“Magari, Pedro, Magari.”
I was so looking forward to welcoming you to Italy.
One of your great loves.
I’ll never forget the night we saw Jimmy Cliff.
Another one. Bongo man a come.
You said he sparkled in silver.
And you sparkled all over, Tony.
Your shock of white hair and twinkling eyes.
Your delightfully wry and impish wit.
Your intelligence and understanding.
Your voracious charm.
Every time we entered a pub, the barmaid fell in love with you.
We all did. How couldn’t we?
You made Google redundant.
Your love of literature, nature, culture, cuisine. Celtic.
An intellect beyond compare.
But you had a way of knowing beyond books.
A teacher, a counsellor - not just to your students, or clients.
Every conversation with you was the most enjoyable lesson.
I’d laugh, and take a titbit to treasure, every time.
Your adroit one-liners will forever have me in hysterics.
“So dreich here, it could be the Sabbath!” You once said.
So much for the weather in Hamilton.
I loved your tales. The stories
of all your great pals, from Paradise to Normandy, China to Orkney.
Thanks to Tony, I’ve lived all your lives vicariously.
Regaled over pints. On Skype.
In the emails and texts that were as hilarious as they were literary.
“McGuffie correctly dissatisfied at the referee’s decision to award only a yellow.”
He had such wonderful words for every one of you. He adored you.
The fact there are too many to name tells its own story.
What a guy.
The irony is, he’s the first person I’d have sent this poem to, to see if it was any good.
He’d likely have sent me a book.
Like he did, often.
I once opened a parcel.
It contained Naked Lunch, and a note.
“Pedro.
For your edification.”
Isn’t that just so wonderfully Tony?
As well as a great friend, he was an education.
I wish I could soak him up, just one more time, in the pub.
I told him once, you know I’ve never been to the Doublet.
“Difficult to believe that,” he said.
“That'll compensate for the 734 times Graham and I were there.”
Well, Tony. Lad o’ pairts.
Teacher, honorary uncle. The best of friends.
I’m sure you’re with your great pals Graham, Bill, and Sandy,
having a riot and a pint somewhere ethereal. And less dreich.
You once told me, “I’ll miss radio 4 when it goes.”
I’ll miss you, Tony.
Orrabest.
