Ian David Massingham

Eulogy given by Revd Lisa Battye

Ian was like his Mum, Patricia, in personality, strength, common sense and kindness, but he had the DNA of his passionate, blond, blue-eyed Dad (Harold), of whom he was very proud.  Harold was the son of a humble Yorkshire collier whose Mum died giving birth to him, but had made it to Manchester University. He and his friend Mr Scott compiled crosswords under the pseudonym of ‘masscott’ and he is well worth googling!  Pat was the only child of a Didsbury painter and decorator who became an English Teacher in Priestnall School in Stockport. 

Ian was born in the family home in Moreland Road in Didsbury, where the children’s names seemed to be a source of debate. Harold wanted Steve to be called Axel and Ian to be called Judd, but Pat said no. Then they thought about calling Ian, David Ian Massingham but there was something wrong with that, too! 

Ian’s nicknames included “Broom” at school, and “Mungry” at Bootle Street, because of always saying ‘I’m ungry’. I’ll let Richard tell you about his Rugby nickname.

Nicola met Ian on 11 February 1982 at Melissa’s hen party.  The one that Melissa didn’t turn up for. Picture the scene – Nicola is in KFC on the corner of Peter’s Street, with Corinna.  Ian is in his police uniform, and keeps staring at Nicola.  She offers him a handful of Corinna’s chips.  A fight breaks out on the other side of the road and Ian jumps over a barrier to break it up, followed closely by the girls, who don’t want him hurt.  Then Ian asks Nicola for her number but her phone has been cut off, so he has to give her his number instead. Then they meet up after work for two days and finally on their first day off together go to see ‘Love Story’ in the Cinema, and while Nicola is crying over the film, Ian sleeps right through it. And is then upset not to be invited to Melissa’s wedding – after knowing Nicola for barely two hours!  (You couldn’t make it up!)

Ian was a polite, kind and helpful man. We picked the bible reading for today’s service because it describes him. He was loving, and generous. For example… when Harold and Pat moved to Spain Ian and Karen’s husband, Steve, drove all their belongings all the way there! 

Pat died in 2010, and Harold came back from Spain to live with Richard, but then Harold died as well, only four months later. It was hard losing them both so quickly.

And Ian was patient. The story goes that in 1979 he and around 30 other hopefuls were lined up in a corridor waiting for their interviews for the Police Force.  The guy beside Ian was called in but not him. Then the next guy, but not him, and this went on happening until he was the last man left. He’d actually been first in line, but accidentally left off the list. The interviewers were impressed with his patience and said there and then “When would you like to start?” He deferred entry for a year to finish his A-levels and work at a Patrol Station to provide for his family.

Nicola was the love of Ian’s life. As he was hers. He was also very, very shy, but had nevertheless been the first boy to tell Nicola that he loved her. Then on 1 October 1982 he cashed in an insurance policy to buy an expensive ring and asked her to marry him. By then he’d already asked her Dad if he could, and he had offered Ian £10 to take her off his hands (though he never saw the money!)

Before they married they bought a house on Tanfield Road and members of the Force came to inspect it, and vet Nicola.  She must have passed the test. But rules meant she had to stop working in a licensed premises in the same division as Ian, so she went to work for the Ambulance Service. And Ian showed his love for her by consenting to be baptised so that they could be married in church, because he respected her faith. And finally they were married, 40 years ago, on 21 July 1984 – because Ian wanted to wait until after the Rugby season. And today we will remember that by singing one of the hymns they had at their wedding, here: All Things Bright and Beautiful.

For the ceremony Ian had painted white letters on the soles of his shoes, so that as he knelt at the rail (up there) before the vicar the congregation could read HE on his left shoe, and LP on the right one. And the vicar didn’t know why people were laughing. 

That streak of fun was always there. I learned about the time that Allan – who lived at the bottom of their garden and was, well, a bit technophobic – was house-sitting their dog, Charlie while Ian and Nicola went on holiday. While away Ian used his phone to turn off the TV and then just laughed when it took Alan three days to contact them to say it wasn’t working!

Laura was born in 1992 followed by Adam three years later. Ian wanted somewhere larger for Laura to play in so they moved into Parrswood Road. It also happened to be such a good location from which to make it to the Rugby club!

At home Ian was true to his Yorkshire roots, brewing his own alcohol to save money, walking Charlie, whom he adored, and cooking – he was an excellent cook.  At work he loved working with the public. He was truly happy front-line policing! Guarding marches, responding to emergencies, making arrests.  Apparently shoplifters would say that if they must be arrested, they wouldn’t mind it if it was Ian. He upheld the law as well as enforcing it, and he never wanted to be promoted.

But then on his way to work at 6.30am, one day in October 2000, a young lad ran a red light and knocked Ian off his motorbike, fracturing his wrist. A metal plate was inserted in his left arm, making him bionic. which was fun at airport terminals, but sadly caused him to have to come in from the streets to serve in the office for the next nine years.  And of course Ian made a success of that, as well, but didn’t enjoy it as much. He ended his 30 years’ service with distinction, but didn’t want the fuss of a retirement do. So we’re making the fuss now!  

Thank you, God, for Ian.

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Tribute by Laura Massingham

My dad was one of a kind, and I’m sure every single person here today would agree. He had several nicknames, but I want to take this time to talk about him… as dad.

He was a family man, a provider and a protector. He was every daughter’s dream – never too intrusive or overbearing, but he always made me feel safe. He was a man of few words, slightly awkward even to me, but his actions more than made up for that. He was a do’er –  I’ve lived in several homes since moving out at 18, and he always turned up with his toolbox and socket sets to put up beds, wardrobes, install washing machines and dishwashers, and fix anything he saw needed fixing. My dad did the same when my mum was able to coax him away from his beloved rugby club for a couple of days to spend time with my partner John and his parents, John and Julie, in Durham – and even then, he would have to find something to install or fix in their home to accept being hosted. But that was who he was – true to his Yorkshire roots, if he dropped a pound, it would hit him on the head before it hit the floor. He was frugal, but always made sure he gave back to others’ kindness.

Growing up, I found myself questioning how a man like my dad could be a police officer on the frontline streets of Manchester. Not because of his ability, but because he was so shy, and he never caused or retaliated to conflict. But that all changed one Christmas, I was about 13 or 14, and we’d spent the afternoon in the loft, getting the Christmas decorations down. The ladder to the loft was still up, so my inquisitive self went back up there to have a nosey around. Amongst the fabric jungle of my mum’s clothes, was a yellow carrier bag and in that bag, I found my dad’s old police truncheon. It was a heavy lump of solid wood and I was amazed, transfixed by it until I turned it over in my hand and saw a very clear bite mark. It flew out of my hands as if it were on fire, and I was straight back down that ladder. I went downstairs later that evening, still slightly disturbed but my burning curiosity prevailed and I found my dad in the kitchen, cooking tea. I offered to help him and whilst chopping some lettuce I mustered up the courage to ask him a question about his time in the police, but I’m also shy and awkward so the question that came out was “dad, have you ever punched anyone?” My dad didn’t react, he didn’t lift his eyes from what he was doing, he just smiled. And that was that.

Today, I’m not grieving for us. I’m grieving for my dad. 64 years is a good run, but my dad deserved so many more years. His loss has ripped a huge hole in our family and our lives will never be the same. And I know my dad’s loss will be felt in the wider community, for months and years to come. But, today is a celebration of his life, and I would like to thank each and every one of you for being here to honour the man that he was.

Tribute by Adam Massingham

Today, we gather to honour, remember, and say goodbye to my father, Ian David Massingham, ‘Mad Dog’. When I was growing up, my father taught me discipline and to never talk back to my mother. I may have broken those rules a couple of times, however, my dad was always there to put me in check every time I did, and not point the finger, or smack up the bottom, which was most likely deserved. My dad would have had discipline himself for being in the police for 30 years. Having said that, you can understand why I was brought up with discipline and integrity.

Back when I was a teenager, my dad would turn up on a Saturday morning and watch me play football for my high school team after marking out rugby pitches down at Toc H. I loved it when my dad would watch me play football. Every time I would be on the receiving end of a bad tackle, I would look at him like I had broken my leg, and he would just start laughing and tell me to get on with it. And by doing so, that toughened me up because in all the years my dad played rugby, especially in his peak in the 80s, it made me think about the mentality my dad had every time he crossed that white line when playing for Toc H.

I went to Parrs Wood High School, just like my dad did. In the summer of 2007, it was my first sports day. On that day, my dad finished work early so he could come and watch me run the 200 metres sprint and the 100 metres sprint. I won the 200metres race and I came second in the 100 metres race, which I thought I’d won at the time. And I remember my dad coming over to me after the race saying, ‘You won that race’. But due to a kid who sat in the first position chair, after being told he was second, and wouldn’t move, I somehow had to sit in the second chair and take second place on the chin. The reason I’m telling you this story is because I used to have this debate with my dad about who was faster, me or him.

I’d say, ‘Me at the age of 24 and my dad at the age of 24, who would win a 100m race?’ Of course, my dad said he would, and of course I said that I would. But I guess I’ll never know, because when he was 24, I wasn’t even born. And that’s when he started getting married to my mother.

As I got older, I could tell how much my dad loved my mum. Even if she drove him up the wall at times, I could see how much my dad adored my mum. He filled my mum’s heart with nothing but pure love, which means my mother would get my dad to do things he didn’t necessarily want to do. But he did it anyway, because he’d be putting the biggest smile on my mum’s face when there was something happening at Toc H that day.

My dad probably dreamed of me being the next fullback at Toc H when I was born, but sadly I was always a better footballer than I was a rugby player. But in the small bit of time I did play rugby, I remember every try we scored, which wasn’t many, he would run over to me, wearing his big steel toe-cap boots, Toc H polo shirt and big high-vis coat, with the kicking tee in his hand ready to give it to me to kick the conversion. And as I was lining up the ball in between the posts, he would tell me the direction of the wind that was blowing that day, so I would get the kick right every time. Every time I kicked the ball through the posts, I’d look at my dad and smile, but his reaction would be, business as usual, get to position and don’t drop any high kick ball. He taught me how to kick a rugby ball properly, and the amount of knowledge my dad had when it came to rugby was unbelievable. And in that one season, in the Toc H Under 15s, he didn’t miss a single game I played. But after that season, I went back to playing football.

One funny memory I have of my dad is a couple of years ago. He was fitting in the new shower, and all the old parts of the shower were outside in the back garden. It was winter time, and I have no doubt my mother would have asked my dad to go outside in the back garden to get some firewood to start a fire. As this was happening, I stood on our back doorstep, watching him. And as he went out to get some firewood, he slipped on our old shower door and fell flat on his arse. So, I paused and asked if my dad was okay. And as he tried to get up from his hands and knees, in an out-of-breath voice, he went, ‘Yeah, yeah, fine’. I held my laughter in as I quickly walked into the living room where my mother was sat, and I told her what had just happened. And then we both burst out in tears of laughter until my dad walked back in the room to put the wood on the fire, acting as if nothing had happened. And that was just how my dad was in those situations. He just brushed it off and sat down next to my mum, and continued to watch what they were watching.

Starting from Christmas two years ago, I made a tradition where I would have a shot of whisky with my dad every year. The first year we did, I got the two Spanish shot glasses out of the glass cupboard, which had the Spanish flag with a bull on it, and which we got from my grandparents’ house – my father’s parents who lived in Spain. I poured the whisky into the shot glasses, and as soon as they were full, I went to put the lid back on the Jack Daniels, and before I knew it, my dad had already necked the shot. So, I said, ‘Dad, you’re meant to wait for me so we can say ‘cheers’ and do it together. His reply was, ‘Oh, sorry, I didn’t know we were doing that’. And that’s just something with Dad. I would often come home drunk from a night out in the early hours of the morning, and sometimes my dad would be awake on his computer in his dressing gown, going through his emails, probably something to do with Toc H. I would get the courage to ask him if he was proud of me, and he would just reply with, ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah’, and he’d shrug it off with a smirk and get back to his emails. Again, probably something to do with Toc H. But that was the sort of relationship I had with dad, and that was OK.

As I come to the end of my heartbreaking eulogy about my father, my cousin Dale was checking on me last week, asking how I’m doing, because he sadly lost his father at the exact same age that I lost mine. So, we got talking about my dad, and he said one thing that stood out to him was, ‘You’re his image, his creation’. And in that moment, I was so proud to call him dad. But he wasn’t just my dad, he was my king, he was my hero, and he was my idol. He was a loving, faithful husband to my mother, and my sister was daddy’s girl.

People tell me that I’m the spitting image of my dad, which gives me great joy and happiness, because looking back at old photos of my dad in his 20s and his 30s, he was a handsome young man. Apart from the time I was a kid, and my mum showed me a photo of them at their wedding. And according to my mother, I said, ‘Why has dad got hair on his lip mummy?’ And now that I’m all grown up, I have to agree with my younger self.

My dad may not be with us anymore, but the memories and loving times will last forever in my forever broken heart. If I am ever to have children one day, I will raise them as my dad raised me and my sister. Love, compassion, discipline, integrity, and last, but not least, ‘Bloody get on with it’, as my dad would say.

So, I’d like to take this opportunity to thank everybody who is sat in this church as we mourn my dad and remember him as a great man who would do anything for anyone.

Rest in peace, dad. We all love you.

Tribute by Tom Summers

As I am writing this, I am filled with a profound sense of gratitude and love for a man who was much more than an uncle to me. Every memory I have of Ian comes with a big smile. And for those who know me, it’s not like me to smile often. Yet, Ian had this incredible ability to light up a room with his presence, his laughter, and his unwavering kindness. His spirit was infectious, and it was impossible not to feel happy when he was around.

Ian played a significant role in my life, even in ways I didn’t realize at the time. Without knowing it, he was a guiding light in my decision to join the police. From being driven around the city center in a marked Capri to working on the bar at Bootle Street, it was clear I would eventually join the Police.

During my initial training, Ian was only a phone call away, and I would often ring for advice, especially when it was traffic-related. That support continued for years. Ian’s guidance was invaluable, and his willingness to help was a testament to his generous nature.

There are so many memories, but some are particularly personal to me. In 2010, when I needed somewhere to live, Ian was on hand to assist with the financial aspect, even though I would often joke about dusting off the cobwebs if he got his wallet out. It was no problem for Ian; he did not hesitate for one second.

I wanted Ian to be the godfather to my son, and the christening was just after Ian’s mum, Pat, sadly passed away. Despite his grief, he still made the 160-mile round trip to fulfill this role. His dedication to family and his ability to prioritize others, even during tough times, showed the depth of his character.

Ian, thank you for the smiles, the laughter, and the inspiration. You will be greatly missed, but never, ever forgotten.

Tribute by Richard Massingham

I wanted to start by thanking you all for paying your respects here today, but also for the truly amazing number of heartwarming messages of condolence, and we will come to some of those later.

Ian Massingham – also known as, strangely, Mad Dog Massingham. I never quite understood this as Ian was anything but a Mad Dog. I think we all know him as a modest, quiet guy who always, and I mean always, put others before himself. He introduced me to Toc H, a rugby club that shared his values and that benefitted from Ian’s amazing contribution for pretty much half a century.

Ian and I were always very close. Mum told me when I was in my thirties that Ian had watched over me all through my childhood, when kids played outside, and also at school. I was 6 years his junior and when I started at Parrs Wood school he was in the upper 6^th. The school, like many in urban areas had its fair share of bullies and ne’redowells and unbeknownst to me at breaks and lunchtime he was watching over me. Apparently, if anyone of dubious reputation even looked in my direction he would go over and advise them that I was effectively under his protection. This was not because he was a hard man or anything like that but because he was recognised as the best athlete in the school and it is this that I turn to next.

In my first year, I sort of new Ian was athletic and mum would mention it from time to time. Some here will remember his old nickname of Broom. The PE teachers referred to me as ‘Young Broom’ and immediately told me I had a lot to live up to. At the school sports day we were lead out to sit along the back straight in our class to watch the events. One of these was the 4 x 100m relay and Ian had the second leg so would pass in front of us. He received the batten ten metres down and handed it over ten metres in front. My classmates were literally dumbstruck at the speed and style of it all and they asked the question – who was that? My heart beamed with 11 year old pride to say that was my brother Ian. He won the 100 and 200 that day and then trotted over to the javelin. Kids at school can normally through around 20 to 30 metres and they did. Ian comes along, takes twice the run up and send it 65 metres. Amazingly, he came second to a kid called Chris Thompson who went on to represent England.

I will come to his rugby prowess soon, but his athletic achievements got him noticed at regional level and he worked his way to the Greater Manchester schools under 18s finals at Stretford Athletic stadium. I was at the front of the stand ready to watch. I looked across and there were seven other competitors, clearly sponsored with all the gear on, best spiked trainers etc. Ian comes out of the changing room and walks to lane three. They are all staring at him in his ripped rugby shorts, tee shirt and knackered old trainers. He finished a close third, maybe half a yard, with the winner timed at 11 seconds.

At that time Parrs Wood had a rugby team and this was his passion. He was a full back, kicked goals and new his game, lines of running, timing of pass and always think of the team. Never would he get white line fever and he would always pass if it was the best option. He Joined Toc H as a colt and was selected to play for Greater Manchester schools and I watched him away in Sheffield on a freezing, howling day. Faultless throughout, the opposition soon realised he would cut them apart so the wing forward, off the ball, gives him the forearm smash. My mum saw this and was going ballistic. Ian had some treatment at the touchline and said ‘Mum, its fine’. The thing about speed is it has a direct effect on Power. The wing forward makes a break and, almost mythically, Ian takes the guy out and dismantles his ribcage – our eldest brother Steve had a phrase for this, ‘vicious but fair’.

His rugby career was sadly cut short when he joined the police and respective shift patterns and then with a neck injury, but many here will recall his captaincy in the lower teams. Always welcoming, never critical, lead by example and respected by all.

One aspect about Ian that many will not know is that he was a very talented artist. He got me into trouble once because of this. I was shocking at drawing and I was struggling over my art homework – I had to draw a kitchen fork. He said ‘bring it over here, let’s have a look’. He laughed, picked up the pencil and in twenty minutes produced something that looked as though you could pick it up and eat your fish and chips with it. I handed the homework in and unlike my usual D minus, I got an A+ caveated with the note ‘Don’t let your brother do your homework again’. I believe that to this day a watercolour he did remains hung in the Headmaster’s office at Parrs Wood School.

After retiring from playing he took up the groundsman role. For the next 30 plus years he produced the very best playing surfaces he could which when he started was difficult – poor drainage, lack of equipment etc. Over time however, all these disadvantages were resolved and the pitches and grounds improved beyond recognition. The results of a dedicated, selfless individual, whose contribution to amateur sport has been recognised, always by the club, but also at RFU and Greater Manchester Sports awards. Such was his commitment to the role that you should not be surprised to see his ghost pushing a line marker round the pitches after midnight. Nicola is this OK?

Jon Walker reminded me of something in his message. There was a day when Mr Gareth Oakley and I were looking out of the clubroom pre match and saw a figure pushing a line marker, with stuff in both hands, something slung over his back and in the absolutely howling rain. Ian used to wear a non-porous hi viz thick plastic overcoat. In these conditions and having marked out two football and two rugby pitches there was a halo of steam, originating from his collar. I think it was Gaz who said questioningly ‘club man of the year award?’. He was of course, that year and countless others, and was declared the same for the season just ended, posthumously awarded.

This leads me to the messages I have received. So many of them feature the phrase ‘club legend’, he was the first guy I met, lovely welcoming personality, met him on the field and always had a chat, cornerstone of the club. They go on and on, too many to mention, but this modest man would have been amazed for the depth of feeling everyone had for him.

So to Nicola, Adam and Laura you already know he was a great husband and father and to Frances, Stephen and I a loyal, funny and inspirational brother. We can mourn his loss, as we should, but I prefer to remember and celebrate the greatness of the man and the big brother he always was to me.

Thank you all for paying your respects.