Lag's Obituaries

If you would like to write an obituary for an Old Lag please feel free to e-mail it to me for inclusion .

John Jones pens an affectionate tribute to Frank Guard

The phrase larger than life was possibly originally penned to describe Frank Guard. A man who was as round as he was tall, he was, once upon a time, a winger for Bristol RFC who only drank halves of shandy. His downfall, all those years ago, was to find St. Matthias, whereupon he embraced the drinking culture in the manner of Aphrodite embracing Adonis. During his time at St Matthias he participated in many of the college sporting activities. Whilst being a regular on the soap in the sink oche, and participating fully in Fizz-buzz and bare extremities on the cricket square his main contribution to St Matts' sport lay in two areas. Firstly with the rugby team where his experience at a high level of rugby was invaluable to a student team, some of whom were new to rugby, but it was his second contribution that far outweighed anything that he achieved on the rugby pitch. He was a master at the sport of winding up Geoff Dawes. Whilst this was a fairly easy proposition to achieve, having the nerve to do it and the wit to survive it required a special sort of bravery. Frank it was, I am sure, who dipped his toast into Geoffs unbroken fried egg yolk and set off possibly the most volcanic eruption in the history of that man's turbulent career. Frank's speedy exit from the Refectory, closely followed by Geoff swearing blue murder and wielding one of Marta's best knives, has entered college folk-lore. His love of socialising with a few pints never left him, neither did his ability to cause an argument in an empty room. He was one of those people with a natural bent for disagreement. Whatever viewpoint you had, Frank would have a contrary one, but it is testament to his persuasive abilities that if fourteen of you wanted to eat at a Thai restaurant and Frank wanted to eat at an English one, you invariably ended up at the English restaurant. It is also testament to his abilities that he rose to the top of his chosen career. Starting life as a salesman with Buck and Hickman in Bristol, he became a director of the company and had only recently retired when he died. Infuriating though he could be, Frank was never less than good company and a steadfast friend. He had a generosity of spirit and a warmth of personality that won most people over to his side, eventually. At St Matthias Frank met his wife Helen and they were married for over 30 years. He is survived by Helen and his three children, Bethan, Daniel & Matthew.

Tony Garland adds a footnote.

I shared a flat with Frank in Staple Hill in 1971. He was a great guy - I will always remember the loud voiced arguments with him wagging his stubby finger at you and then just breaking out in a front-toothless smile and you realise he has once again been winding you up and cursing cos you fell for it again.

John Jones writes about that giant of man Geoff (Weffy) Dawes

Geoff Dawes wanted to be a Viking...or Eric Clapton or Andy Ripley or Bob Willis, anyone but Geoff Dawes. Rarely was a man so uncomfortable in his own skin as was Geoff. His frustration at not being what he thought he should be led him to having an explosive temper, but his bark was invariably worse than his bite..if you stayed around long enough to find out!!! He was, what is universally accepted nowadays as an oxymoron, an intelligent Essex boy who despite, or perhaps because of, having handwriting that was completely unintelligible, looking, as it did like the result of letting an LSD crazed, ink-stained spider run across the page, went on to gain his BEd. This was a not inconsiderable achievement in an age when degrees were not scattered about like confetti. Achieving academic success never interfered with Geoff's drinking prowess and he was feted as the chairman of Fizz-buzz, Names of and other well known drinking games. You never wanted to fall foul of Geoff in one of these sessions or you were doomed, in the early hours of the morning, to endure the whirling pit as your room revolved around your bed in an alcoholic version of an Alton Towers ride. Throughout his time at St Matts he was part of the backbone of the rugby and cricket teams, where he was mean fast bowler with a brooding, glowering presence that must have caused nervous breakdowns amongst visiting batsmen. He was the only man I know who could turn the gentle English pursuit of croquet into all out warfare: being pursued by a blond, crazed, six foot ten giant wielding a mallet was a not unusual end to a game at college. Geoff built his life around his rock, Shelagh, his childhood sweetheart who followed him to St Matts. They married, despite the misgivings of Shelagh who knew even then that they had little in common, and Geoff's rock turned to sand as they grew further apart and eventually divorced. The sand turned to quicksand and Geoff eventually drowned in it. It is ironic that he should have died just as the loving hand that was required to pull him from the swamp had clutched his and was hauling him back to normalcy.

Tony Garland writes

A legend in his lifetime if it had not been for him (and John Jones) I would not have completed the course and consequently not embarked on a career I have loved throughout. I once made the mistake of challenging him when he was Chairman of Names of a mistake never to be repeated. Who could forget the Battle of Fishponds when the locals wanted to use our facilities an interesting evening to the tune of the flipside of Albatross, if I remember correctly we had just returned from a rugby match at Barry Training College.