Eulogy for John Hammond

July 11, 1997

Imagine yourself nearly 50 years ago, wandering around the market at Petticoat Lane in London, UK. You'll see many things as you browse the windows, stop for snacks, and enjoy a relaxing day out with friends. But of the all the things you may see, probably the most unusual that you'll see is a man, somewhere in his early 30s, standing outside a pie shop, wearing the only suit he has and standing next to a circus tent the size of a dinner plate. As you move closer, you'll notice a number of things outside the tent: a see-saw, a carousel, a miniature trapeze, just to name a few. But more to the point, you'll see that they're all moving, seemingly of their own accord. It is only now that you realize that you've stumbled across the flea circus of John Parker Hammond.

The flea circus at Petticoat Lane was John Hammond's first ever public attraction. A young man, having come down from Scotland not long after the end of WWII, Hammond had a natural flare for showmanship. People were drawn to the flea-size circus tent despite its lack of any real spectacle, all because of John's sheer charisma. Even then, there was a twinkle in his eye, a gleam in his pure white smile, and a soothing, comforting softness in his voice as he spoke.

It soon became obvious that John had charm enough to bring in the crowds. But John was more than just a kindly face. He was a man of grand ideas, ideas that only grew in size and scope as he got older. "Spare no expense!" That's what he used to tell me, and it's what set him apart from most other men of business, both then and now. To him, business was a performance, of which he was a master. It was something of craft and devotion, like a finely sculpted marble bust. The most important part of it to him was to see the fruits of his labor in the eyes of awed spectators the word over. John couldn't put a price on wonder and delight, which is why his attractions were always the best.

But John was for more than a venture capitalist. He was a devoted family man, already married by the time of the flea circus. His wife, Abigail, was with him until her untimely death in 1984 from an automobile accident in Southampton. Devastated, John could do nothing but devote the rest of his remaining energy into his forthcoming prospects.

John and Abigail had three daughters: Meghan, Taylor, and Margaret. Only Taylor would go on to have children of her own, giving John his only two grandchildren, Alexis and Timothy Murphy. Lex and Tim once told me at a family affair in 1992 that having John for a grandfather was like having a real life Santa Clause in the family. He certainly gave them enough presents.

All throughout his career, many of John's critics have tried to portray him as a callous robber baron, a Machiavellian business man blinded by greed and with ambition that overshadowed any hints of compassion or sympathy. These criticisms have become all the more prevalent ever since the tragedy in 1993. But these people didn't know John as I did, or as Abigail did, or as Lex and Tim did. He was a man filled with wonder and with love, and with a burning desire to share that with the whole world. John may have been short-sighted in the long run, but he was never malicious. They also forget how much John did to make amends, and to prevent future tragedies from happening. Money was never John's primary concern.

They say to never speak ill of the dead. Personally, I believe that you can speak ill of the dead, so long as it was something you would have said to their face when they were alive. If he were still with us, I would dare any of John's harshest critics to look into those sparkling eyes, face that warm smile, and say the things they have said against him these past few days.

Good bye John. I swear that to the fullest extent of my power, your legacy will not be shamed.

By Simon Masrani