I've got my Welsh cufflinks. I had a choice this morning, and I've got my, I'd rather be skiing. And I did find a bike cufflink as well, Eric.
They were just there.
I entered through the heavenly gate. I heard the heavenly band, and there was John the Baptist on Barry John's right hand, he plays for the Heavenly Welsh 15, They are very fit and keen, we play the Heavenly English if they could only raise a team.
Max Boyce was a background to me and Simon.
I do have Italian translations for this as well if anybody would like.
My earliest memories of Simon are at the back of Victoria Cycles, Eric the Bike, (Simon's father) Victoria Cycles a Port Talbot Institution. I got my first bike there, my trainers came from there, but then the YMCA in Port Talbot as has been mentioned, fencing. Now, foil and épée—foil, a bit more pointed, épée, a bit more Errol Flynn-ish, shall we say. So we can guess which one attracted Simon. I still can feel those sharp taps that I received, but they seem to cement a friendship that lasted. Maybe There is a metaphor for verbal jousting.
Simon, being an old Breconian, something he was very proud of. He went there following his time at Sandfields Comprehensive. Simon volunteering rather than being conscripted into the chapel choir, an unheard-of move apparently. But maybe it spoke to his love of music and his faith. His love of music, as those who have socialised with him, as long as he was in charge of the playlist.
A fellow pupil has recounted his mischievous nature.
Simon persuaded others to make a subtle change to a well and repeatedly sung hymn, all to a housemaster's expense. They think of Simon to this day when they sing or hear that hymn.
Chris Bolton also shared, Simon had a flair for speaking when we were at school and somehow convinced the powers to be to fund us— Simon, Rob Jenkins, and myself— to go on a month-long train holiday, following A-levels across Europe, supposedly embracing European culture. I think Simon promised some form of analysis of church architecture as an output. The promised report never materialized, but they apparently did spend some time sunbathing on Notre Dame Cathedral and wisely invested the rest of the funds in beer and wine. Simon loved being an old Breconian and his get-togethers in London in recent years.
Simon would return from Brecon or university, and we would start going to the pub. In particular, trips to the Old House in Llangynoidd with David and my cousin. And it's where, on a Friday, I think, the male voice choir from Maesteg retreats after rehearsals. Those evenings ingrained our Welsh identity. Bellies full of beer and voices full of song.
Simon carried his Welshness with him wherever he went. Conversations were happily able to trip to the Gower and Joe's Ice Cream. Rugby scores that didn't always go— I'm not sure why that's in here. I did notice that the organist arrived on an Italian police motorcycle. I don't know what that means. The warmth, rooted, loyal, generous was part of what made Simon so easy to love and like. We went back to Brecon for several good weekends at the Brecon Jazz Festival, Simon being particularly impressed at being in the bar with George Melly, and then on Sunday, the cathedral service where a New Orleans jazz band marched through the cathedral, absolutely spine-tingling.
Further weekends were spent at the Grand Prix. I don't think Simon really knew much about Grand Prix racing at all, but was very keen on going because we camped, we drank and basically had really good weekends.
The Stag. Don't look away. I would like to plead my innocence, but what a night. The Stag do was in the No Sign Wine Bar in Swansea. Guilty participants are scattered amongst us. But very memorable, carrying ice buckets full of undrunk beer and wine up Wine Street following. There's a big red paragraph here, which I will skip I think.
Swansea became the hub. Simon went to Gray's Inn following university. Angel Chambers, his pupillage, and they settled into life in Swansea. Jeremy and Lawrence arrived. To me, however, the house in Swansea, the Sound of Music party. Chris Clea, a friend from the time, turned up in overalls and a plunger. Christopher Plummer. Helen was dressed as an Edelweiss. There you are, Helen. Worryingly, I can remember your outfit slightly more than the fact that my wife was at that party as well. I'm not quite sure why.
But we were exportable. We both married English women. Me being part of the '93 shipment out and Simon's export papers coming through on their move to Romsey. There is a picture of Rachel wearing a Welsh Rugby Union top, something I am yet to achieve.
Friendships are about laughing, and we definitely laughed. And the messages that have come in— thank you very much— the messages that have come in confirm that it was not just with friends that he laughed, but also at work.
It's clear he was well regarded. Simon brought laughter into serious places. People speak about his quick asides before a hearing that glint in his eye that said, 'We'll manage,' and the fact that he made room for other people's worries.
Simon was a very popular member of the local bar.
He was always good company and fun, even in— even when times were tough.
I was always fond of Simon and his sense of humour.
The colleague everyone trusted. He had integrity and a strong sense of fairness. Court clerks liked him. Fellow counsel have called him a phenomenal advocate, trusted with the most serious of cases. But it seems that it was the way he did it that people have commented on most strongly. He treated juries and colleagues alike with respect, good humour, and humanity. He had an easy steadiness of an older brother, always on hand with his voice and a kindly word.
We enjoyed so much together—sailing on the Solent around the Island Race, more adrift than the race on that particular week, that particular year; ski trips, Italy, Austria, France; the Niederhütte particularly memorable.
Going to Pat and Mike's place in France, the kids in the pool, and the stargazy lounger— basically just a lounger you lie on and look at stars. They seem to become more profound with the wine.
Dartmouth, Rumpole of the Bailey, a constant soundtrack.
Him hiring a Jag for my wedding.
Listening to Victor Borge, and ski trips where the soundtrack was Max Boyce from beginning to end.
Simon was a loyal friend, a loving father and husband, son and brother, proud and ambitious, professional, committed, to having a laugh as well as his career. And for that, I say, box ticked.
Thank you very much.
Thanks to Vaughan Nicholas
