Talk draft 2
We met when he was ten and I was twelve, and we were friends for the next fifty-six years.
I think I’ve done many things only because Tim dragged me off the sofa.
From the start, we were inseparable—racing around on our bikes, legs going like mad, convinced we were invincible.
We were explorers, competitors, troublemakers, and each other’s shadow.
We spent so much time together in those early years that we were practically resident in each other’s homes.
His mum was my second mum, and my mum was his. That’s just how it was.
His dad, Geoff, was really the only father figure I ever knew, and I was lucky to have him in my life.
That closeness shaped us. We didn’t just grow up as friends—we grew up as family.
He introduced me to my first cigarette—on the beach at Abersoch, three in the morning, the tide was out and the sky full of stars.
That probably says a lot about the nature of our friendship: strange hours, long conversations, fierce competition, and loyalty without needing to say it out loud.
As teenagers, we raced dinghies in fleets of forty, always pushing each other, always trying to outdo one another.
We never quite won, but we were always in the fight and loved it.
Later, in our forties, we raced small yachts—GK 24s.
It was my turn to win everything by then, but he was never far behind.
As I used to say to him, he could polish my transom, but if I so much as blinked, he’d overtake.
Maybe he pushed me to win in those days; I only bought the boat because he bought one.
We always missed those boats in later years.
He skied like an angel—smooth, fearless, and graceful.
He gave me the best ski tips I’ve ever had, which still echo when I’m on the slopes.
He had that way about him when he was doing something he loved: absorbed, fully alive—and my goodness, when he crashed, he did a proper job.
I have in mind one fall coming down Gornergrat in Zermatt, spectacular.
He came to live with me in Switzerland for two or three years.
That’s when I saw the booze battle up close.
I tried to distract him from it, and sometimes it worked.
We had good times. He enjoyed them, and so did I.
I remember the centre line of one of the roads here in Prestbury disappearing under my passenger door in JGK 205, his mum’s Triumph Herald—as we drifted sideways.
Maybe we were lucky to survive those days.
Later, in Geneva, he landed a job that paid a fortune, and he earned it.
He was sharp, capable, and successful.
Then he returned to England.
He could go two or three months without a drink—and then the cycle would come back.
In the end, it’s what took him.
But that’s not the whole of who he was.
When he called and he was drunk, we’d just put the phone on the side and let him talk.
He wouldn’t remember later.
But we answered.
Because when he was sober, we talked like we always had.
Because even then, he was still him.
He had this uncanny ability to read people.
While I’ve never had a clue, he always saw straight to the heart of someone.
And he was a socialite through and through.
I’ve never known anyone with as many names in their address book—and he knew every single one.
He didn’t just know names—he knew people.
I was there when he met Irene, all those decades ago.
I still have a clear image of her, standing with her friend at the side of the dance floor at Bredbury Hall.
I imagine a few of us here remember that place back in the day. It was the spot.
And she was there in her little black dress.
That picture has never left me.
Whatever else might have been going on in his life—wherever he was, whatever state he was in, he never varied in his loyalty to her.
As the decades passed, sometimes they were officially together, sometimes not.
But she was always there somewhere, and he never let go.
In these later years, they were together again.
She was a thread that ran through his story.
He was complicated, like most of us.
Brilliant, frustrating, generous, chaotic, funny, lost (tormented?) and always my friend.
You don’t share a friendship that lasts fifty-six years without going through the whole range—laughter, silence, heartache, joy, forgiveness, and things you can never quite explain.
I miss him.
I’ll keep missing him, so many memories.
And I’m deeply grateful for the sailing, the skiing, the laughter, the long life-planning calls, the boats, the banter, and the quiet loyalty because it was ours.