious intelligence. They were quite the double act and it was a joy to watch them discussing Doctor Who, cinema or politics together.
It is touching to see so many of his friends and colleagues here today along with the family. I have received so many wonderful tributes from all over the world from people who held him in very high regard. I have never met anyone who, once they got to know him, didn’t love him. As someone said to me, he was “the brightest man in any room he was in” and although he wore that intelligence lightly and was quick to highlight his failings (the lack of DIY skills, the ability to sing) he was an immensely talented and yet self-effacing man. He was also a devoted son, who continued to care for his mother as her health has declined. His curmudgeonly exterior concealed a man of great love and empathy for his fellow human beings, a committed socialist and campaigner for the underdog (hence his lifelong support of Bristol Rovers).
His one big failing was his laissez-faire attitude to timekeeping – the Douglas Adams quotation “I love deadlines. I love the whooshing noise they make as they go by.” could have been coined for him - I still remember him running down the stairs of the student union and across to the Arts Building to deliver his dissertation with seconds to spare, and nearly losing him on my first train journey to Bristol when he spotted a full fruit machine in the station café, ripe for emptying, just as the train was about to pull out. To the detriment of all of us, on this one occasion he was tragically early for something, and I so wish he’d been much, much later in his leaving of us.
A quietly effective and unassuming man, he will be missed more than he will ever know or would have acknowledged.
In the words of our friend and former house-mate Peter (who is currently en route between Japan and Vietnam) “Rest in Peace Paul New, you irreplaceable, cantankerous old star.”
This was followed by Sondheim's Being Alive, sung by Adrian Lester, a favourite of both of ours. We saw many UK premieres of Sondheim shows together, thanks to the Library Theatre in Manchester, which spent much of the early 90s specialising in them.
And so to the final music choice. Again we considered something classical but then I remembered watching the TV coverage of Glastonbury in the summer (how long ago that seems now) and him saying "THAT'S what I want played at my funeral" so how could we ignore his wish?
So that's it, really. It was a beautiful service and the kids and I were touched that so many people made the effort to attend and stand in the compacted snow to say a final goodbye to my soulmate (such an over-used term, but what else comes close?). There are so many other things I could have mentioned, so here are some:
The massive international phone bills we built up calling each other while I was in the USA for a year (temping for BT on my return, I discovered they'd put an alert on our account due to the suspiciously high usage!)
As members of the Colin Weston Fan Club quiz team, the many pub quizzes which were part of our pre-child lives (over the course of one summer, a rival team kept re-naming itself in the wake of yet another of our victories - they finally settled on We Hate Fucking Students
On the night we won Film Society of the Year, the sight of Paul and our friend Ian jumping round my mum's kitchen, hugging each other and shouting "We won! We won! (alcohol may have been a factor).
Picking up an early morning taxi in Stockport on our way back from an overnight journey from London in 1997 and therefore being some of the very first people in the country to hear of the death of the Princess of Wales. That was weird.
Him spending the whole of my 3-day labour with me - he looked more wrecked at the end of it than I did. He'd (nearly) eaten an out of date pasty from the hospital café, been there to remind the medical staff that in putting my legs in stirrups they'd forgotten to lower the head of the bed, so I was sitting in an ungainly V-shape, and witnessed Meg's arrival by emergency C-section. The man who wanted cats instead was immediately smitten. As afternoon visiting ended, he finally went home to sleep (he had to borrow my jumper, as it had been an uncharacteristically warm February and he'd arrived 3 days earlier in only a T-shirt and jeans) and I said to my midwife "He won't be back until tomorrow now." "He'll be back" she said. And he was, as soon as evening visiting started.
Trying to research, in the pre-internet age, the likely prognosis for our beautiful new daughter, diagnosed at birth with a rare neurological condition (it was pretty grim - happily, real life has proved more positive)
The two of us despatched to the pub by my parents for some brief respite (in Beer, where else?) after an awful day when Meg had had a massive seizure while staying with granny and grandpa; sitting there listening to the tide coming in, wondering whether this would be a feature of the rest of her life (to date, thankfully, it's not).
While I'm angry that this wonderful human being has been taken from us when so many utter bastards live to a ripe old age, I'm also grateful that I had those 34 years with him
At least he lived long enough to see Paul Heaton win the Novello Award that he had so long deserved...
"You can't have too many good times, children
You can't have too many lines..."
