Many people over the years asked me what it was like being Nigel’s brother. Growing up and older with him cannot be summarised in a few short paragraphs; however I hope that these few personal remembrances will bring a smile and some of your own fond memories. Sport Few will remember Nigel as an excellent sportsman, but he was captain of football and cricket at prep school. He was ambidextrous, frustratingly playing squash both left and right handed. Non-sporting pursuits took over in his teens, but in golf he found a way of combining exercise with his great love of gamesmanship. For him, even if the match was over, the game was never lost – there were bets to be had, pressure to be applied, tales to be created. His house at Wimbledon had some subsidence, and we used to practice putting which showed about a 2 foot curve to the left. Unsuspecting visitors were suckered into a bet, and were incredulous when the ball veered off as it approached the hole. On the course, standing over a benign 3 foot putt I would often hear “bet you a buck you don’t hole it”. Suddenly the hole shrank, and I felt myself gripping the putter as though it were an angry cobra as I looked up at his innocent smile. I well remember one game coming up the 18th with the match already decided. I was 20 yards off the green when Nigel called out “10 bucks says you can’t get down in two”. My body tensed, my grip tightened, and my teeth ground – I’d show him. My swing was a blur and the scalped ball was still accelerating as it miraculously slammed against the pin and stopped within a foot of the hole. I looked up, smiling, relieved, $10 up. He was quiet for a second, almost contemplative - “20 bucks says you can’t do that again”. At home From a young age, on occasion we were given concern about his wellbeing and state of mind. On one particular night after a long evening’s partying, I woke up around 1am to hear a banshee wail emanating from downstairs. It was Nigel, but what could have caused such distress? Had he taken a particularly powerful hallucinogenic which had cast him into a Stygian dolour? Fearing the worst, I called downstairs but the moaning continued unabated. Steeling myself, I cautiously wandered downstairs; I could detect that he was lying on the floor. As I turned into the room, I saw him, blissfully unaware of the time or the outside world, eyes closed, headphones on, “singing” along to one of his favourite (to me, unlistenable) progressive jazz numbers. At School Nigel set a bar, both high and low, that was difficult to follow. He held a speed record for Greek recital that was never bettered. He could remember long tracts seemingly only having read them once; he was a master of debate. Conversely, he had a reputation that sometimes dogged me – I was once surreptitiously followed by our housemaster who was convinced that I was disappearing for a smoke, a normal habit for Nigel, but one I never had. But Nigel at school is perhaps best described by himself aged 17, with words taken from a Study Fasti, wherein the most senior boy had to describe himself and the others sharing that study: “I have decided to try and complete this subversive, seditious, anarchistic, mutinous, insubordinate (study fastis are now illegal) chronicle…. I shall tell you a bit about myself from the housemaster’s point of view: “Nigel is a problem child, next time he is caught smoking he will be asked to leave. My spy MacFarlane, is doing his best to try and uphold law and order but Nigel doesn’t help”…Perhaps I do cause a bit of trouble... I have spent much of my time down town arousing suspicion. I have been gated for going on a bicycle ride... but since then I have been unyielding and successful in my attempts at keeping on the right side of the law”. A week later Nigel and his friend Simon Caswell were sent home early for 3 weeks – his next missive reads: “Better never than late – I arrived back two weeks after everyone else (poor sods) after a much thanked and well greeted extra three weeks holiday. The authorities had caught up with us at last. The bait was swallowed and we were sent home. Well we came back determined to enjoy ourselves…. these fastis are a pain in the arse (and the wrist) so sod this for a game of secretaries – let’s jack the bugger in.” Politics & Law JFK died Nov 22nd 1963 when Nigel was almost nine, but he immediately took an almost obsessive interest in the story, convinced there was a cover up. In his teens, he would happily talk about his theories (sorry, the truth) for hours. Probably driven by this, Nigel showed a profound mistrust of the communications of state and politicians, which is evidenced in his many Internet comments. Latterly, he particularly singled out Tony Blair for his wrath which amused me as I felt they had many similarities. For him, petty rules and laws (and there were many in his view) were there to be bent or broken; victimless crime was no crime. I think part of the reason he became a lawyer was not only to help the underdog, but also better understand those trivial laws, so he could bend them some more. Driving Nigel was convinced he was a brilliant driver despite leaving a trail of fines, warnings and once a potentially serious collision with a bus stop (Nigel’s explanation of this was that “No one knew what happened as all the occupants of the car were asleep at the time, including myself, the driver”). Alcohol laws were questionable; it was not speed that kills, but people who stop suddenly. One time he picked me up from the airport and whisked me straight off to the golf course. Nearly missing the turning, he cut across a redneck in a tow truck who started following us. Nigel saw that this was trouble, hammered it round a corner and into the car park; he told me to get out quick and if I saw the truck, stall the guy; with that he roared off to hide the car. A few seconds later, the redneck came round the corner and, on seeing me, stopped and asked if I had seen a goddamned Lexus with two jerks in it. I was able to tell him that indeed I had, and that it had just sped crazily out of the car park. Fortunately he backed up & shot off that way muttering threats, never to be seen again. Life was never boring with Nigel. To summarise There are many, many other stories and scrapes with Nigel which space does not allow me to cover in detail: my arm trapped in a washing-machine mangler; a hair-raising ride on a runaway donkey and cart in Majorca; being attacked by a swarm of angry wasps in the garden, and pretending to be doctors in order to get access to some private specimens in University College Hospital. You will have your own, and perhaps this has helped to trigger them. Nigel liked nothing better than to stir others up. He would talk and write provocatively, and then expect the recipient to get over it as though nothing had been said. He could harshly pinpoint weakness in others, but didn’t take criticism particularly well himself. He could be reckless, considering only the present; the past & future didn’t really matter. At the end, Nigel did admit to failings. He knew that he had been irresponsible, temptations proving a challenge too difficult to resist. But this edge also made him one of life’s great characters. No one who met him forgot him; everyone left with a tale to tell. He could spin out a story endlessly, wallowing in irrelevant detail. He was outrageous, endearing, generous and very, very funny. His was a free spirit, a sharp and brilliant mind, forever pushing the boundaries, never lost for opinions or theories on any topic. He was like a brother to many; I count myself lucky that he really was mine.