MY dad died last Friday. Tomorrow, we’ll celebrate his life at the church where he was baptised nearly 85 years ago – St Peter’s at South Bank, near Middlesbrough.

He wasn’t perfect by any means, but he will be remembered, in all kinds of ways, as a good dad and that, in my book, is the best you can hope for.

The thing that’s always amazed me most about his life was that as a boy of only 17, in 1943, he was fighting a war in a trench at Anzio in Italy.

I have always found the thought utterly incredible – especially since I became a dad myself. Even in the age of mobile phones and easy transport, it was hard enough to leave my 18-year-old son in a student flat in Hull, a little over 100 miles away.

What must it have been like for a generation of young boys to be taken off to a foreign country, with enemy bullets flying, and bombs falling all around them?

What must it have been like for their mothers and fathers, without means of making contact, and having to wait for news?

“Were you scared?” I asked him once.

“Absolutely petrified,” he replied.

It was sad to see him struggle with his health in recent years. Macular degeneration had robbed him of much of his eyesight to the point where he could no longer enjoy the passions in his life – a game of snooker and following the horses.

My dad and I shared a love of horse racing and some of my fondest childhood memories are of going to the races with him. We didn’t have a car, so the bus took us on our exciting excursions to Redcar, Stockton, Catterick, Ripon and Thirsk.

The biggest treat of all was catching a coach all the way to York to see equine legends like Brigadier Gerard, Grundy and Dahlia run in the Benson and Hedges’ Gold Cup. I loved being with him and seeing his face light up if he backed a winner.

He’d find me a safe place in the grandstand, explain the form, put a small bet on for me, and give me a running commentary on how our horses were doing.

In the last few years, his deteriorating eyesight has meant he’s struggled to see the horses, or read the form, so we had to do it for him.

My mum would spend a couple of hours every morning, being his eyes, and helping him to make his selections.

A few weeks ago, I took him to Redcar Races. I found him a seat out of the wind in the grandstand, read the form, ran down before each race to put a bet on for him, then gave him a running commentary on how his horse was doing. Life turns full circle.

The day he went into hospital for the last time, my mum picked three horses and put a bet on for him. It was something to talk about when we visited him that morning.

In the afternoon, we were able to tell him that his first two horses had won. The third was yet to run in the last race.

Even then, struggling to breathe and wired to machines, he wanted a pen and a piece of paper so he could work out how much he might win.

For the evening visit, we were able to lean across and tell him the good news: “The third horse won, Dad.

Easy – by three lengths. It paid out £104.17.”

It was my dad’s last bet and it made his tired eyes light up.

THE THINGS THEY SAY

“ARE you okay, Dad?” Max, aged 12, when he heard Grandad had died.

Having wiped away his own tears, he then rolled up his sleeves and set about making his grandma an apple, raisin and cinnamon pie to cheer her up.

THE THINGS GRANDMAS SAY

“THAT’S the best pie I’ve ever tasted.”

Life goes on.