Stan Myers- a giant of a man

 Stan Myers - a giant of a  man. 

And so tomorrow morning my wonderful family and I will be gathering together for one last time to say goodbye tomorrow to a formidable gentleman, a towering giant, a colossus, a man who never pulled any punches and just never made a fuss about anything. He got on with life because that's how life was back in the grey austerity of the 1950s. You clocked into the thriving world of manufacturing industry and very rarely moaned because the rebuilding process in London was underway and throughout the world there was the first sign of resurrection and rejuvenation. 

You were modest, quietly diligent, dutiful, loyal and always protected your family, supported the family, never able to truly express your innermost emotions because in those days you had to be content with your station in life. You may well have been repressed but privately, you were heartfelt, affectionate, respectful, keeping your nose clean all the time. You worked and toiled from the conventional hours of 9am to 5pm since everybody else did and, in between, there were the briefest of tea breaks, lunch times and a cup of tea with a biscuit or two during the afternoon. 

My father in law Stan was a model of conformity, never grumbling about his work as a map maker for the Ministry of Defence. He put in the most honest of shifts and, such was the nature of his job, tried hard to make sense of the world. Besides, he was the man responsible for clarifying everything that was going around him. He printed maps of the world, arranged all the continents in the right order and made all the relevant adjustments during both the Cold War and the Falklands War. 

Stan told us with enormous pride that at the height of the Falklands War, he was the one who put in the hard, arduous graft, often working into the small hours of the evening and often doing overtime as and when the necessity arose. He loved to boast about the substantial amount of money he would make as a result of the conflict. And then there were the charming stories, those riveting anecdotes that his family would always appreciate and delight in hearing over and over again because Stan always provided for his doting family. 

When he was really at his most delightfully confessional he would tell me the story about former Tory government minister Michael Heseltine. Heseltine was the long standing colleague in former Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher's cabinet. And so it was that one day Stan, busy beavering away in the office, handling vitally important and official war documents and maps, found himself in a lift at work. Ordinarily it would have been just like any other day in his working schedule but this one meant something significant to everybody. 

In between floors, the lift, one of those old fashioned types with shutters and gates, would swiftly take Stan back to his place at the coal face, the home of normality in an often explosive, turbulent world. Suddenly the phone went inside the lift and promptly responded civilly and politely. The voice at the other end wasn't the one Stan was expecting. Stan was talking to Michael Heseltine and Heseltine was convinced he was conversing with some influential, high ranking figure at the Ministry of Defence. Now Stan gently corrected Heseltine, diverting the phone call to the right department. 

At the time of course, Britain was still recovering from the Second World War, a country still recuperating from the deep psychological and emotional scars left by Hitler's murderous henchmen. So it was once again that Stan found himself embroiled in another awkward confrontation. Once again it happened in the middle of one of those frantic and urgent moments during the day when everything was too hectic and there was no room for error. 

With maps now spread over desks and the geography of the world exposed graphically, a stuffy, pompous brigadier general from the military walked over towards Stan. Standing judgmentally over my wonderful father in law, the snotty and overbearing man from the military would point out to Stan the right way to do the job he was concentrating on and promptly lectured him in the most awfully patronising of voices. 

Stan, taking no prisoners, explained in no uncertain terms that if he felt the brigadier general could do any better then he was perfectly at liberty to do so. Shame faced, the brigadier general never interfered again in any of of Stan's difficult tasks. But Stan never shirked his responsibilities and stuck to the work he was assigned to do so. And then he would jump onto the train in the early evening, glowing euphorically at a day of job satisfactorily completed. 

My lovely and late father in law and mother in law lived in Stepney Green and belonged solidly in the warm embrace of the working classes. Stan was just one of thousands who never complained about the early hours of the morning and did everything that was required of him. He was focused, determined, shirt, suit and tie, immaculately clean, hair brushed, washed and ready to go. 

But then come Saturday afternoon during those late, autumnal days and the following winter, Stan would completely loosen his inhibitions and shrug off the severities and restraints of working life. Now Stan would embark on the weekly expedition that was the football season. Stan was a permanent Arsenal supporter and would make no secret of the fact. Rather like any of those teams in the old First Division, there were the highs and lows, the trials and tribulations, the setbacks and triumphs. 

He would wrap his red and white scarf around his neck, place the familiar cap on his head, possibly a rattle in hand and cheer on the Gunners hoarsely and raucously. These were the days of that natural leader of men Joe Mercer, effortlessly inspirational and captain supreme, Don Roper and Jimmy Logie, a successful and eye catching side and one Stan could always identify with. Arsenal were always a force to be reckoned with. 

However, you try to imagine how overjoyed he must have been when Arsenal completed the League Championship and FA Cup double in 1971. He did go to that unforgettable title winning game at White Hart Lane and simply wallowed in Arsenal's noisy neighbours Spurs obvious misfortune. The late and much loved Ray Kennedy glanced his header into the net for Arsenal's decisive title winning winner. Arsenal had won the League and Cup double and Stan, you feel sure, must have danced all the way home back to Stepney Green. 

Of course the fallow years would follow for Arsenal. But then in 1989, dour Scot George Graham sat nervously on his bench at Anfield, home of the all conquering Liverpool. With only a minute to go of a memorable encounter, Liverpool were poised to win the old First Division championship once again. But then a swift break down the flanks eventually ended up at the feet of Michael Thomas and the always rampaging and foraging midfielder brought the ball down with admirable expertise before sweeping the ball stylishly into the net for Arsenal's winning second goal on the night. Arsenal had won the League for the umpteenth time just to prove the doubters and cynics wrong. 

By now Stan was approaching his retirement years at the Ministry of Defence but he was still busy, putting in the hard yards, assiduous, tireless and still going strong. After retiring from the MOD, he worked as a messenger for a silversmith company taking valuable engravings to a whole range of companies including the celebrated London venue of Mappin Webb. And still the enthusiasm would sustain him, keeping him mentally stimulated and physically fit.

During those often tragic months and years of the Second World War, Stan by now an established member of the Paras and beret on head, would shoulder arms and fight heroically for his country. A friend of mine tells the story that, at the height of war and conflagration, Stan would siphon oil in Germany and emerge with flying colours. By the end of the war, Stan was of course exhausted. 

Shortly after the War, Stan would begin to socialise with his peers at his local Jewish youth centre and then, happily, meet his wife to be Rita, my stunning diamond of a mother in law. During the early 1950s, both Stan and Rita would become heavily involved in amateur dramatics, frequently holding funny plays and then whimsical, theatrical acts. In a photo just unearthed, there is an image of Stan complete with a vicar's dog collar looking like some Chesterton Father Brown figure. There is a distinctive giggle and chuckle on his face. Stan Myers, we'll never forget you. I have so much to thank you for. And your loving family will always remember you with effusive joy. Simply the best father in law.