Ian Wooldridge

Yesterday I attended the thanksgiving service for the life of Ian Wooldridge, arguably the most talented sports writer of his generation. The service was held in the Guards Chapel at Wellington Barracks, which holds about 1200, and there wasn't a seat in the house, in fact people were standing at the back. It was one of those rare occasions at a memorial service for a journalist, where real people vastly outnumbered the journalists. This was because Ian was one of those people who everybody enjoyed being with. His love and knowledge of sport (in particular cricket, golf and athletics - in fact it was through athletics that we first met some forty years ago) would keep you entertained long into the night. He went on writing his famous column for the Daily Mail right up until a few days before his death, and although he had strong views on so many subjects, he never showed an ounce of envy, bitterness or unkindness towards his fellow men. He remained absolutely loyal to me during my times of trouble, and once reported in his column that Jeffrey is the only friend I have who doesn't drink and is in bed by 10.30pm. He will be sadly missed by his friends and by the millions of people who read his column every week.