Ian Wooldridge

Often when the press write about themselves, they go way over the top, describing a minor columnist as one of the great writers of the day. This was not the case with Ian Wooldridge. He received glowing tributes in almost every newspaper, and I put him up there with his hero Sir Neville Cardus. Ian had that touch of originality and quirkiness that divided him from the mundane, and more important, like all people who have a genuinely original mind, you could never assume you knew his view on anything.

We first met in my running days and remained friends for over forty years, and it didn't even worry him that I didn't drink. His knowledge and love of cricket, golf, boxing and frankly everything except football, meant that lunch or dinner with him was often three hours and you still didn't want to go home. In fact there was one occasion at Shepherd's restaurant in Westminster when I had to leave the assembled gathering of six to vote on three separate occasions, and I returned to the restaurant after each vote to find him still there, holding court.

Those who knew him will miss him, those who read him will find him hard to replace. At least he will now be able to join his beloved friends Keith Miller and Denis Compton and discuss endlessly what really went wrong in Australia this year. I do hope they have a good wine cellar in heaven, otherwise he's going to be very irritable.