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Geoff was my dad’s best friend.
Geoff once said my dad, Roger, was “the only bloke you could get on repeat mode” — the same story, told with exactly the same detail, every single time. Geoff had heard those stories millions of times, and he listened every time, because that’s who he was. Loyal. Present. There.
Their friendship was long, loyal, and properly tested by life. They were there for each other when things were good — and more importantly, when things were a mess. When my parents’ divorce was difficult, Geoff was there for my dad. He listened, steadied him, and helped him think things through — about life, about mistakes, about their children and grandchildren. He was someone my dad could talk to honestly, without judgement.
That loyalty went both ways. At my dad’s funeral, Geoff spoke about one of the nicest things anyone ever did for him, and it says everything about both of them. When Geoff’s wife Gail had a seizure and was kept in hospital, Geoff rang Rog to tell him what was happening. Geoff got home at about 10 at night, and there was Rog — sat outside in his car, waiting for him. Geoff didn’t ask. My dad didn’t offer. He just turned up when Geoff needed someone. That was their friendship. Quiet, solid, and real.
They shared years of adventures together — the kind you really could write a book about. Weeks in the south of France, staying with friends, somehow becoming part of the furniture. One year there was a party for the grape pickers that was meant to be winding down — until Rog and Geoff took over. The host went to bed at nine, the night carried on until the early hours, and when people said they had to leave at 4.45 in the morning, Rog and Geoff genuinely couldn’t understand why. They handed out jumpers from a washing line to keep people warm and made sure everyone had a good time. Those trips summed them up — generous, slightly chaotic, and completely unbothered by convention.
Katie Pirsoaga
26/01/2026