Dad

Tony Mobbs, 11 September 1926 – 19 April 1980

Let me introduce you to the loveliest man I ever knew. Tony (NOT Anthony) Edward Alfred Mobbs was born into a very different world in Eastbourne, just after the general strike, on 11 September 1926. He was to be a merchant sailor; a butcher; a publican, and then an addressograph operator, whatever that is. But best of all he was to become my Dad.

Together with my Mum, he worked tirelessly to ensure that my brother and I had the best childhood possible. We never wanted for anything. During his time as a butcher, he used to bring cuts of meat home, and it was during this time that I learned to associate Saturday night’s Doctor Who with liver and bacon for tea. It was also around this time that I found a pig’s head in the fridge. Not something that most kids experience, but when your Dad’s a butcher he can make his own brawn.

Sundays would see us walking miles across the Sussex Downs, me lagging behind, dragging everyone back with my constant “are we nearly there yets” and “I’m tireds.” But we carried on. To Mum and Dad it would be a very welcome escape to the countryside after a hard week at work, and they encouraged my brother and me to carry on with it. Now those walks form the happiest of memories for me and I’m so grateful they took no notice of the whining child that I was back then.

Dad even had to work on the day of the World Cup Final in 1966. If England ever get to another World Cup Final you can bet your first born that it will be live on TV and the country will shut down so we can watch it. But in 1966, there was very little live football on TV, and my Dad loved football – even though his love of a particular team, West Ham United, never transferred to me.

The game was on a Saturday afternoon (imagine that!) and he was going to miss it as he had to work. Dad never swore. The nearest he ever got to it (within my earshot anyway) was “oh, blimey…” and I’m sure he said that when he thought he was not going to see the biggest game in the England football team’s history.

But the match famously went into extra time and I can still see his face as he came up the garden path to the news that they were still playing. So he got to see Geoff Hurst score, and England lift the cup. It was three years later that he took me to my first match. I admit Brighton v Halifax Town wasn’t quite as glamorous as a World Cup Final – or even a West Ham game – but it ignited a love of football in me which I still have to this day.

We all dream of winning the lottery nowadays, but in the 1970s the money was to be provided by Littlewoods pools, which he did every week. Sitting at the kitchen table one day, he was dreaming about becoming rich. “Imagine if there was a knock at the door now, and a man was standing there with a large cheque for us…” and right on cue, the knock came. Dad’s eyebrows shot up about six inches. They came down quickly enough though when we found out that it was my friend Hank who had come round to see if I wanted to go down the park.

Dad and Mum managed a pub in Eastbourne in 1970. In an effort to beef up security, they decided to get a guard dog. Enter Henry, a golden labrador with all the viciousness of a sedated monk. Dad would famously declare that he only lived with this animal as a means of deterring would-be burglars, and would deny Henry any show of affection if we were around. But he couldn’t get away with that approach for ever. We could often hear him telling Henry what a lovely boy he was, or slipping him a biscuit when he thought we weren’t around. Dad loved animals as much as any of us but just didn’t want us to know it.

I last saw Dad on April 17th 1980. I lived away from home by then and went round to see him as he was due to go to hospital for a heart bypass operation the following Monday. I can still see him waving to me as my bus pulled away. It’s an image that I will hold forever; he died in his sleep on the Saturday morning. He was just 53.

As he would’ve said, “Oh, blimey…”