“Thank God I’m an atheist….”, as Dave Allen once said.
I met him once. He turned up one Saturday morning to buy a case of Champagne when I worked in a wine warehouse in Battersea. Crikey. Must be twenty years ago. 1985. It was a brief meeting, but there was something interesting that I’ll mention.
We chatted for a minute or two, as you do. Buying wine makes people loquacious. As was customary, I carried his case of Taittinger (if I remember rightly) out to his car. He had a lovely old Rolls Royce parked outside.
He opened the boot and I had to plonk the wine in where I could. There was a lot of junk in there – old newspapers, tools, shoes, and I had to push stuff aside to make a space for it to fit. As I did so, I came across a large silver plaque in the shape of a heart. It had been jammed under a wooden box full of tools, and was dented and battered. My curiosity was aroused so I picked it up and turned it over. It was an award. Engraved on it in large letters was “Dave Allen, Variety Club Personality of the Year, 1967”.
He just chuckled and said “Terrible aren’t I? Don’t go telling anyone, will you?”
And while he was alive, I don’t think I did. He died last night in his sleep. May his god go with him.
No run today. With the race on Sunday, I’m going to take it easy. Instead I’ll be deflecting pangs of last minute anxiety about the coaches we’re taking to Silverstone. Will people be on time? Will the M40 be clear? And where do I find 90 fruity bagels on a Saturday morning in rural Berkshire?
Life is non-stop excitement.
