'Woollers'

[Sweder]

I managed to miss the sad news that Ian Wooldridge passed away. It wasn’t a great shock – his diary pieces in the Mail were getting fewer and farther between, the banner ‘Ian Wooldridge is away’ appearing way too often.

Wooldridge was the doyen of English sports writers. Mick’s Pa would have known him better than most and could probably tell a host of tales, but I’d like to throw in my tuppence ha’penny’s worth.

Wooldridge was a man who didn’t suffer fools lightly, if at all. He eschewed football in all its modern profligacy, turning his sharp eye and merciless wit on any poor soul dumb enough to decry their lot whilst stuffing oodles of cash into their gold-trimmed tracksuit pockets. He covered 10 Olympic Games, though by the time he got to Sydney ill-health was already starting to catch up with him, if not slow him down.

Wooldridge covered sport on his own terms, armed with a packet of woodbines, never too far from a generous supply of gin and tonic. He remained detached enough to give you both barrels if he felt you’d lost touch with reality, no matter how he may have praised you in his columns. Wooldridge detested bullshit, a position reflected in his affection for Australia and the Aussies. I like to think of him as Hunter S Thompson without the pharmaceutical enhancements. His sometimes eccentric, often provocative but never, ever dull missives in the Daily Mail, a tome enjoying his contributions for a staggering 46 years, were pure gold.

I remember Wooldridge as a narrator, too. He covered The Great Fishing Race, a bizarre competition that, but for his wonderful invective, would have cured insomnia for a generation. And his astonishing Monte Carlo run, sharing a cockpit with Stirling Moss; it was the ultimate Odd Couple scenario, priceless, timeless television. I must track these down for an evening of quiet self-indulgence, abetted appropriately by a quantity of fine Claret.

The Independent recently described him as ‘possibly the greatest sports writer of this – or any – age’. If you’ve never read Wooldridge on sport I urge you to spend a moment to seek out his work. The world’s a slightly duller place now that he’s gone; we shall surely not see his like again.

[El Gordo]

I know of Wooldridge of course, but I can't say that I often had the chance to read him. Like all the best obituaries, this is one that makes you say "I didn't really know anything about this person, but now I want to know more".

Nice one.

I wonder if Mick C is still around? I'm certain he could add something...

[Sweder]

Here's an anecdote for you, pinched from a piece in The Times:

Forty winters ago, during England's Test match at Port Elizabeth - Ian's first tour - some black South Africans who had attempted to watch the cricket were beaten up by police. Ian's telephone line went down, so the Mail copytakers in London contacted him through the phone in the committee-room. He had written his piece; now he had to read it at the top of his voice in the presence of about 30 members of the republic's ruling Broederband. He could have altered his intro. Instead, he took a deep breath and dictated: "The wretchedly evil face of apartheid was displayed here today when ..."

Yes, he would say years later, "I was fairly proud of myself at that moment."

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

I know little of Woollers, but a quick Google yielded this gem:

[INDENT]"There must be some redeeming feature in the character of Roy Keane, the Manchester United and when-it- suits-him Ireland footballer, but so far, as his serialised biography unfolds in The Times, it is hard to discern one.

The words that more immediately spring to mind are paranoid, vicious, disloyal, bitter, scornful, vengeful, disruptive and uncouth."[/INDENT]

He certainly didn't mince words. He could've been an Aussie. Also found reference to a "famous" photo of him sparring with Idi Amin, but couldn't find it anywhere. Anyone here seen/have it?

[Sweder]

Top, top bloke.

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

Well bugger me. I am staggered. Guess who I shared the best part of a bottle of Balvenie Doublewood 12 yo single malt with this evening? Only a very good friend of Wooller's son, Max!

The stories he told ... which regrettably must remain private, for various reasons... as lovers of single malt will doubtless understand. And this, in a small, waterside whisky-specialist bar on Hobart's waterfront (three different Laphroaigs!), on the complete opposite side of the planet.

The world is a strange, strange place. But I think, from the stories I heard tonight, that Ian would have been pleased with our choice of Scotch. A fitting tribute.