SOME years ago when Henry Longhurst thought he was incurably ill,
he decided on a tried and tested recipe for shuffling off this
mortal coil.
He went to some pains to get a bottle of very special whisky and
laid in a store of the right pills. Then, putting his affairs in
order, he got stuck into the Scotch . . . so much so that he was
wafted into a blissful state of unconsciousness that he quite forgot
to open the little bottle by his right hand. When Henry awoke he
had the mother and father of a hangover and, all things considered,
felt decidedly better.
He even wrote about the episode in one of his imperishable pieces
for the Sunday Times. Those who had little inkling of what kind
of man Henry was, were shaken rigid. Henry conveyed, as he always
did, the humour of the situation while the distillers received
a handsome free plug.
When death came to Henry Carpenter Longhurst on Friday, aged 69,
he was composed and perfectly ready. After all, he had been to
the brink before, and once told me that by ignoring safety belts
in one of his supercharged cars, his life had been saved. Had Henry
been pinioned in his seat, there is no doubt that he have been
burned to death.
There was no tying Henry down, or shutting him up, or suggesting
that something might be better left unsaid. He was a man apart
in his chosen profession. And long before he became a celebrity
as an author on televised golf, his reputation as an author, essayist,
journalist, and traveller was unimpeachable.
Over a dozen books stemmed from Longhurst’s driest of dry
pens, the range varying from travel to golf and excruciatingly
funny observations on the contemporary scene. It is doubtful whether
there is a writer of the last 20 years or so who gave quite so
much pleasure via a newspaper column as Longhurst. For nearly 30
years his piece appeared in the Sunday Times without fail until
1974 when his health started to break down again. Then, he said, “The
surgeon operated from an unplayable lie.”
Genius
The genius of Longhurst was that he could, and did, write on any
subject under the sun. The column was not always entirely about
golf, but there is no doubt whatsoever that he did a great deal
to popularise the game in the post-war years.
More recently his role as a television commentator was such that
no serious rival existed. As an after-dinner speaker, Longhurst,
in his pomp, was sought avidly on both sides of the Atlantic. The
column used to appear on the back page framed by a black rule.
It was something special, and Henry filed his couple of thousand
words or so from all corners of the globe.
His public adored him; the Americans made a terrible fuss of him,
and the professionals showed marked respect. Gary Player, for instance,
would always address him as … “Mr Longhurst.” And
he meant it.
It was in 1931 that Henry walked victorious from the 12th green
at Royal St George’s after his last match as captain of Cambridge.
The halcyon days were over, and that night Henry wept at what appeared
so bleak a future. His problem was familiar. Born to travel first
class he lacked the price of the ticket.
But Henry was lucky and drifted into journalism, and declared
later there was only one way of seeing the world - at the expense
of Lord Beaverbrook. He did seven years writing about golf for
the Evening Standard after selling space, and also contributed
in the early and threadbare days to The Tatler.
From prep school at Eastbourne, Henry went to Charterhouse and
then, as a scholarship entry, to read economics at Clare College.
He was known as the "Mighty Atom" in university golf,
and also found time to study. But not before he and some of his
pals had each conned their parents into stumping up £100
apiece for a golf trip to America.
Chance
It was all grist to the writer's mill, and it was a chance remark
that led to him writing about golf for the Sunday Times. Henry
invariably had the knack of being in the right place at the right
time.
When World War Two arrived, he began as a learner gunner in the
Royal Artillery, "running about Blackpool sands in little
knickers waving a great bamboo pole." Just before the war
he had won the German championship and was one of the best amateurs
around at the time. When the war ended, Henry was Tory MP for Acton,
but lasted only two years in Parliament.
Then it was time to examine the emerging post-war world, and the
pieces that became books were all about exciting things. The Cresta
Run, he blandly informed readers, was an infallible cure for a
hangover. Gliding off Firle Beacon wasn't to be recommended for
the faint-hearted, nor deep-sea diving in the murk of the Persian
Gulf.
Never bored
Readers of Longhurst were never bored and he saw no harm in indulging
in a little flag-wagging from time to time. Every golf club welcomed
him, and since going to live at Clayton Windmills 25 years ago he
became very attached to Pyecombe, which is virtually outside the
back door, and Brighton and Hove Golf Club.
He loved the atmosphere of the locker room and the bar and the
good-natured chaff on the course. It is many years since Henry
last played, for he could not abide a drop in standard that came
with approaching years. He often stated, metaphorically, that he
was a wearer of the Old School Tie. But, in fact, he never wore
it. Reason? He hadn't got one.
He loved his home a-top of the Downs and took a deep interest
in country matters. He will be greatly missed at his favourite
pub in Hurstpierpoint by all the locals just as much as those who
will not see him again on TV, or read those occasional pieces that
used to come out from Clayton even during his last illness.
His epitaph, I think, must come from his first, and best, book:
It Was Good While It Lasted. But, as Henry said in the last line.
. . "Why, yes. But then, life will always be good.” |
