I first met him properly at The London Hospital, initially
working behind a number of bars for the weekly Wednesday night grope fests
known as College Hall discos when your dad would amaze people with the number
of plastic beer glasses he could collect, creating Whitechapel’s very own
leaning towers of plastic. However, his
greatest feat at that time was managing The Hostel Bar. This illegal unlicensed bar ran in the
Medical Students Hostel for twelve days over Christmas (to cover the Christmas
review) and culminating in a last night on News Year’s Eve - the bar opened at
8.00 pm and closed at 8.00 am – Clint was the first person to ever run the bar
at a profit which he claimed was solely due to his superior culinary skills
with the cheese and ham toastie, served from 5.00 am, it was a masterpiece of
taste.
When he left the London and I went off to UCH, I did not see
him for many years until 1989, when I bumped into him in the Thomas Neale with
Ian, we started to chat and when the pub closed, Ian promised he could
get us all into The Feathers (another London Hospital establishment, infamous
for the Feathers twitch when everyone’s head swivelled at 10.00pm to see which
nurses had walked into the bar) but the bar was shut so everyone piled back to my
flat and left at 4.00am.
About a week later there was a knock at my door and there
stood Clint, “I couldn’t remember which no. was yours, but I remembered your
name and checked the electoral role... got any coffee going?” And thus began the second phase of your
friendship and one of the happiest times of my life. Clint lived with PJ in a block of flats just
across from mine, and when he was studying for his final attempt at his Final
Fellowship in Anaesthetics, I used to get calls, “I see the lights have just gone on in your
flat, so I know you are in, got any gin?” or “I need a bit of your anatomy, can
I borrow your foot, arm or neck?” And
over he would come, drink a G&T, drink even more coffee, sit and smoke on
the balcony and we would both set the world to rights whilst watching the East
End sky line.
His estimation went up immensely when one of the locals had
a heart attack and was rushed into Newham Hospital, or ‘Nam as he referred to it. Peter was indeed a walking heart attack,
smoking, drinking and eating, he was lying on a trolley when Clint approached
him, “I know you, you’re Clint... so you really are a proper doctor, I thought
you were just one of the boys!” At which
point he arrested but several weeks
later he was back in the pub buying a pint for Clint.
I can remember a Sunday morning when you fell over and were
taken to hospital... Clint was beside himself, “I don’t know what to do, I
usually fix people... not sure I can do being a dad on the sideline.” The one thing that I know is that he could
never be a dad on the sidelines because he loved you so much and was
inordinately proud of you. I remember
him ringing me up when you got your A level results, chuffed to be bits that
you had got into Uni. In fact when he
came out to dinner with my sister and her husband, they reckon that he glowed
when he spoke about you.
He was one of my oldest friends, I realise I have known him
over 30 years, he was there to find out which surgeon had the best results with
hip replacements when my mum had hers done, he was deemed to have a lovely
bedside manner by my neighbour who he anaesthetised and he would even answer
the phone to me at an ungodly hour and offered to come over when another friend
had an asthma attack and would not go to hospital. He was also the best kind of friend who did
not need constant cultivation, it could be left a few weeks or months and still
when the phone rang it would be as though we had only seen each other
yesterday.
The last time we went out together, we went to the Jazz Club
at the Mayflower and he was pretty poorly then.
For some reason there were very few people there and at the end just the
two of us, so Digby Fairweather played his last number “for just you two
kids!” Hmmm... in your 50s that is kinda
flattering I think.
As we walked very slowly back to my house, we discussed the
fact that in all the time I have known Clint, we never kissed hello or goodbye...
frankly, he was my mate and more like a brother which always confused people as
they tended to assume that we were more than that. When the taxi came to take him home, he
kissed me goodbye and then said, with a glint in his eye, “Well that another
good story ruined!”
I shall miss him dearly, the man who introduced me to Bombay
Sapphire Gin, the joys of Ry Cooder, the thought that yes, dressing up is for
grown ups, the wicked glint when playing cribbage, he proclaimed “And one his
knob!”, one of the few people I know who could leapfrog a post box and one of
the brightest, wittiest friends I shall ever have.
So can you now, pour yourselves a G&T and as you listen to the Byrds, please raise your glasses to my friend Dr Clinton Buckoke, doctor, bon viveur and wit. God bless!
