Michael Kelly

A life well lived. Filled with stories, laughter, deep family bonds, loyal friendships, and moments shared with the people he loved the most.

Obituary

With deep sadness, we announce the passing of Michael Kelly, who was born on 15 November 1945 and passed away on 10 March 2026 in Rochdale, Greater Manchester.

Michael was a proud, born and raised, Mancunian. He carried the spirit of the city with him throughout his life — filled with humour, warmth, resilience and a deep sense of loyalty to family and community.

He was educated at North Manchester Grammar School before beginning his working life with the Gas Board, where he trained and qualified as a gas engineer. In later years, Michael moved into sales, a role perfectly suited to his natural gift for conversation and connection. He was known for his determination and meticulous record keeping, evidenced by the countless handwritten ledgers he kept over the years — documenting the thousands of customers and conversations that formed part of his working life.

Michael had a lifelong love of sport. In his younger years he played both football and cricket at a high level, and like many true Mancunians he remained a devoted supporter of Manchester United. Later in life, golf became a particular passion and a place of quiet enjoyment and companionship, particularly his many golfing trips with friends to Spain.

He also had a wonderfully sharp mind and an enduring love of puzzles and wordplay. Michael could seemingly solve almost any cryptic crossword placed in front of him and was always in his element at a good pub quiz, quietly confident that the answer would eventually reveal itself.

Above all, Michael will be remembered for his character. He had a dry sense of humour, a thoughtful nature, and an ability to make those around him feel comfortable and welcome. Conversations with Mike were rarely rushed; they were often filled with curiosity, warmth, and a genuine interest in the people around him.

Michael was dearly loved by his daughter Michelle, grandchildren Lauren and Max, sister Maureen and brother in law Kevin, nephews Gary, Dale and Mark, and his extended family Pauline, Barbara, Andrea & Chris, Kerry, Marlon, Chloe, Noah & Oscar, and Louise & Ida, along with the many friends he made throughout his life.

His passing leaves a space that cannot be filled. Yet the memories he created, the conversations shared, and the love he gave will continue to live on in the hearts of those who knew him.

He will be deeply missed and fondly remembered by all.

Thank-You

Michael’s life was filled with stories, friendships, humour and moments shared with the people he loved the most. As you read through the moments that shaped his life, we hope you can picture the man behind them: the conversations, the laughter, the quiet determination, and the warmth he brought to the people around him.

A life is never truly captured by dates alone. It lives on in the stories we tell, the memories we share and the moments that continue to make us smile when we think of him.

We invite you to add your own memories, photographs and stories to the memory wall, so that this page becomes a living tribute to Michael and together we can continue celebrating the life he lived.

Thank-you

Michelle Kelly
Michael's Daughter

I can be contacted via email michellepkelly@yahoo.co.uk or phone 07879 238012

Tributes

For my darling Dad Michael, from your loving daughter Michelle.


Anyone who spent any time with my Dad will know that once he started telling a story…you were in for the long haul.
There would be an immense amount of detail. Plenty of detours. And the occasional dramatic pause.

And by the time he reached the end…you usually realised you’d heard this story more than once before.
But somehow it was just as entertaining the second, or third, or tenth time around.

That was my Dad, Michael Kelly. And today… we’ve all gathered to celebrate the life of the amazing man behind those stories. The man who, in many ways, taught me everything I know about life…and how to truly live it well.

As he always used to say to me “Do it while you can, kid”
--
Growing up, I have so many fond memories of time spent with him, which almost always involved some kind of adventure.
I remember many moments with my auntie, uncle and cousins. The boys took it upon themselves to become the official protectors of the only little girl in the group, who would arrive in her pink dresses and frilly socks while Dad dragged me along to watch Manchester United at Old Trafford or, once I was old enough, to caddy for him at Blackley Golf Club.

I just thought this was how every little girl spent her weekends.
--
Sometimes our grand adventure was simply riding buses across Manchester.
One of my strongest memories is when I became completely obsessed with the film Calamity Jane.
On one bus journey, sat on the top deck, I decided to perform the entire soundtrack. Singing loudly…and probably quite badly.
“Whip-crack-away, whip-crack-away…”

Dad, of course, fully encouraged it. And our audience consisted of one lovely old gentleman who very kindly told us it was the “best bus journey of his life.” And most likely…the longest.

Naturally, that story became one of Dad’s favourites, proudly retold to anyone who would listen for years afterwards.
--
As I grew older, those little adventures changed shape. Life became busier. and our time together took on a different rhythm.
I would often go and visit him in Rochdale…which very reliably meant one thing. A trip to The Turks Head.

That was his place. Somewhere he felt completely at home. And those visits usually involved dinner, a few drinks…and, of course, the pub quiz which as we all know he loved…unless he didn’t know the answer.

The Turks wasn’t just a pub to him though. It was the backdrop to so many moments we shared. His 50th birthday. Millennium New Year’s Eve. My 21st. All of those milestones, woven into that same familiar place where he felt most himself.
--
And then there were the holidays. Trips to Tenerife with big groups of his friends…the kind of holidays that felt full of life from beginning to end.

I remember one New Year’s Eve in particular. A black tie event, which, at the time, felt impossibly glamorous to me.
There were fireworks over the water, music playing, all of us dancing to Motown Classics like the night would never end.
And, in true form…it didn’t.

Because when the taxis stopped running and most people would have called it a night…Dad and his friends simply didn’t see that as a problem. They picked up a few bottles of Siglo Saco for the journey and started the long walk home to Garden city instead. Determined to keep the night going, no matter what.

And I think that says everything about him. That sense of fun and refusal to let the moment end too soon.
Even if it came with a New Year’s Day hangover that I don’t think I will ever quite forget.
--
And through all of those years, through every stage of my life, he was always there in the same way. He loved nothing more than being with the people he loved. No matter how big or small the moment.

And I now have a box full of the precious memories he held onto all of these years, that tell the story of what mattered to him most.
Little notes from his mum and dad, often written on the back of photographs.

Drawings from his children and grandchildren when we were little. Birthday and Christmas cards from his family.

Small things we may have forgotten about over time…but he didn’t. Because to him, they were never small.
--
And he taught me so much about the world of work too, inspiring me and giving me the confidence to pursue my own business-owning dreams. Not through lectures or big pieces of advice, but simply by the way he lived his life. He got up every day, put on his suit, and went out to work.

He believed in people. He always said the secret to sales wasn’t about being pushy, it was about connecting. Having a conversation. Finding common ground. Being yourself.

And that was something he could do with anyone. He could walk into a room of strangers and walk out having made a friend.
--
He must have attended thousands of leads all across the North West.
Having the same conversations over and over again, and yet, somehow, always taking it in his stride.

His work gave him something real. A sense of purpose and pride.
In many ways, that commitment to simply showing up and doing the job well is one of the greatest legacies he gave me.
--
And for all of those years, that was Dad. Living life in his own way, on his own terms, leaving his mark on everyone he met.

He was also the strongest person I know. Some might say slightly unlucky, and maybe a little dramatic at times.
With his many falls in later years - often fuelled by too much Rioja – his multiple operations, and more hospital admissions than we care to count.

Somehow, he always seemed to bounce back. Like a cat with nine lives.

One thing he always had though, was hope. Hope that he would be back driving, to be back out there selling more windows.
and to be sitting on his favourite barstool in The Turks having a good old moan about everything.

Him and his dear friend Alan did not earn the nicknames Waldorf and Statler for nothing.
--
Sadly, that hope was shaken in December 2025, when we received the devastating news that Dad had just three months to live.
In true Mike Kelly style, he took the news largely in his stride…but what followed was three months of him becoming increasingly annoyed that it was taking so long.

Convinced he might actually outlive this horrid deadline, and blaming everything and everyone for conspiring against him and not letting him go in peace…and on time.
--
You see, my Dad was a man who was incredibly rigid about his schedules.
He was never late to anything. If you gave him a time to meet, he would turn up at least an hour early.
He was impeccably organised, writing everything down in great detail. As evidenced by the hundreds of work ledgers dating all the way back to the nineties that are still sitting in his apartment.

But as it turned out, this man who lived by his schedules, didn’t quite get his own way in the end.
He left this world exactly three months and three hours from the day he was discharged from hospital after receiving his diagnosis.

Most likely annoyed at himself, that for the very first time in his life….he was running slightly late.
--
The Kelly family share a slightly dark and twisted sense of humour, and we got ourselves through those last few months in the only way we really knew how.

Days after his diagnosis I bought Dad an advent calendar as a bit of a joke. I said to him, “Let’s hope you make it past Christmas Dad, otherwise this might be the worst present I have ever bought you.” He found it hilarious and proudly shared the joke with anyone who would listen. It certainly raised a few eyebrows.
--
After he was discharged from hospital I moved in with him. Which, as you can imagine, was something of a challenge for a man who valued his own space so much that he would practically break out in hives if anyone dared to touch his television remote.

But we soldiered on and shared many precious moments of laughter, and deep conversations. At one point, I tried to coax some meaningful wisdom out of him and profound life reflections. The only thing we managed to record was what he wanted his final words to be.

And those words, delivered with his cheeky smile and giggle, were simply:

“Told you there was something wrong.”
--
Even in those more difficult moments, Dad didn’t really change. If anything, he just worried even more about everyone else.
I remember saying to him, “Dad, I think it’s time you let someone else do the worrying for once.”

Which prompted a well-worn Bernard Manning joke. About a man who hires a professional worrier and pays them a thousand pounds a week to do the worrying for him.

The person asks: “Where on earth are you going to get a thousand pounds a week from?”
And Bernard replies “I dunno, that’s their worry.”
--
My dad and I shared 17,047 days on this earth together….and what a gift it is to have had that.

I found myself scrolling back through our old text messages, just to feel closer to him again. They were never long. He even said in one that ‘he’s never been good with words.’

Yet every message followed the same familiar pattern.
“R u home yet?”
“Hope it’s gone well.”
“Good luck tomorrow.”
“Let me know when you get home.”
And almost always, somewhere in the message, there were two simple words.
“Luv u.”

Spelt L U V  U

Which makes me smile, because this was a man who could solve any cryptic crossword clue you could throw at him, yet he never quite managed to master a smartphone, but he did manage to master text speak.

And when I read those messages now, I realise something.

He may have thought he wasn’t very good with words. But the truth is, Dad said everything to me that mattered.

He was always checking in, making sure I got home safely, wishing me luck before something important. And reminding me of his deep capacity to care.

Sometimes the messages were wonderfully simple.
“Nite nite.”
“Thinking of my girl.”
“Keep smiling.”
“You can do it.”
“I’m so proud of you”

And occasionally he would send something completely unexpected like “Look at the moon.” A random message I often got from him, which at the time just felt like another little Dad-ism.

But now it means something very different.

Because now, when night comes and I’m getting ready to go to sleep, although I know I won’t ever receive a “nite nite” message from him ever again.

I do know that if just to look up at the moon…I will feel he’s still here with all of us, checking in and saying…

“Luv u.”

Timeline

Gallery

Memories

April 8, 2026

Michael’s warmth and loyalty extended far beyond family, and we’ve heard from those who knew him as a friend.

His friendship with Peter Frayne spanned 59 years — one he speaks of proudly as “ we never had a single falling out.”

They first met playing football for the Phoenix Pub in the Gorton League, where Michael had a habit of timing his arrival perfectly — just late enough to keep everyone on edge, but always exactly when he was needed. And as soon as they caught a hint of his familiar aftershave, they knew he’d arrived — ready, once again, to save the day.

After matches, Mike would whisk Peter off in one of his fancy cars to the Embassy Club to see Bernard Manning — a place where he gathered much of his now infamous material for jokes.

Many of his friends, including Lofty, Ged, Stuart, Roger, Neil Swindells, Pete Chadwick and Pete Beard, had friendships with Mike that also spanned decades — built on golfing trips, card games, and Friday nights out, filled with laughter at familiar haunts like Jaques Wine Bar and Tapios, often followed by a late-night curry at the Akash.

Lofty described those years as some of the happiest of his life:
“We were like kings; I’ve never in my life laughed so much.”

Ged said: “I always think of Mike as the life and soul. He knew hundreds of people and classed many as friends, which says everything about his easygoing character.”

Over the years at The Turks Head, Michael formed another close circle of friendships — with landlords Neil and Marge Butterworth, and familiar faces including Malcolm Taylor, Geoff Cooke, Denis and Denise Walters, Bernard Russell, Alan and Christine McTighe, Paul Stock, Colin Day, Chris Almond and the two Brian Thomases, among many others.

More recently, he enjoyed watching football there alongside Graham and Kim’s son Jack, who was deeply saddened to hear his pal would no longer be joining him to watch a match.

They all remember fondly how Mike would arrive at the pub way before opening time — convinced the door might just be unlocked early for him, ready to take his favourite stool at the bar.

But beyond the laughter, his friends spoke of something deeper.

When life became difficult, Michael was there. A constant support.
Standing by his friends and their families through some of their hardest times, with a level of loyalty and care that went far beyond friendship.

That same loyalty was returned to him, tenfold, when he needed it most and his friends created a constant support network.

And in the end, that is what defined Michael…. not just the laughter and the stories, but the loyalty, the presence and the way he stood by the people he loved.

Michelle Kelly

April 8, 2026

Michael’s grandchildren shared some of their fondest memories.

Lauren remembered how he would call her throughout the year just to check in, and take her out to celebrate birthdays and Christmas. It was his quiet way of showing love, and of making sure those moments were always marked.

She also shared how he had a way of making people feel instantly welcome. He made her husband Sam feel part of the family straight away, as though he had known him forever.

There was never a dull conversation, and she said she will always remember how he had them all laughing right until the end, glass of rioja in hand.

And from Max, there was their shared love of football.

His Grandad would ring after matches to get his take on the game… and more importantly, who hadn’t played so well — and there were always plenty of choice words for those players.

He loved that Max was a season ticket holder for Manchester United, continuing a long-held family tradition.

And he was incredibly proud of him, often speaking about the wonderful young man he was becoming.

Michelle Kelly

March 18, 2026

Met Mike many moons ago on Paul Stock's annual "Stagaversary" to Tenerife. Long friendship ensued and had many a happy time in Tenerife putting the World to rights and generally "talking rubbish". over a pint or 2. LOL.

Always enjoyed his company and will be sadly missed. Thanks for the memories, Mike, RIP buddy.

Michael Ingham

March 15, 2026

One of my favourite memories of Dad is our first holiday together, just the two of us.

My mum had carefully packed a suitcase full of perfectly coordinated outfits for me so Dad wouldn’t have to think about things like that. But when it came to my long hair, he was completely out of his depth.

On one of our first mornings he bravely attempted to blow dry it for me. Within minutes my hair was tangled in the back of the dryer and he was on the verge of setting my entire head on fire. Safe to say he never attempted that again.

Instead, in true Mike Kelly style, he decided the best solution was to make friends with the prettiest women he could find on the beach. They took great pity on him and kindly helped sort my hair out.

Strangely enough, even after my hair was done, they still joined us for lunch…always the charmer!

Michelle Kelly

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