Reflecting for the last few days, since learning of Barry’s death, and having delved deep in search of long since archived memories I find that I am writing this brief note with a huge smile on my face.
For many reasons, some more complex than others the vast majority of my recollections flow from my childhood.
An Orange mini, Spanish guitars, getting lost in North London as a direct consequence of Barry wanting to drive down White Heart Lane, walking in on Barry smoking a cigarette in his Haviland Way garden and consequently having to swear an oath of loyalty, specifically, not grassing him up to Pat. Playing footy on the open space created by the demolition of the council garages, listening to John Denver albums. It was Barry who introduced me to Dire Straits triggering a lifelong and borderline fanatical obsession of all things Mark Knopfler. Playing 20 questions with him and the frustration of never ever getting even close to identifying his chosen subject. One that I recall clearly; the subject had to be in the room. 20 useless questions later, Barry disclosed the answer “smears”, smears on the window.
I was 17 when I first announced my intent to join the British Army, it is fair to say that this declaration was generally met with ridicule and contempt but not from Barry. He and I sat and talked about it for a couple of hours; he was nothing but encouraging, respectful and utterly supportive of my decision. Some years later, I was home on leave and he pulled me to one side. He told me how proud he was, he had a sincere interest in my postings to Belfast and South Armagh and was keen to know the realities of the situation for soldiers there.
All of the above, these reignited memories, all share a common glue; laughter. My overwhelming memory of Barry is laughing, Barry made me laugh, even his laugh caused me to laugh more; on many occasions to the point of peeing my shorts.
Thanks Uncle Bings, you gave me memories that still make me smile some ha
Stuart Ingrey
01/03/2024
