There’s a man I know,

About eighty-four, eighty-five

Sharp as a tack and funny to boot

His name is Jack.

Not John, not James – just Jack

It’s even on his birth certificate as that.

This is the kind of thing he does,

My very English friend –

Tells me story after story from every corner of the world.

Thousand-voiced choirs in Germany

Music that lifted the roof off the sky

A ‘quick lunch’ in Belgium, so huge it covered a dinner plate

Asking in China how they could possibly eat dogs…only to hear the words

“How can you eat horse, when a horse is man’s best friend?”

He’s eaten horse before

Years ago, in France – a very special kind of beef, as they said at the time,

Doing their best to make the Englishman feel ill.

Sitting at our table, trying to convince me in his cultured voice

That in the whole wide world it’s only the English

Who know the true secret of a really good pork pie

Heaven knows the Australians can’t do it yet.

Teaching me how to be slightly less than polite in Welsh – a useful collection of phrases which

Despite all my efforts, I promptly forgot

And haven’t remembered since.

Mild little smile, blue eyes, white hair and a little trim moustache

Doesn’t look too special, really

But he is.

Vale Jack

1922 - 2007