"He rides a motorbike, smokes a pipe, hates political correctness..."

So began a report in the local paper after my Dad (pretty much literally) sailed away from 37 years as a councillor in Beckenham. It made me smile as it makes him out to be a far more unconventional figure than, in truth, he was.

Anyhow, Dad died less than a month ago and I've been worrying away at the eulogy for his funeral mass next week. In one respect these things are easy - after all, we know our nearest and dearest pretty well - but what we want is a painting of the person in words not a Burgundian king list, so I try not to dwell on some sort of interminable chronology.

The paper back in 1995 called Dad a 'controversial' figure - probably because of his strict catholic views on things like gay marriage and preparedness not to mince his words when explaining those views. But in recognising this, the paper also spotted that Dad had done a lot in those 37 years and, as much as anyone I know, cared enormously about local government:

"Westminster appears to see town halls as nothing more than an instrument of national Government. I deplore this. When we get things right, as we usually do, Westminster claims the credit."

Having been a councillor for best part of 25 years, I concur - local government is by far the more effective and efficient part of Britain's political system and is blessedly free from the preening, purposeless self-importance of too many MPs and civil servants.

Anyhow, there's more to Dad but I won't parade it - just the opening list in my words:

Scout, square dancer, skier, sailor, walker, motor cyclist, tier of knots, erector of tents, outdoor cook, councillor, pipe smoker, beer maker, quoter of poetry, reader, sage, singer of camp fire songs.

Next week his family and friends will see Frank Cooke - my Dad - join Mum in her garden again. All I can say is thanks.

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