Dad was born at a very young age. That’s his joke, not mine. My brother, Gary, can vouch for me because he was there when dad suggested it as an opening line.

Dad’s parents, Norman and Kathleen, were married one week before D-Day in 1944 and he was the youngest of four siblings; Maureen – born in March 1945; Mick – born in January 1947 (passed away in 2015); and June – born in February 1949 (passed away in 2023).

Norman was in the army and remained posted in Germany after the Second World War ended until his third child, June, was born in 1949. At this point, the family moved to their first house, on Westwick Drive in Lincoln, and that is where dad was born.

According to stories from both his mum, Kathleen, and eldest sister, Mo, dad polished off a full bottle of milk within an hour of being born and this evidently set the tone for his appetite for the remainder of his life.

A few years ago, on a visit to my nana, I asked her what dad was like as a kid. Without hesitation, she said, “He was a gannet and a little toe-rag…and he still is!”

Norman wasn’t impressed that his eldest son, Mick, had been brought up in a house full of women while he was away with the army in Germany (Kathleen was living with her mother and six sisters during this time) and resolved to be more involved with the upbringing of his youngest son, David, and to harden him up as much as possible. Apparently, mustard was put on his dummy to stop him using it and, at the age of three, dad was given his first pair of boxing gloves.

Dad absolutely adored his father and would literally follow him everywhere he went. His earliest memory was of his dad being a gardener, so it’s no surprise that he followed in his footsteps over the years and loved growing his own vegetables at home. His first attempt as a kid at growing potatoes wasn’t successful though. Being so eager to see how he’d done, he dug them up after only four weeks to find they were still the size of peas!

Norman used to take dad and June to the allotment on his bike, with the two of them sat in a trailer which he towed behind him. Dad reckoned that the main reason he was brought along to help was so that he could hold onto his dad’s trusty spade and stop it from falling out of the trailer on the way there.

Norman always had lots of jobs for the kids to do and dad remembered at the age of five, him and Mick were asked to whitewash the chicken hut. His mum played hell when she saw the state of him, as dad got tasked with painting the ceiling, so was getting covered in whitewash, and he was put straight in the bath.

Dad began his school life at Skellingthorpe Road Infants, which was a couple of hundred yards from the family home. His mum took him there on his first morning, but he kicked up a fuss and didn’t want to stay there. Dad claimed that the headteacher got a boot to the leg from the ‘famous Barber right foot’ as part of his protestations. By the afternoon he had calmed down though and was happy to go back to school after lunch because he found out there were some bicycles he was allowed to play on.

Getting grubby must have been a theme for dad as a child. At the end of his first day at school, dad’s Auntie Rita was supposed to meet him at the school gate. However, she let him walk straight past, not recognising him because, “He looked far too clean for our David!”

His second day at school was also eventful as he was invited by a couple of boys to join their gang. According to dad, he declined the invitation, saying that he was going to form his own gang. His newly formed gang of one then proceeded to have a fight with the two boys, for which his sister, June, immediately ran home and snitched him up about to their mum. Dad thought he would be in even more trouble when his dad got home and found out, but instead, his dad gave him a sixpence to go and buy some sweets, saying that it was his fault for giving dad those boxing gloves and showing him how to fight.

Soon after starting school, the family moved to a new house on Doddington Road in Lincoln, as Norman began running a mobile shop in the area and needed a much larger garden for growing vegetables. Dad used to help after school by going with Norman on his rounds in the van, although he admitted that he tended to eat lots of the sweets that were supposed to be for sale.

He remembered once his dad saying that they must have done really well that day as they’d sold so many Toffee Cups. Dad didn’t have much to say on the matter and all he could think about was how sick he was feeling.

During this time, dad learnt how to feed chickens, do the weeding of the garden and to grow his own vegetables. At Christmas, dad would help his father with killing the cockerels. Norman would sever their necks and then pass the birds out of the hut and give them to dad to hold. The first time he shouted to his dad, “I thought you said they were dead!?” as the birds he held in both hands were still moving due to the nerve endings being triggered following the decapitation.

Back at school, dad managed to pass his 11 Plus exam. However, his response to this to the headteacher was, “Why pick on me?” when he found out that all his best mates from Junior School were heading to the City School and he was being sent to the Lincoln School (now Christ’s Hospital School).

Dad claimed that the main thing he remembers learning during his first year at secondary school was how to make a decent snowball – it was an unbelievably bad winter that year and apparently it was dog eat dog out there in the playgrounds.

Apparently, he was the only kid from his year who was allowed to play football with the 5^th Year boys, because his older brother, Mick, was in that year at school. However, he soon got a reputation as a dirty little player who kicked everyone. This got him into fights with the older lads, but he was so much smaller than them all that he used to end up punching them in the balls and running off.

Dad wasn’t entirely committed at school and the grades on his school reports gradually declined as the years went by, with languages being a particular struggle, although he always excelled at mathematics. After attending a Parent’s Evening years ago to see how me and Andy were getting on at Junior School, I remember him digging out an old school report of his own, in which both his French and Latin teachers stated that he didn’t have the merest grasp of the subject. He was quite proud of that.

Knowing that he required four ‘O’ Levels for the job he was planning to take, dad left school in 1967 at the age of sixteen with precisely four ‘O’ Levels. These were in Mathematics, Physics, English Language and English Literature. His view was that this showed a high level of efficiency by just concentrating on the four exams that he needed to pass.

Dad commenced his job as a Technical Apprentice at Rustons in September 1967, not knowing exactly what the role entailed. One thing he was more certain about was that he may have broken the record for cycling between his home on Doddington Road and his workplace due to his struggles getting out of bed in the morning while still making it to work on time for the 7:30 am starts. It was also at this time that he became accustomed to industrial swearing, especially if he parked his bike in someone else’s space at work.

Dad wasn’t ideally suited to the technical side of the business, so at the end of his four-year apprenticeship he moved into clerical work within the shop floor.

In terms of work, dad often highlighted that he wasn’t the most enthusiastic of employees. One of his regular quotes was, “Work is a necessary evil.” He enjoyed a chat and a joke with colleagues though – one job in those early days at Rustons involved him handing out the weekly booking cards, which usually took him hours, as he would speak to so many of the staff on the shopfloor.

He took work that seriously that when we recently found a copy of an old CV he’d written after leaving Rustons, he had included being a hotelier to his three sons as part of his employment history and experience.  

He gradually moved his way up through the clerical ranks at Rustons as a Section Leader, then Supervisor, before becoming a Personnel Statistical Officer. In 1992 he was appointed as the Payroll Manager, responsible for the payroll of over 2,500 employees.

In 1996, the Wages Department was subcontracted out of the business and dad was appointed as a Pensions Administrator for the company. He spent the next five years advising staff on their best options for retirement packages and it used to both mystify and frustrate him that people wanted to continue working when they could easily afford to retire. “You should work to live and not the other way round” is a lesson that I definitely listened to.

Dad took voluntary redundancy in 2001, having worked at the same company for 34 years. Following this, he joined a care agency called Independent Living as a Wages and Salaries Officer, a role that he held until 2009, when he retired. He immediately commenced work in his dad’s garden, which Norman was no longer fit enough to maintain himself, and claimed that this was almost a full-time role in itself.

Dad met our mum, Sue, in 1972 and they were married in February 1976. I’m sure he would readily admit that he was never the most romantic of souls and that his passions used to lie elsewhere with his love of Lincoln City and playing dominoes.

For instance, mum’s 21^st birthday coincided with a pairs dominoes knockout match that dad had to play, so she had to sit through that and wait until it was finished before he took her for a birthday meal. He also claimed that she once complained, “You think more about Lincoln City than you do about me,” to which he replied, “I think more about Grimsby Town than I do about you!”

Following the wedding, they lived with his parents-in-law, Roy and Kath, for some time before moving into their new build property on Syston Grove in Lincoln in 1977. Dad always got on really well with his father-in-law. They used to go to the pub together on a Sunday while the dinner was being made at home and would always get into trouble with their respective wives for arriving back long after it was ready.

Even after mum and dad separated, dad would still regularly meet up with Roy for a few pints of Bass together. I have very fond memories of the three of us going to The Strugglers on a Friday night when I was first able to go out drinking, as well as meeting them in Sippers with their Rustons colleagues once or twice on my lunch break.

After moving into his new home, dad became a father to three sons, with myself (Rob) being born in 1979, Andy in 1981 and then Gary in 1986. Despite the marriage ending, dad remained in the house on Syston Grove for the rest of his life and would be very pleased to know that it is likely to continue in Barber ownership for some time to come, with Andy intending to make it the family home of his own and continue growing vegetables in the garden.

Dad often referred to his legacy and in recent years he became a grandad, with Marissa, Lexi, Rex, Liam and, during his last year with us, Isabelle coming along to be part of his life, through whom I’m sure dad would love to think that his legacy will live on.

In 2015, dad met Chris, and they would stay together up until his death, with Chris becoming his main carer as his health went into decline during the last year. Prior to meeting Chris, dad had been single for a number of years and had rarely diverted from his regular routines in life, so it was good to see him enjoying holidays for the first time in a long while. Initially, there were bus trips to Scotland, but they also went abroad, travelling to France and Belgium, which included moving visits to see the War Graves.

In 2023, they also enjoyed a cruise around the Canary Islands with Chris’s daughter and son-in-law, Sharon and Sean. This is something that dad had never experienced before and his main concern beforehand was that he didn’t want to have to get dressed up in a suit to go for dinner every evening. Fortunately, that was not necessary, although he did still have an issue, as he found the weather a little too warm for his liking – despite the fact they went in January!

They also both loved going to Wells-next-the-Sea, visiting there several times and making it an annual holiday each year. Dad had gone there as a child with the family of one of his best school friends and obviously had fond memories of the place from that trip.

At his request, some of his ashes were scattered at Wells-next-the-Sea, in the pine woods where he used to go for a daily walk and by a bench that he always used to sit at watching the tide go in and out. The rest of his ashes have been buried alongside his father’s ashes in Hartsholme Park, Lincoln, as were his wishes. In his last couple of months as his health deteriorated, dad set a target to make it to 4^th July, which would have been his dad’s hundredth birthday. We were all pleased and proud of him for making it through to that date and he is now able to rest beside his dad permanently.     

Dad was always trying to make a cheeky little quip or get a laugh whenever he spoke to anyone. The first joke I can ever remember hearing as a kid – mainly because dad told it so many times – was the one about being on a seafood diet (I see food, and I eat it).

He was still the same even when he had a spell in hospital shortly before his death – always trying to make some sort of wisecrack to the nurses. His usual one tended to be when he required medication as, without fail, if they asked if he had any allergies he immediately stated, “Grimsby Town!”

Growing up, lots of advice dad gave us tended to revolve around football. The first thing I remember him saying to me when I began playing for a team was, “If you can’t get the man, get the ball,” which, as a 10-year-old, I found slightly confusing at first. Dad also used to recall a story about shouting at Andy from the sidelines, “Get in the hole,” and seeing Andy looking with bemusement at the floor wondering which hole he meant.

He did offer some great life lessons for us though. He would often say, “The defeats make the victories taste sweeter,” which I found quite profound. Although I did point out to him that as a Lincoln City fan for so many years, he needed to find some positives from all the games he’d seen them lose.

Dad didn’t often praise us directly about our youth football exploits but I know from all the times he repeated stories to our little group in The Shakey after a Lincoln game that he was proud of us. Having said that, he also claimed that football talent must skip a generation because his grandson, Rex, is such a talented player!

One of his regular stories was from a game of mine that he watched, where he apparently turned to the bloke next to him and commented, “What the hell is he doing shooting from there?” before seconds later exclaiming, “Oh, good goal, son!”

Dad also used to regularly recall how in the early days of Andy’s youth football career he would try to coax him into being a bit tougher, as he felt Andy was a little too timid on the football pitch. However, within a couple of years he was cringing on the sidelines with every thunderous bone-crunching tackle that Andy had made his customary trait.

Dad’s favourite football-related story about his children though was reserved for his youngest protege and was always repeated by him with much amusement. Gary only began playing football regularly in his late teens in a midweek league with his mates. He came home one evening after a game and excitedly told dad, “I was only that far away from scoring,” indicating an inch or so with his fingers. Dad assumed that Gary meant that a shot at goal he’d taken must have only been an inch from crossing the line. But it turned out that Gary had actually missed connecting with the ball when trying to take a shot by the said inch. And, of course, there was no way of knowing if the ball would have even been directed on target had he not completely missed it, so the idea that he nearly scored was somewhat fantasy football. Dad found this absolutely hilarious and would often struggle to tell the story because he was laughing so much!

Those who knew dad will know that he was absolutely obsessed with Lincoln City. His first game was on 14 January 1961. City lost 2-1 to Sunderland that day, with Bert Linnecor scoring Lincoln’s goal. Imagine my dad’s delight when, years later, he realised that Andy was playing in the same youth team as Bert’s grandson. He spent most of the games stood with Bert on the sidelines chewing his ear off about matches he’d seen him play in.

When I was twelve, Lincoln City entered a team into the youth league that I played in and our league match against them was chosen to be played at Sincil Bank. Afterwards there was a reception held in the Directors Lounge to celebrate their new team joining the league. I assumed dad would love the whole occasion, especially seeing me play on the hallowed turf of Sincil Bank. However, we beat them 4-1 and dad admitted afterwards that he’d found it extremely difficult to support the other team with Lincoln being involved in the game.    

In 2002, Lincoln City went into administration and there was a possibility that the club could fold. Dad was obviously extremely worried bearing in mind he lived and breathed the club. It really hit home exactly how much the club meant to him though when I talked to him about it and he came out with what, for me, were his immortal words, “I like you and your brothers, but I love Lincoln City.”

I’m sure he was just caught up in the moment and the situation, but I respected his honesty and admired his passion for the club. Having said that, seeing as his legacy is three sons who have all been season ticket holders at Lincoln at various stages, who all like a beer and a bet, Andy has taken over gardening duties, Gary got the gene for maths and finance and became a little banker, and I got lumbered with dad’s sense of humour, I think the very least we deserve is that he liked us!

Beyond Lincoln City, dad was also extremely passionate about his dominoes. So much so that he would often genuinely insist to us that he thought Fives and Threes should be an Olympic sport!

Dad took dominoes and his captaincy of the team very seriously. Mathematics was always his strongest subject and he used to sit at the kitchen table with his notebook working out various statistics. I remember once asking him exactly what he was doing, and he was compiling seasonal data on who statistically were the best pairs in the team to put together. I’m sure I’m not the only person who never realised how technical things could be in the Lincoln and District Dominoes League!?

To highlight that things weren’t quite so professional as my dad liked to think, for one match years ago, dad had to rope me and Andy into playing for his team as some of his players were on holiday. I think Andy was eighteen at the time and I was twenty, so possibly dad had dreams of this being the start of a dominoes academy project or family dynasty. However, we were there purely because dad was buying our drinks and there was some food being laid on.

We were tasked with playing two legs each. One where we would each pair up with dad and then one where we were paired together – basically so that his other team members didn’t have to worry about second-guessing our limited tactics.

Dad said to us shortly before the match started that if he had one piece of advice it was, “If you get the double-six in your hand and you are going first, DO NOT play it.” Of course, much to our amusement, that is exactly what Andy immediately proceeded to do, leading to fits of giggling from the two new recruits and the team captain shaking his head in despair at us.

The team ended up losing 8-1 on the night. Andy and I were never asked to play again. However, it was actually the pairing of me and dad that got our team’s solitary point that night. And I was keen to stress to dad that when he filled in his statistics notebook it would show that I had the highest win percentage in the team that night.

Dad was partial to a beer or two, so I’m sure most people who knew him would have had a pint with him at some point or other. Some of my favourite memories of dad will be of having a few beers with him in the pub. In recent years, the best times were the post-match beers in The Shakey after a Lincoln game, when all his reminiscing about the Graham Taylor era or how good Trevor Peake was would come out.

I will finish with a couple of drink-related stories. The first was when Gary was involved in an accident as a kid and ended up with a Swiss Army knife stuck in his head and was rushed to hospital. Long story. But it happened on a Wednesday evening – dominoes night – so I had to leg it down the road to the Crows Nest pub in Lincoln, where dad was about to play a match, to give him the news about the accident.

I burst into the pub and found my dad with the team just setting up the dominoes tables. I quickly told him what had happened, he paused for a second to take in the news and then said, “Right, I’ll just finish my pint.” I had to tell him in no uncertain terms that he needed to get his arse up to the hospital immediately. I’m not sure what he would have done if the dominoes match had already been in progress?

Finally, I remember speaking to dad after he’d had a Wellness Check at 50. He was quite pleased with himself and said the nurse had been pleasantly surprised when he’d told her about his drinking habits. Intrigued by this, I asked him to explain.

“Well, I told her that I just go out a couple of nights a week for the dommies and I’ll probably have five or six pints, which she said wasn’t too bad at all.”

I said to him, “Yeah, but what about the other five nights of the week when you’re sat at home in front of the telly ploughing your way through beer, cider, whiskey, home-made rhubarb wine, or anything else you can get your hands on!?”

He looked at me with genuine shock for a few moments and then as a grin began to surface, he said, “I didn’t think those ones would count?”

He was a gannet and a little toe-rag…and he still is.

Rest in peace, dad xx