Mr Womersley, Bernard, Bern, Bernie, Wommo, Uncle Bern, Great Grandad, Grandad, Son, Brother, Dad, and on occasions a few other choice names – but it was by one or more of these that all of us here knew the man we have come to pay our respects to and remember today – Bernard Patrick Womersley. My Dad, our Dad, was a big influence in our lives. Now I'm not going to sit here and pretend that he was some kind of saint, as any of you who knew him well would know that just wasn't true. On many occasions we would clash, and I can honestly say that for several years before my Mum died I couldn't get along with him at all. But when Mum died, although I thought it would be the end of the world, that's when a new bond was forged between Dad and I, and from what was an uneasy tolerance (on my part anyhow) a more mutual relationship of understanding and dependence developed (although neither of us would admit it to the other). I think I learned to understand him even more when I became a father myself, realising that things weren't always so black and white, and that it was possible for kids to be in the wrong (although I still find that I cringe a little when I hear myself saying things like “do we really need all these lights on?” or “how long has he been on that phone?”). To most people Dad came across as a bit like Delboy and Uncle Albert rolled into one. Who among you haven't been captivated (and sometimes held captive) by his tales of 'on board ship', his 30 years at Fords, his jellied eel stall, or travels in his 12 seater? And to be honest it’s a wonder that we hadn't been here many years before with my Dad's safety sense, or lack of. Like the time when he was laying carpet with a metal handled Stanley knife, and cut through the electricity cable; or the times he worked on his car in the garage with the engine running, closing the door so as not to disturb the neighbours; and when he used to drive for a Formula One team (as a courier) carrying drums of high octane fuel in the back of his van. Becoming more and more nervous of his extremely volatile cargo, Dad being Dad, he would chain-smoke roll-ups to calm his nerves! Not to imply that Dad was stupid, it's just that sometimes he lived in the moment and didn't look at the bigger picture. So there in a very brief nutshell are the memories of my Dad that I shall hold on to. Slightly idealised I grant you, but I can't see the point, for me anyhow, in holding on to the negative ones. I will now leave you with the words of wisdom that, over the last few months, Dad dispensed to me with increasing regularity, due to the difficult times he knew that I was going through. And contrary to popular belief, the parts of the anatomy to which this saying refers are the nose and mouth. So as you leave here today I would urge you all to, in the words of my Dad: Keep Your Peckers Up!