I first met Stan in 1972 when we both worked for Burroughs in Newcastle. That was the start of a wonderful friendship. His time and mine with the company criss-crossed for a decade or more and it was always on the most pleasant of terms and indeed he became my shares advisor for many years – very successfully as you would expect. In this long period of friendship, and with Barbara, two stories typify the great guy he was. To end up at a Burroughs conference in Bournemouth on a Saturday we decided on a ‘gentlemen’s day out’. Hiring a two seater plane in the very early morning from some very forgettable small airstrip west of London we flew to Southend for a greasy breakfast. So far so good. Suitably stuffed with high cal grub we considered Deauville in France as a suitable spot for luncheon. So over the Channel we went. Lunch in the airport rather tasteful restaurant. But then came the snag. Fog. Tannoy to all pilots that there was only a few minutes before the airport closed. Off we dash to leap into our plane. A proper scramble. And then onto the taxiway in a queue to take off. Radio message that there was just one minute left. Two planes in front of us. So Stan OVERTOOK THEM, positioned us on the end of the runway and got clearance to take off, presumably by a rather bewildered air traffic controller. We didn’t look back. Bournemouth airport closed so zoomed into Brighton. Went to the pub. Don’t think we ever got to the conference. The other story is regarding his never-failing demands for high standards, of everybody. He was kind enough to stand in for me one year as traffic controller at the Henley Show. This involves directing a significant number of volunteers to keep the whole operation running. Afterwards Stan phoned me to tell me how useless they all were, in great detail, for about 20 minutes. He was, of course, right. I had always, in my normal weedy way, let folks make all manner of mistakes. The following year they were so pleased to see me back that I was remarkably popular. They remained frightened of Stan. It was a privilege to know him. He’d pop over to Henley for our monthly lunches until almost the end. It remained by far the most intelligent conversation I had each month. The last contact was when I visited him in his last days at Stoke Mandeville. He was as determined as always and was overflowing in his praise for the staff there. When were chatting I asked him why he didn’t stay with the RAF on Vulcans. His response? ‘Ugly brutes, you know, the Vulcans. Thought of transferring to fighter jets but it just didn’t happen.’ Over the almost 50 years that we were friends, as straightforward as always.