In Memoriam: Matthew Thompson

A few months ago, I wrote a 'pre-memorial' and published it on this blog for my friend Matthew, who was diagnosed with terminal cancer. He died last week, and I've been asked to deliver an edited version at his funeral (which he planned himself, and which promises to be genuinely hilarious).

Matthew avoiding the camera

Matthew objecting to the camera

As some people can't attend, here's what I'm planning to say about him on Friday:

As you can probably imagine, one of the saddest things I’ve done over the last few days is to edit this piece, changing the present tense to the past: from ‘Matthew is’ to ‘Matthew was’ is a simple, awful thing to have to do. 

I knew Matthew for just over a decade as a (usually) friendly face around the circuit, though it's only over the past few years that we've become friends. An engineering designer, he lead a glamorous life in which he designed everything from turbines to Tube trains: if you’ve ever sat on the little cushioned ledges at the end of each carriage, you can thank him for your comfort. From this life, he acquired a number of characteristics you’ll recognize: pragmatism, a concern for precision and accuracy, a preference for answers over questions and an eye for style, which is why he was so consistently rude about my fencing, whether I won or not. 

He was a leading fencing coach, referee, and board member of England Fencing. Without him, many of the stars past and present would never have achieved success, which is why it’s so good to see so many of you here. 

I'm not one of those stars: I first met Matthew at the Much Wenlock Olympian Games when I was in my twenties, when he refereed one of my fights. Disgusted by having to award points to such a sloppy and ungainly fencer, he added a running commentary about what an awful fencer I am, with his usual wide grin. Noticing that I wasn’t just smiling, but in total agreement, he redoubled his efforts then and at every subsequent opportunity. If I won, he would loudly suggest that I should be ashamed of myself. If I ever beat someone better than me, he’d allow me a grudging ‘huh’, which I knew was actually his way of congratulating me. At least, I think it was. But from then on, we were friends. 

It was the start of a friendship forged in dank sports halls and meeting rooms across the country, one which started in sport and came to encompass so many other aspects of our lives. MT is at the heart of a network of fencers who meet up for plotting, gossip and teasing occasionally interrupted by a little light coaching or competition. He was also a leading member of the shadowy underground fencing club dedicated to mischief known as Salle de Twang, some of whose members may – or may not – be in this room. 

Being a friend of Matthew’s meant always seeing a friendly face whether you're fencing at an Under-8s competition or a World Cup event. It means being inducted into the cultural memory of my sport, and it means joining the Resistance. If there's an Awkward Squad in fencing (and there definitely is), he was its leader, but he always played the ball, not the man, though I’ll miss his devastatingly witty character judgements, which were always accompanied by a disarming giggle. 

Matthew was one of those labourers in the vineyard who would have been horrified at the thought of medals and honours. A well-run event, a nicely-timed riposte, a young fencer’s continued success long after they’d moved on from his tutelage or a decent bit of engineering were the kinds of thing that gratified him, rather than recognition: he hated 'fuss'. which is why it was so important to tell him how we felt about him while we still had the chance. 

I’m not sure who gave Matthew my mobile and office phone numbers, but I want to thank them now, though I wasn't always so grateful. He would phone me at random times of the day or night, often more times in a week than I could cope with – my colleagues in the office assumed it was him every time the phone rang. There were never any ‘hellos’ or ‘It’s Matthew’: most of the time he would launch into ‘Have you read?’ or ‘Have you seen what X has done’: sometimes fencing gossip but politics, economics, photography, hi-fi, public services, transport, taxation and a whole range of topics would occupy us for hours, often with no end in sight. 

There were no short conversations with Matthew until, appallingly, towards the end. We had so many shared interests and on hot topics, interest in each other’s points of view, especially when we disagreed, as we often did. I always thought that Matthew’s engineering background contributed to this. As well as a concern for fairness and justice, he always had an eye for policies and schemes that worked, and despaired of my more abstract or ideological flights of fantasy. 

I once told him that he was the most organized anarchist I’d every met, which he took as the compliment I intended it to be. That’s why I wasn’t in the least surprised when he told me of his intentions to set up his Trust. I never spoke to him without learning something new or seeing an issue from another perspective. 

I’m glad I got to tell him this, via the internet, before he went, though I’d never have dared say any of it to his face and he’d have hated having to listen, because he was above all a modest man. 

Those of you who are fencers will know – in theory at least – that the referee’s word is final. However unfair, unjust are just plain wrong he or she is, the fencer’s job is to accept the decision with good grace, shake hands at the end and get on with it.
In this slightly laboured analogy, Matthew’s cancer was of course the referee. Nothing became his life so much as the dignity and style with which he left it. Faced with the end, he coped with the pain and the medical miseries with considerable wit and verve, as this funeral he planned demonstrates. 

I saw him in pain and sometimes scared but I never saw him give up, or rage against the futility and injustice of his fate. That, I think, is his last gift to us: he showed us how to snatch a very human victory from the jaws of a terrifying defeat.

A Pre-Memorial

Some people have the unfortunate opportunity to read their own obituaries, mistakenly published by newspapers. It's rumoured that Alfred Nobel, having seen himself described as a 'merchant of death' (he was an arms manufacturer) founded the eponymous prize to make amends. Marcus Garvey supposedly died of a stroke on reading his own obituary ('broke, alone and unpopular'), which seems rather ironic. Samuel Taylor Coleridge read his own obituary and coroner's report in a newspaper: a man who hanged himself was wearing a shirt apparently stolen from the poet with his name on a label. It was Mark Twain of course who quipped that 'Reports of my death are greatly exaggerated'.

Quite gloriously, it was reported that having survived two plane crashes, Ernest Hemingway used to regularly read a scrapbook of his obituaries, while swigging champagne. This is what I hope my friend – and Vole reader – MT is going to do, because I'm going to write a little bit of his obituary here and now. It's only partial, because I only see a small part of his life, but that's what makes it personal.

M is well known to my office colleagues, even though they've never met or spoken to him. He phones me regularly, more times than I can answer him. Often, of course, it's because I'm out teaching, or in meetings or whatever. Sometimes it's because I'm stuck deep into some marking or research and I know that there's no such thing as a short conversation with M. We have too much in common. We're both slightly obsessive geeks on the same subjects. We agree – and disagree – about politics and economics and can spend hours talking around the most obscure topics. If I need advice about hi-fi electronics, he's the one to consult. We both Mac obsessives and photography enthusiasts. He's from a technical/engineering background and is endlessly fascinated by design, by society as a system, and by the way making things well has been replaced in the nation's economic structure by speculation and fiscal trickery. We profoundly disagree on so many things (he doesn't feel most of you belong in internment camps, for one) but one of the things I most respect about him is his determination to test ideas to destruction rather than adopt an ideological position and stick to it in the face of the evidence, which is sometimes beyond me. For a long time he ran one of the early electric cars, for which I admired him deeply. I've never spoken to him without learning something new or seeing an issue from another perspective. This is why my colleagues know M: because when I pick up that phone, they know I'll be elsewhere for quite some time.

I've known M for probably 10-15 years now, though it's only over the past few years that we've become friends rather than acquaintances. He is a leading fencing coach, referee and former director of England Fencing. Without him, many of the stars past and present would never have got where they are today. I'm not one of those stars: I first encountered M in his refereeing role. Having seen me fence and referee around the circuit, we got to know each other to the extent that when he refereed my fights, he'd intersperse his judgements with a running commentary on how awful my style and technique really are. If I won, he would loudly suggest that I should be ashamed of myself. This is when I knew that we were destined to be friends: not only does this approach match my sense of humour, I secretly knew that he was right. I'm the Stoke City of fencing: I play ugly and sometimes win ugly against much better people.

So that was the start of a friendship forged in dank sports halls across the country, one which started in sport and came to encompass so many other aspects of our lives. MT is at the heart of a network of fencers who meet up for plotting, gossip and teasing occasionally interrupted by a little light coaching or competition. Being initiated into the club means always seeing a friendly face whether you're at an Under-8s competition or a World Cup event in the Polish boondocks. It means being inducted into the cultural memory of my sport, and it means joining the Resistance: M and his friends are the ones who do the real work, underpaid and often in spite of the efforts of the toff in blazers still infesting the upper reaches of the organisation. If there's an Awkward Squad, he's its general and plenty of people bear the scars of battle, yet he's one of those people who never leave the vanquished resentful because he always plays the ball, not the man (though some devastatingly witty character judgements will be uttered accompanied by a disarming giggle which I'll miss enormously.

MT has now been diagnosed with inoperable cancer. The last few times I didn't dare answer the phone because I could see my afternoons disappearing, he wanted to tell me this. So you can probably imagine how guilty I now feel. As to how he's feeling? Well, he's taken the diagnosis exactly as I'd have expected. Like Wilko Johnson, he's laughing in its face. He doesn't know how long he has, some treatment might slow its progress, but he's feeling OK. When I spoke to him, we talked about it briefly before moving on to the things that we usually talk about - this week it was of course Margaret Thatcher's death, a topic on which he was as nuanced as he always is.

MT: I know you're reading this. I know too that you're probably cringing with embarrassment and will brush off all this sentiment with a cutting remark, which is why I've typed it out rather than trying to say it to your face. There's no point saying this stuff when you've gone: I want you to know how we all feel about you, then we can all get back to mercilessly teasing each other. I'll answer the phone a lot more in the coming years and look forward to seeing you treat cancer the way you treat recalcitrant bureaucrats or stroppy prima-donna fencers: with amused disdain and infinite patience. When I say that he's my ideal of an Awkward Git, I mean it with all the warmth and respect I can muster.

Friday conundrum!

Not so much a conundrum, and perhaps a little morbid: write your own epitaph or obituary! For what would you like to be remembered? Boltzmann's grave features his Constant, which is pretty cool. Shakespeare's warns people not to chuck his bones into the charnel house next door. I saw a Welsh one which read (translated) as 'not to be opened without the permission of the inhabitant'.

Mine?

Plashing Vole - turned his final page.

Too flippant? I'd like to be thought of as quiet, consistent, helpful and kind - not that I am, it's just that's what I'd like people to think. I care about books, people, education, the environment, politics and the public sphere - though I'm ashamed to say that I don't do much about them. I'd like to get my book written, and some papers, but fame doesn't concern me one little bit. Maybe it's a bit negative, but the first line of the Hippocratic Oath commends itself to me: 'First, do no harm'. We can be such destructive creatures, emotionally, physically, intellectually, that a conscious decision to refrain from harm is essential.

I'd also like to be remembered for my agility with a pun. Speaking of which, I'm thinking of opening a strip-joint featuring characters from literature. The star turn will be Jane Eyre in a G-String. Boom-tish.

Thankyewverymuch. Bookings for weddings and barmitzvahs have not been rolling in.