Yesterday was the 4th anniversary of my father's death. He died a lonely, alcoholic death in a warden controlled flat in Parsons Green on Good Friday 2009. He was alone, 64 and left unfound for 6 days. His was a sad, alcoholic story of life and death.
His life was a classic alcoholic story. It affected a whole family, town and generation. His life wasn't in vain though. Through his sad death it inspired my Mother to go to Alanon and find recovery from a 40 year battle with alcoholism. It also galvanised a cause in me to campaign for my own and other people's recovery from alcoholism as a terrible, powerful destructive disease.
Only a man of his ego could be born on Christmas Day and die on Good Friday. And only a man of my ego could find a sober rebirth on Easter Sunday 2001. You couldn't make it up. I have taken on this family arrogance baton into sobriety. Like father like son.
I loved my father. he was my hero. A very funny, charismatic man. But he was afflicted by the disease of alcoholism and after he left the family home in 1985 when I was 13, he effectively lived a solitary life of a drunk until he died alone, in 2009. A 24 year suicide.
I share this because it is interesting on many levels. I am not owning the story to be sadder than others. Many people have got tragedy and sadness in their families/past. I am not using it to puff up my ego and make a point. I simply wanted to put the story of alcoholism down and how it affects a family and how in death life can begin.
It is a story of life and death, alcoholism and recovery. Sadness and light. It is a story about how David Michael Evans' life can inspire. Perhaps not in the way he thought or wanted. But in the way it was. I hope some may find solace, connection, identification or hope through reading it and have a couple of chuckles along the way. After all what is life without laughter?
I hadn't seen my father since I was 18, and then it was only for 30 minutes when my Niece was born in 1990. He had left my life when I was 13, due to his heavy alcoholism. He lived a life of a street drunk, popping up now and again. The odd phone call here, a card there. He was alive but not alive. The living dead type life that active alcoholism brings.
His life was a classic alcoholic story. It affected a whole family, town and generation. His life wasn't in vain though. Through his sad death it inspired my Mother to go to Alanon and find recovery from a 40 year battle with alcoholism. It also galvanised a cause in me to campaign for my own and other people's recovery from alcoholism as a terrible, powerful destructive disease.
Only a man of his ego could be born on Christmas Day and die on Good Friday. And only a man of my ego could find a sober rebirth on Easter Sunday 2001. You couldn't make it up. I have taken on this family arrogance baton into sobriety. Like father like son.
I loved my father. he was my hero. A very funny, charismatic man. But he was afflicted by the disease of alcoholism and after he left the family home in 1985 when I was 13, he effectively lived a solitary life of a drunk until he died alone, in 2009. A 24 year suicide.
I share this because it is interesting on many levels. I am not owning the story to be sadder than others. Many people have got tragedy and sadness in their families/past. I am not using it to puff up my ego and make a point. I simply wanted to put the story of alcoholism down and how it affects a family and how in death life can begin.
It is a story of life and death, alcoholism and recovery. Sadness and light. It is a story about how David Michael Evans' life can inspire. Perhaps not in the way he thought or wanted. But in the way it was. I hope some may find solace, connection, identification or hope through reading it and have a couple of chuckles along the way. After all what is life without laughter?
I hadn't seen my father since I was 18, and then it was only for 30 minutes when my Niece was born in 1990. He had left my life when I was 13, due to his heavy alcoholism. He lived a life of a street drunk, popping up now and again. The odd phone call here, a card there. He was alive but not alive. The living dead type life that active alcoholism brings.
You get used to the drama and chaos an alcoholic causes in a house but you just get on with it. The drama becomes the norm and that's all someone growing up in alcoholic/addict house is used to. You don't blink at arguments, police, court orders, domestic violence, fear, guilt, worry and violence. In fact normality seems rather dull in comparison.
The effect on a child growing up in this environment is profound. You don't think it of course as you just live your life, but for me it has resulted in a double life, people pleasing, dishonesty, feeling sorry for myself, feeling superior to others, incredible anger, frustration, impatience, lack of self esteem and a series of failed relationships. Of course, I'm not laying the blame for my life at my father's door. My own alcoholism did a great job of that, but now that I'm 40 I can see how some of the patterns of my upbringing has affected my life as an adult. Part nature and part nurture. That can be true of many people.
When I got the call in 2009 I was shocked. I hadn’t thought about him for ages. You get used to not having a father. I called my Mum, brothers and girlfriend. I was asked by my cousin if I wanted to take care of affairs, seeing as he had been out of our lives for so long. I didn't hesitate. Of course I did. He was my father after all and it was my duty.
I made calls to the coroner trying to find out the facts of his death and piece together his life. You have to take the role of a sleuth, trying to piece together the alcoholics final few years.
I found out he lived in a warden controlled flat. On welfare for years. He had apparently been in and out of hospital for years with liver failure and host of other alcohol related problems. He had a hemorrhage in his sleep and was found dead after Easter, he had been laying dead, in his flat for a few days. Last seen before Easter, so i figured a man as egotistical and grandiose as him, born on Christmas Day 1944, probably died on or around Good Friday. Only he could do that!
The effect on a child growing up in this environment is profound. You don't think it of course as you just live your life, but for me it has resulted in a double life, people pleasing, dishonesty, feeling sorry for myself, feeling superior to others, incredible anger, frustration, impatience, lack of self esteem and a series of failed relationships. Of course, I'm not laying the blame for my life at my father's door. My own alcoholism did a great job of that, but now that I'm 40 I can see how some of the patterns of my upbringing has affected my life as an adult. Part nature and part nurture. That can be true of many people.
When I got the call in 2009 I was shocked. I hadn’t thought about him for ages. You get used to not having a father. I called my Mum, brothers and girlfriend. I was asked by my cousin if I wanted to take care of affairs, seeing as he had been out of our lives for so long. I didn't hesitate. Of course I did. He was my father after all and it was my duty.
I made calls to the coroner trying to find out the facts of his death and piece together his life. You have to take the role of a sleuth, trying to piece together the alcoholics final few years.
I found out he lived in a warden controlled flat. On welfare for years. He had apparently been in and out of hospital for years with liver failure and host of other alcohol related problems. He had a hemorrhage in his sleep and was found dead after Easter, he had been laying dead, in his flat for a few days. Last seen before Easter, so i figured a man as egotistical and grandiose as him, born on Christmas Day 1944, probably died on or around Good Friday. Only he could do that!
The coroner was lovely stating that it would have been quick and he wouldn't have suffered. But he suffered for 24 years.
I went to where he lived and spoke to the warden who put some pieces of the jigsaw together, it was then the real details of the alcoholics demise were brought to life. He lived in an old peoples block for 3 years, looking disheveled and tramp like most of the time. Leaving early to go and drink with his pals on Sheperd's Bush Green and coming back late at night. He said he didn't have kids (3 of us) and had effectively blocked out his past. (I don't blame him or am angry or hurt, it's just the pain of alcoholism - imagine normal people saying how can you do that? Too painful for him i guess so much easier to say you didn't have any)
I got the keys to his flat. I needed to see where he died. How he lived and get any details, papers and articles. The warden warned it wasn't nice. That he had been dead in bed for days. I was with my Mum and girlfriend (a normal person who hadn't ever been exposed to alcoholism or addiction)
Nothing prepared us for that flat. A small place. We opened the door and the stench of death was overwhelming. The heating was on full blast, it was a mild Easter and it was just a horrible smell. Disgusting. On the left was the kitchen. Bare, no cutlery, plates or anything. Just an ironing board with a book on it. A Rebus book from Ealing hospital library and rather ironically a book on health. In the fridge was an old fish and chip dinner out of date by 5 weeks.
Then the living room. Bare. 1 chair. A guitar, Free newspapers. Hospital papers and that was it. Empty. soulless. In humane.
Then bathroom. Filthy. Covered in blood on the walls and toilet. Like he had been throwing up blood for years. A horrid state,
And finally the worst room. The bedroom. An utter synopsis of the end of the road for an alcoholic. Fuck Tracey Ermin's Bed installation. If I was to do one entitled alcoholism. I would reproduce the room. It was horrifying, upsetting, shocking, sad.
The stench was horrid. There was blood on the empty bed where he had died. There were clothes and knee deep rubbish all around the room. Empty bottles of vodka, cider and High strength lager strewn around. Cheap ones. When you reach that stage of alcoholism Smirnoff and other 'luxury' brands are long gone. Blood spattered paperwork was next to the bed. Shit and devastation everywhere. It was truly horrifying. But I guess the norm to him.
I had to look for his wallet, to try and get some details. I found his trousers on the floor. And this to me sums up alcoholism for those of you who don't understand it is a mental illness with a massive ego and self esteem divorced from reality. He had a pair of chinos (shit stained) with a dressing gown cord as a belt and in the pocket of these trousers which signified someone who had given up, were 2 combs. 2 combs! Clearly he still thought he 'had it' even at the end. That is the delusion of alcoholism, and always makes me smile when i think about it. Alcoholism is tragic funny. You have to see the humour to feel the sadness.
His wallet was a Freedom Travel pass and i found a cash card, money (fuck me can i have 25 years of child support payments please?) a picture of him, which we didn't recognise, yet did at same time. The arrogant menacing look and the nose broken and face ravaged with booze) and i found a piece of paper with 2 names and numbers. One was a woman he was with for a while but who left him to go to New Zealand, her number and the other, my name 'Nicki (as he called me) Evans (son) and my number. I think that got me the most. Clearly it was numbers to contact in case someone found him. Like he knew his fate, Prepared for it. He carried me around with him throughout. Makes me cry every time.
I took in the scene. Said a prayer. Talked to him. We took some paperwork and left. We were all stunned. Went for a coffee and sat in stunned silence, shock and sadness. My girlfriend never knew or met him, but she was so sad to see someone end up like that. If someone who doesn't know alcoholism or know the person at all, felt a connection and sadness on seeing that - then it can have a profound effect on people's attitudes to alcoholism. My Mum was so upset as she married this charismatic man, full of life and fun and stature. She had 3 children with him, she went through years of horrific alcoholism with him, yet for her to see his final years like this was massively upsetting for her. Tragic. It left a print in time on all of our minds.
For me? I don't know. He was my father. My hero. I looked up to him, Sought his approval. I was his son. I was upset of course, But i guess 12 years in AA, helping lots of newcomers or low bottom drunks, going to hostels etc - made me sort of used to what i had seen. I was also there to do a job, get my father buried with dignity and organise the details. I was shocked but i think i had better preparation than my Mum or girlfriend. I felt the connection of it being my father of course, but I also saw alcoholism, the rapacious creditor claiming another life.
Those were the circumstances. A few things stuck in my mind. The warden said my Dad was funny and joking that he discovered Charlotte Church. I emailed her management team and they had never heard of Mike Evans. I'm not sure she frequented Shepherds Bush Green much, though i admire his Grandiosity.
Those were the circumstances. A few things stuck in my mind. The warden said my Dad was funny and joking that he discovered Charlotte Church. I emailed her management team and they had never heard of Mike Evans. I'm not sure she frequented Shepherds Bush Green much, though i admire his Grandiosity.
The other was my brother Rob, organising the funeral directors and getting a discount deal. Great businessman, his Dad, a born bullshitting salesman would have been proud.
At the funeral there were 8 of us. Mortlake Crematorium. Nobody attending was from post 1987. Another example of how alcoholism robs you of life. A vivid example. It was a long slow suicide. A living death. A textbook case of alcoholism. The difference between active alcoholism and sobriety can be seen in funerals. My father pursued it to the gates of insanity and death. He had 8 people at the funeral. My friend Malcolm who dies last year 22 years sober had 300. The difference is stark.
It doesn't mean they are loved any less. It doesn't mean their lives are less worthy. It doesn't mean they are lesser people. It just means alcoholism will rob you of everything until it gets what it wants in the end. Your life.
It doesn't mean they are loved any less. It doesn't mean their lives are less worthy. It doesn't mean they are lesser people. It just means alcoholism will rob you of everything until it gets what it wants in the end. Your life.
I shall end this blog with the words I spoke at the funeral as we got him cremated to the Theme Tune to Minder. The last time we were together as a family. A happy nostalgic memory before the alcoholism took over.
If anyone is struggling to accept alcoholism as a disease read on. If anyone wonders why I'm a passionate supporter of recovery read on. If anyone wonders why i believe David Michael Evans to be a powerful example in death then read on. He is an inspiration for me. The reason I do sobriety. The reason sometimes I'm so evangelical about the power of the disease. I don't want a long lonely alcoholic death. I don't want others to have to endure 30 years of pain. I don't want families to hide it, claim it doesn't exist. I don't want the ignorance to continue.
Sometimes i don't feel good enough. Sometimes I don't know what it is to be man. Sometimes my own alcoholic ego runs away with itself or I struggle with my purpose, my journey, my soul. But in this time i felt a man. It felt right.
Here it is; I knew what to do. I felt God. I felt compelled. I felt at peace. Here are the words from the funeral. Thank you for reading ;
If anyone is struggling to accept alcoholism as a disease read on. If anyone wonders why I'm a passionate supporter of recovery read on. If anyone wonders why i believe David Michael Evans to be a powerful example in death then read on. He is an inspiration for me. The reason I do sobriety. The reason sometimes I'm so evangelical about the power of the disease. I don't want a long lonely alcoholic death. I don't want others to have to endure 30 years of pain. I don't want families to hide it, claim it doesn't exist. I don't want the ignorance to continue.
Sometimes i don't feel good enough. Sometimes I don't know what it is to be man. Sometimes my own alcoholic ego runs away with itself or I struggle with my purpose, my journey, my soul. But in this time i felt a man. It felt right.
Here it is; I knew what to do. I felt God. I felt compelled. I felt at peace. Here are the words from the funeral. Thank you for reading ;
David Michael Evans – 1944 – 2009 – My Father. Dad
My memories of my father are faded. I last saw him when his Grandaughter, Nadia Eloise was born 18 years ago in 1991, I was 18. He was dressed all in green, though I don’’t think you could call him the green goddess. I saw him for 20 minutes.
Before that, I last saw him when I was 13 years old in 1986. I was Just a boy, all Miami Vice pastel colours and acne.
It seems strange talking about my father as an adult. As a man, when all my memories I have of him are as a boy. The builders bum, the endless mutterings, the dodgy DIY, the stash of adult mags, the Farah's, the B&H, the Ford Granada's, the beard, the accent, the size of him, the nose, the eyes, the stare.
He was a big man, both in size and character. He was funny – but I used to draw the line at his corned beef hash and marrow fat peas.
He reminded me of a cross between a Welsh Regan and Carter from the Sweeney, all cheap nylon suits and stale whisky breath.
But he was my Dad and I loved him. When we lost him to alcoholism, I remember being so sad and asking why?
Me, Rob and Mark (my brothers) went to visit him in the Salvation Army to plead with him to sort himself out, to stop drinking and be our Dad again. He couldn’t and didn’t – he was ill. I remember feeling so sorry for him and so sad that it was tragic – and now years later that is the overriding feeling I have. Sad and tragic but with more empathy and understanding.
Then my thoughts of my father were as a boy but Now I am a man, and I still feel that hurt. To see his last few years and how he lived makes me sad. All that talent, all that love. Such a shame
He missed so much in that last 24 years. His son’s growing up, his granddaughters Nadia and Jade. His Sisters, 3 Welsh grand slams, my 1st comedy gig, London marathons and all the little life events that make it so special to share with the ones you loved.
In many ways he was a stranger, a distant Dad over the past 24 years. But he was my dad, our Dad. And in his sad death he becomes alive in us all – his family and friends.
Death is so sad. A loss, however it can do good things – and that can happen out of Dad’s death. It has reconnected us with him, with our past, it has put him back with the ones who loved him. Today we are here, together to honour, to remember, to pay our respects even when you didn’t know you had any to give.
He was ill, he was lost, he was alone and now he isn’t. He is here – with us, with his family and friends and will soon be with his father and mother -he is going home, to Llanelli, to Wales to be at peace.
So Dad, it has come full circle, all the things that we didn’t get the chance to say then – we can say now. I forgive you, We forgive you, I love you, We love you - you are my Dad and you will always be so in my heart, in my head and in my life. Stay with us Dad this time and never let go – you are missed even if you never thought you were – We never stopped loving you.
The pain is over for you. It is time to let go. To find peace – we are reunited and I hope and pray that we all pause for 1 moment to think of a good memory of David Michael Evans (or whoever you miss or have lost and loved), a funny moment that will make you smile………
I love you Dad. Goodbye – May God love you forever
RIP David Michael Evans
Together We Are Stronger
Nicky Evans
Together We Are Stronger
Nicky Evans
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