A friend of mine who knows of my interest in aviation passed me a copy of the eulogy read at the funeral of Arthur Hamer who used to be a pilot for BA.
I post it here for your enjoyment, some may remember him.
Arthur RIP.
Arthur Hamer
3rd March 2004
Arthur, the thread running through your life was one of laughter. You laughed, we laughed, we all laughed together. That was your fix. If only we had more Arthurs.
When we close our eyes and think of you we automatically smile - you had a God given gift. Everybody has their own Arthur story.
The congregation today is witness to your enormous popularity and huge circle of friends.
You had many circles: Family, Church, Rotary, Pantomime, Work, and so on. I like to imagine these circles inter meshing, rather akin to the Olympic flag with the circles turning with some of us belonging to more than one of these circles. There was, of course, only one circle and that was the one around you.
Sometimes I wonder how you kept your job with British Airways, in view of the pranks you pulled. Flying to New York via Shannon you passed the Blackpool illuminations. Americans had not seen the illuminations. You banked the plane so the starboard passengers could get a good view and then, in order to be fair, went around again for the benefit of the port side passengers.
You would walk down the plane tugging a piece of string behind you talking to the passengers. Eventually some bright spark would enquire who was flying the plane. "I am" you would say pulling the string. You would then pass them the string saying "Hold that. I am going to the toilet." Working the crowd like an old professional. That thread of laughter.
On regular flights to Barbados you were scheduled to land at 6.15. Unfortunately 'happy hour' in Harry's bar was 5 till 7. The solution was to put your foot down half way across the Atlantic, arrive 15 minutes early, quickly taxi the aircraft, dock it and be the first down the companionway.
I once questioned you on the company rules regarding drink. You feigned amnesia saying "I can't remember whether it is 1 pint 8 hours before the flight or 8 pints 1 hour"
In spite of all this as a senior captain you were given the opportunity to fly the new Concord. Now the flight deck on Concord is rather cramped and restricted. It was generally felt Jumbos were more your style.
You loved a drink, but always in moderation. It was a means of relaxing people so that we could all laugh. Laughter...
Your rendition of Stanley HoIloway's poems about Albert who was swallowed whole by the lion save for his cap and his stick with the 'orse's 'ead 'andle, or the Runcorn Ferryman (Tuppence per person per trip) were legendary.
These were delivered in all solemnity in authentic Lancashire accent with Valerie discreetly behind as prompter - Valerie was your foil, your straight man.
If the rendition was rather later after the wine had flowed, Valerie's part came more to the fore and we often had the benefit of two renditions, Valerie's and your own. Laughter.
Some five years ago you frightened us all by having a cardiac arrest at Wycombe Wanderers football ground. When you were revived you blamed your team, saying the cause of the arrest was due to the fact they had nearly scored.
In the intensive care unit the family had gathered and the surgeon explained that the prognosis was good but he was concerned that your stomach was rather distended and that could indicate problems. The family exchanged glances with each other and then one of the girls said "Don't worry, it has been like that for years." Then laughter, with you joining in when you subsequently regained consciousness.
Laughter - that thread.
When you moved to Danes Manor Farmery you took on the mantle of landed gentry, with horses, of course. You knew nothing about horses, but just could not resist buying them until you had at least a dozen, and so was born the Cookham Riding Stables.
You purchased a small sit-on mower and mowed everything in sight including the verges to the swimming pool. One day, either in a fit of exuberance or mechanical failure, you drove the mower into the poo1. When you surfaced Valerie leaned out of the window and with perfect delivery said "What are you doing in there, dear?"
"Mowing the pool" was the reply.
I have touched on your figure, which became a natural prop for your own humour. A personal asset. Always making jokes about yourself You told me once that you did not have a large stomach, just short arms.
I won't say you abused your body but you did love butter and delicacies like belly of pork. If one's body is a temple, yours was a Buddhist temple. I never did see you jogging and Philip describes your regime as 'actively inactive'. Life was for living.
My treasured memory of you is as Mr Toad. A play written here in your beloved Cookham seemingly with you in mind. Everybody loved Mr Toad. "Poop-Poop Poop-Poop."
The vision of you cavorting about the Pinder Hall stage dressed in a pair of green ladies tights disporting your manhood for all to see is ingrained.
You were in most pantomimes, if not the lead, as a funny man or woman.
One year yeu were Widow Twankee. You had been invited to a smart Silver Wedding at an up-market Country Club on the river at Henley. Unfortunately it clashed with the pantomime. It was agreed that Valerie would go ahead and Arthur you would follow after the show.
"Don't forget to change, dear" called Valerie as she was leaving.
What a stupid thing to say! At 11.30 the doors burst open and in came Widow Twankee in full regalia pushing a laundry basket across the ballroom floor... laughter...
just laughter.
You should have been on the stage, Arthur, but you chose a greater stage, the stage of life. Your biggest audience is here present today as witness to the love and esteem we all hold for you.
The world is a poorer place without you, but we are the richer for having known you.
I post it here for your enjoyment, some may remember him.
Arthur RIP.
Arthur Hamer
3rd March 2004
Arthur, the thread running through your life was one of laughter. You laughed, we laughed, we all laughed together. That was your fix. If only we had more Arthurs.
When we close our eyes and think of you we automatically smile - you had a God given gift. Everybody has their own Arthur story.
The congregation today is witness to your enormous popularity and huge circle of friends.
You had many circles: Family, Church, Rotary, Pantomime, Work, and so on. I like to imagine these circles inter meshing, rather akin to the Olympic flag with the circles turning with some of us belonging to more than one of these circles. There was, of course, only one circle and that was the one around you.
Sometimes I wonder how you kept your job with British Airways, in view of the pranks you pulled. Flying to New York via Shannon you passed the Blackpool illuminations. Americans had not seen the illuminations. You banked the plane so the starboard passengers could get a good view and then, in order to be fair, went around again for the benefit of the port side passengers.
You would walk down the plane tugging a piece of string behind you talking to the passengers. Eventually some bright spark would enquire who was flying the plane. "I am" you would say pulling the string. You would then pass them the string saying "Hold that. I am going to the toilet." Working the crowd like an old professional. That thread of laughter.
On regular flights to Barbados you were scheduled to land at 6.15. Unfortunately 'happy hour' in Harry's bar was 5 till 7. The solution was to put your foot down half way across the Atlantic, arrive 15 minutes early, quickly taxi the aircraft, dock it and be the first down the companionway.
I once questioned you on the company rules regarding drink. You feigned amnesia saying "I can't remember whether it is 1 pint 8 hours before the flight or 8 pints 1 hour"
In spite of all this as a senior captain you were given the opportunity to fly the new Concord. Now the flight deck on Concord is rather cramped and restricted. It was generally felt Jumbos were more your style.
You loved a drink, but always in moderation. It was a means of relaxing people so that we could all laugh. Laughter...
Your rendition of Stanley HoIloway's poems about Albert who was swallowed whole by the lion save for his cap and his stick with the 'orse's 'ead 'andle, or the Runcorn Ferryman (Tuppence per person per trip) were legendary.
These were delivered in all solemnity in authentic Lancashire accent with Valerie discreetly behind as prompter - Valerie was your foil, your straight man.
If the rendition was rather later after the wine had flowed, Valerie's part came more to the fore and we often had the benefit of two renditions, Valerie's and your own. Laughter.
Some five years ago you frightened us all by having a cardiac arrest at Wycombe Wanderers football ground. When you were revived you blamed your team, saying the cause of the arrest was due to the fact they had nearly scored.
In the intensive care unit the family had gathered and the surgeon explained that the prognosis was good but he was concerned that your stomach was rather distended and that could indicate problems. The family exchanged glances with each other and then one of the girls said "Don't worry, it has been like that for years." Then laughter, with you joining in when you subsequently regained consciousness.
Laughter - that thread.
When you moved to Danes Manor Farmery you took on the mantle of landed gentry, with horses, of course. You knew nothing about horses, but just could not resist buying them until you had at least a dozen, and so was born the Cookham Riding Stables.
You purchased a small sit-on mower and mowed everything in sight including the verges to the swimming pool. One day, either in a fit of exuberance or mechanical failure, you drove the mower into the poo1. When you surfaced Valerie leaned out of the window and with perfect delivery said "What are you doing in there, dear?"
"Mowing the pool" was the reply.
I have touched on your figure, which became a natural prop for your own humour. A personal asset. Always making jokes about yourself You told me once that you did not have a large stomach, just short arms.
I won't say you abused your body but you did love butter and delicacies like belly of pork. If one's body is a temple, yours was a Buddhist temple. I never did see you jogging and Philip describes your regime as 'actively inactive'. Life was for living.
My treasured memory of you is as Mr Toad. A play written here in your beloved Cookham seemingly with you in mind. Everybody loved Mr Toad. "Poop-Poop Poop-Poop."
The vision of you cavorting about the Pinder Hall stage dressed in a pair of green ladies tights disporting your manhood for all to see is ingrained.
You were in most pantomimes, if not the lead, as a funny man or woman.
One year yeu were Widow Twankee. You had been invited to a smart Silver Wedding at an up-market Country Club on the river at Henley. Unfortunately it clashed with the pantomime. It was agreed that Valerie would go ahead and Arthur you would follow after the show.
"Don't forget to change, dear" called Valerie as she was leaving.
What a stupid thing to say! At 11.30 the doors burst open and in came Widow Twankee in full regalia pushing a laundry basket across the ballroom floor... laughter...
just laughter.
You should have been on the stage, Arthur, but you chose a greater stage, the stage of life. Your biggest audience is here present today as witness to the love and esteem we all hold for you.
The world is a poorer place without you, but we are the richer for having known you.
