At about midday yesterday, whilst idly surfing the internet, it occurred to me that I hadn't seen my good friend Gordon Urquhart online for few days. I decided to drop him a message, as I often did, to see how he was, and to ask if he'd watched the footy at the weekend. Gordon lived in Zambia, you see, and Zambia has just won the Africa Cup of Nations for the first time, 19 years after an airplane crash wiped out most of their, then, national team. I was certain that Gordon and his family and friends would have had a right old knees up for such an occasion, and I wanted to get the lowdown.
I browsed to his Facebook page and absentmindedly skim read a post on his wall. Confusingly, it seemed to be a message of condolence. As was the post below that, and the one below, and the one below, and the one below, and the one below...
I kept scrolling, desperate to get the bottom of this bizarre misunderstanding, when I finally reached a post from Gordon himself.
It read thus: "Just nipping out pals, I may be quite some time. It's been great. Keep on keepin' on."
It seemed Gordon had died sometime on Friday the 10th of February. A very bright light had been switched off, forever consigning a couple of my hopes and dreams to a dark corner where they stack neatly on top of regret. I'd never met Gordon in person, you see, and despite an invitation to visit him when he lived in Culbokie, and a subsequent open offer of a trip to Zambia, time and [lack of] money had conspired against us. Curse you time.
Later that evening, Martin and I drove to Northampton to visit his brother, Steve, in hospital. There was a big crowd of us there, and we sat around the bed chatting quietly and laughing. Steve was asleep and our conversation was punctuated by his breathing. And then, at about 9pm, he stopped. After 19 years battling cheerfully and bravely with cancer, he had decided it was time to go. Another bright light had been switched off, although this one had been gradually dimming over time. I will greatly miss its comforting glow. About 20 minutes after Steve died, Watford, the football team Steve had supported all his life, playing at home against Leicester, scored a goal which saw them win the match 3:2. I can't help but wonder if Steve had a hand - well, foot - in that result.
We stayed at the hospital for another couple of hours, reminiscing with Steve's wife and daughters about the past. There were plenty of tears, but there were an awful lot of smiles and laughs. So many positive memories that it was impossible for the sense of loss to overwhelm them. Martin and I joked with each other that it wasn't the most romantic way to spend Valentines evening but, to be honest, I doubt there was a room in the world filled with more love that night. I'm glad we were there to wave Steve off. If he's quick he might be able to catch up with Gordy and they can wander along together.
So, yes. It wasn't quite the Happy Valentines Day that I might have had in mind. However I do feel very happy and blessed that I knew both of these lovely men.
Steve: Rest assured that I'll look after your little bruv for you. I hear a rolled up newspaper works wonders...
Gordy: We'll keep on keepin' on. Don't you worry.
So long, both, and thanks for all the memories.
I browsed to his Facebook page and absentmindedly skim read a post on his wall. Confusingly, it seemed to be a message of condolence. As was the post below that, and the one below, and the one below, and the one below, and the one below...
I kept scrolling, desperate to get the bottom of this bizarre misunderstanding, when I finally reached a post from Gordon himself.
It read thus: "Just nipping out pals, I may be quite some time. It's been great. Keep on keepin' on."
It seemed Gordon had died sometime on Friday the 10th of February. A very bright light had been switched off, forever consigning a couple of my hopes and dreams to a dark corner where they stack neatly on top of regret. I'd never met Gordon in person, you see, and despite an invitation to visit him when he lived in Culbokie, and a subsequent open offer of a trip to Zambia, time and [lack of] money had conspired against us. Curse you time.
Later that evening, Martin and I drove to Northampton to visit his brother, Steve, in hospital. There was a big crowd of us there, and we sat around the bed chatting quietly and laughing. Steve was asleep and our conversation was punctuated by his breathing. And then, at about 9pm, he stopped. After 19 years battling cheerfully and bravely with cancer, he had decided it was time to go. Another bright light had been switched off, although this one had been gradually dimming over time. I will greatly miss its comforting glow. About 20 minutes after Steve died, Watford, the football team Steve had supported all his life, playing at home against Leicester, scored a goal which saw them win the match 3:2. I can't help but wonder if Steve had a hand - well, foot - in that result.
We stayed at the hospital for another couple of hours, reminiscing with Steve's wife and daughters about the past. There were plenty of tears, but there were an awful lot of smiles and laughs. So many positive memories that it was impossible for the sense of loss to overwhelm them. Martin and I joked with each other that it wasn't the most romantic way to spend Valentines evening but, to be honest, I doubt there was a room in the world filled with more love that night. I'm glad we were there to wave Steve off. If he's quick he might be able to catch up with Gordy and they can wander along together.
So, yes. It wasn't quite the Happy Valentines Day that I might have had in mind. However I do feel very happy and blessed that I knew both of these lovely men.
Steve: Rest assured that I'll look after your little bruv for you. I hear a rolled up newspaper works wonders...
Gordy: We'll keep on keepin' on. Don't you worry.
So long, both, and thanks for all the memories.
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