Tag Archives: tribute

Plans For Statue of Leeds Legend Mowatt at Elland Road   –   by Rob Atkinson

History-maker Alex Mowatt: to be immortalised outside Elland Road?

Leeds United 1 (Mowatt), Cardiff City 0

After eight barren months without a win at Elland Road, and 32 years since a win over this pesky South Wales outfit on home soil, Tuesday night’s 1-0 victory over Cardiff City came as a welcome relief to everyone with Leeds United carved painfully into their hearts.

It was a win that provoked reactions across the full gamut of human emotional response, from a devastatingly gutted Don Goodman, Sky TV’s Leeds match mickey-taker of choice, right through to the joyful elation of young Alex Mowatt himself, the scorer of a goal fit to win any game of football. Picking the ball up halfway inside Cardiff territory, almost midway through the second half, Mowatt shimmied away from a distant challenge with one sinuous matador’s flourish of his hips, looked up briefly and then back down at the ball – which he caught with an absolute purler of a left foot strike to hammer it into the top right-hand side of the Gelderd End goal.

Cue the mayhem of relief and hysteria as the hardy Leeds fans behind that malnourished goal exploded into cavorting celebration. Mowatt took the rapturous applause with a clutch of delighted – or astounded – teammates dancing dervish-like around him. Meanwhile, poor Goodman, with a face like the smell of gas, sadly relayed news of the goal to a mainly disappointed nation.

It was the undoubted high point of a low-key match between two sides currently locked together in second-tier mediocrity. But that goal will long be remembered, and not just for its sumptuous quality. It was a goal, note well, that brought to an end those two dismal runs of failure. No home wins since March was a shameful record for a club whose home was once regarded by many good judges and Alex Ferguson, as the most hostile and intimidating arena in football. And 32 years is far too long to let a club as deserving of regular sound thrashings as Cardiff are, go unchastised.

So, two monkeys were dislodged from our collective back on Tuesday night, two unwelcome ghosts were laid to rest. It’s fanciful of course – even edging close to bitter sarcasm – to suggest raising a statue to our youthful midfielder on the strength of one sublime strike. But though intended as a bittersweet jest, the jocular notion in this article’s headline sums up the relief generated by one fairly unremarkable but sorely needed victory.

In a week when Massimo Cellino bid farewell to Elland Road – as a matchday spectator, at least, and subject to any late changes of his mercurial mind – and when it also became a distinct possibility that a fans’ consortium might replace the Italian, possibly with a Gladiator on board, it was vital, crucial, utterly necessary to mark this possible fork in the road with a win. And that we did – for which Don be praised.

Onwards and upwards now? Well, perhaps. Despite the shenanigans at boardroom level, it appears that new manager (let’s call him a manager now) Steve Evans is expecting to strengthen his patchy squad significantly before the end of the loan window. And that’s with a view merely to staunching the flow of our life-blood, with the prospect of further major surgery in January. From this small beginning, great changes could come about. Maybe. 

We start anew then, with a home win under our belts, with some cocky old foes subdued for once and with a whole new era quite possibly about to begin. Will things get better now? Is the only way up? We shall see. Don’t forget – next weekend is Cup Final weekend. 

Well – it is for Huddersfield Town and their motley crew of dog-botherers, anyway…

Leeds United Remembers Chris and Kev: Always in our Thoughts – by Rob Atkinson

In Memoriam Chris and Kev 5.4.2000

In Memoriam Chris and Kev 5.4.2000

Fifteen years ago today, two of our number – two brothers in White – were brutally murdered by cowardly thugs in Taksim Square, Istanbul. Chris Loftus and Kevin Speight travelled abroad to support their heroes of Leeds United play in a UEFA Cup semi-final against a team representing a club that glories – still to this day – in generating an atmosphere of evil and murderous hatred. UEFA themselves were ineffectual back then and have largely remained so, turning a blind eye and a deaf ear to repeated instances of this awful club’s “fans” disgracing the name of football.

That’s the background that we’re all too well aware of. But today is about remembering two lads who loved their football club but had their futures stolen from them in a manner that has nothing to do with the Beautiful Game. As has often been said since, nobody should ever set off to a football game, only to lose their lives. The tragedy and poignancy of that bleak sense of loss weighs our hearts down still.

The poem below expresses far better than I ever could this sadness – which is yet tinged with pride that Leeds United has such support, that we are a massive global family which suffers together over such a tragedy and that we will never forgive or forget. Justice has dragged its heels, but the Leeds family has always been there to remember those two lads who never came home.

I came across this poem just yesterday, and was blown away by it. Sadly, it was written by someone who has since passed away himself – I know only his first name, Dennis. But it expresses what we have all felt ever since that terrible day in 2000 when we lost two members of our Leeds United family.

These beautiful verses seems to me to say it all – so I reproduce them here, with thanks and much respect to the late Dennis, who wielded a pen, not a knife – and proved himself a true fan of football and Leeds United. Just like Chris and Kev.

I dreamed I saw Chris and Kevin 
Down at Elland Road today 
Said I but lads, you’re some years gone 
We never left said they 
We never left said they

Still stunned and dreamy I asked of them 
Why do you linger still? 
Your love and kindness is our bread 
We stayed to eat our fill 
We stayed to eat our fill

Is this just one last show from you 
Then forever you’re away? 
It’s true you may not see us here 
But here we’ll always stay 
But here we’ll always stay 

So tell us what’s your darkness then 

Pray tell us where’s your light 
It’s darkest when your heads go down 
When you sing our world is bright 
When you sing our world is bright

But are we not just mortals, lads 
Whose time will pass us by? 
Our kin and Leeds are part of us 
A part that will not die 
A part that will not die

I dreamed I saw Chris and Kevin 
Down at Elland Road today 
Said I but lads you’re some years gone 
We never left said they 
We never left said they


Taken from us far too early 5.4.2000

The Day the Leeds United Glory Trail Began – by Rob Atkinson

The first trophy for Revie's Boys

The first trophy for Revie’s Boys

Today was the day, 47 years ago, when the Leeds United glory trail started with victory over Arsenal in the League Cup Final at Wembley on March 2nd, 1968. It was a scrappy game between two sides not overly keen on each other – but it was settled by what was, literally, a dream of a goal.

The triumph of the Whites in the shadow of the twin towers that day marked the start of what was to be an honour-laden six years or so for Revie’s troops. In that time, they completed the domestic honours set with two League Titles, the FA Cup in 1972, and a Charity Shield. On foreign fields, they won two Inter-Cities Fairs Cups – as well as being robbed in the finals of the two other European competitions, as is copiously documented elsewhere. By the time Don Revie left for an ill-fated spell in charge of the England team, Leeds were indisputably the number one team in England; but their time at the top was done – the all-conquering squad, having matured together, was on the point of breaking up.

My tribute to the accepted first eleven of Revie’s genius squad is reproduced below. It’s one of three poems I’ve had published on FootballPoets.org and it makes specific reference to Terry Cooper‘s Wembley premonition. The Castleford lad, destined to be hailed as the best left-back on the planet at the World Cup of 1970, had dreamed for three successive nights of scoring the winner on that day so long ago.

When the dream came true, in the 18th minute of a dour encounter, there was a slight tinge of controversy. Arsenal ‘keeper Jim Furnell, backed by most of his team-mates, claimed that he had been impeded at a corner by Leeds’ Paul Madeley and Jack Charlton. But when the ball dropped twenty yards out, Cooper made a clean connection and cracked the ball into the back of the net for as good a Wembley winner as you could wish to see. After that, Leeds shut up shop (it’s known as “parking the bus” these days) and saw the match out to collect the first major silverware of the club’s history.

Thanks for the memories, Top Cat Cooper, Billy Bremner – and the rest of the boys, not forgetting The Don himself, of course. Happy days – Glory Days.

The Revie Boys

Sprake, the Viking, error-prone
Costly gaffes are too well-known
But brilliance too, in Budapest
Gritty show, Fairs Cup conquest
Outside the fold now, Judas jibes
Allegations, fixes, bribes

Reaney, swarthy, lithe and fine
Clears a rocket off the line
Always there to beat the best
Georgie, Greavsie and the rest
Speedy Reaney, right full back
Repelling every new attack

Top Cat Cooper, number three
Once a winger, then set free
From wide attacking, made his name
The best left back of World Cup fame
Scored at Wembley, League Cup dream
Got the winner for his team

Billy Bremner, black and blue
Red of hair, Leeds through and through
A tiny giant for the Whites
Semi-final appetites
Beat Man U, not once but twice
Billy’s goals, pearls of great price

Big Jack next, our own giraffe
World Cup winner, photograph
With brother Bobby, Wembley day
The lesser Charlton many say
Was Jack; but for the super Whites
He gave his all and hit the heights

Norman Hunter, hard but fair
Tackles ending in mid-air
Studs on shinpads, bone on bone
Take no prisoners, stand alone
With enemies strewn at his feet
Angelic Norm, that smile so sweet

Lorimer, the rocket shot
Lethal from the penalty spot
Lashed the ball from distance great
Fearsome pace he’d generate
90 miles an hour clocked
Keeper left confused and shocked

Clarkey next at number eight
A predator to emulate
The  greatest strikers anywhere
On the ground, or in the air
One chance at Wembley, snapped it up
Leeds United won the Cup

Mick Jones, the workhorse, brave and strong
Graft away the whole match long
But frequently a scorer brave
Defying all attempts to save –
A hat-trick blitzing poor Man U
Five-one, in nineteen seventy-two

The Irishman at number ten
Giles, a leader among men
Skill and strategy, world class
Struck a devastating pass
John and Billy, midfield twins
Hard as nails – for who dares, wins

Eddie “Last Waltz” Gray out wide
Beats three men in one sweet stride
Jinks and shimmies, deft of touch
Didn’t seem to matter much
Who might face him, come what may
Eddie beat him anyway

“Rolls Royce” Madeley, class and style
Dependable and versatile
Would walk into most other teams
But stayed to chase his glory dreams
For Leeds and England, servant true
Recognition overdue

Twelve great players, clad in white
Internationals, as of right
Ready to play, and battle too
Many the victories, losses few
Leeds United, Revie’s Boys
Strength and power, skill and poise

Left with just sweet memories now
But even critics must allow
A squad of many talents great
Where every man would pull his weight
Cut one and find the whole team bleeds
A club United; Super Leeds

From Leeds United: In Memoriam of When Rooney Was Half-Decent – by Rob Atkinson


When it comes to goals he knows his stuff
A gift like his is aye enough
Yet scruples not to spend his sweat
Never a poor example set
Equal to times both smooth and rough

Rarely though even for such as he
On such occasions would hope to see
O‘er field of combat, strife and toil
Ne’er respect for enemy soil
Exquisite contact, poised mid-air
Yes!  A goal, and struck so fair!

In momentary hush then caught
Suspended time, a frozen thought

And then – a clamour fills our ears!!

Frenzy, joy, a blast of noise
And all rejoice his name
Thousands; women, men and boys

Blessing the day their hero came
And praising his talent rare
Lifting their souls, such artistry
Drama for all to share

Goal! The throng with mighty roar
Rejoice with heart and soul and more
And fill the air with songs of glee
Now it is real, now all can see
Never to fade from our memory’s eye
Years though they pass, time though it fly

Some feats are not forgotten, for
Hearts and minds will keep their store
Away from the daily grind of life
Golden moments, a cure for strife
Guiltily, yet with secret joy
In all men’s hearts there lives a boy
Now and again he’ll know anew
Great are the memories – great but few

Time lends a lustre to our past
When sometimes life goes by too fast
And yet some vivid moments shine
This goal will keep – as finest wine

History Made as Klingon Andros Scores for England – by Rob Atkinson


Andros “Worf” Townsend

History was made at Wembley on Friday night as Tottenham’s Andros Townsend became the first extra-terrestrial to score for England.

Townsend, though reported by some sources to have been born in Leytonstone, actually originated on the Klingon home-world Qo’noS. It is thought that he is the result of a committed relationship in the early nineties between a Klingon warrior who travelled through time and space through a wormhole to Earth, and a timid secretary from Waltham Forest.  The couple made the return journey to Qo’noS so that the young Andros should be able to absorb the culture of his paternal bloodline, but when the lad showed a preference for kicking a ball around instead of engaging in martial drills and studying the history of the Klingon warrior race, the family returned again to Earth and settled in North London where Spurs, attracted by his ability to score headed goals from inside his own half, signed Andros in 2009.

Klingons are known to have had sexual relations with humans, with the “Voyager” character B’Elanna Torres being an example of a Klingon-human hybrid.  However, Townsend is thought to be the first descendant of the male Klingon bloodline to have forced his way into the Tottenham Hotspur first team, though some have questioned whether Nayim was of Romulan descent.

Townsend’s first start for England, capped by his debut goal, has been identified as the dawn of a new era for the game in this country, exceeding in its cultural impact the international breakthrough of Viv Anderson who became the first black player selected by England in the late seventies.  An FA spokesman said “It was indeed an historic moment when Viv made his bow, and a massive step forward which was rightly hailed as such by the press at the time – with the notable exception of the Daily Mail who instead called for closer links with South Africa as practised by the England cricket team.  But tonight’s achievement by Andros – the first acknowledged member of a different species, with due deference to the claims of Wayne Rooney, to actually play for England – well, it opens up whole new worlds of possibilities.  If you’ll forgive the pun.”

The FA are now thought likely to investigate whether there might be other sources of extra-terrestrial talent available to the national team.  Enquiries so far have revealed nothing definite, though there are thought to be possibilities in the north-east.

Two of the other England goals against Montenegro were scored by human beings, Daniel Sturridge and an own goal from Boskovic. Wayne Rooney also got on the scoresheet as England swept aside their opposition by four goals to one.  They now require a victory against Poland next Tuesday to seal qualification for next year’s World Cup Finals in Brazil.  In the wake of Townsend’s feat in scoring the first alien goal for England, the FA have revealed a “good luck” message from the Klingon Empire which reads simply: Qapla’ .

Where’s That Sick-bag?

A Sickeningly Solemn Moment

A Sickeningly Solemn Moment

Ladies and gentlemen, if you have sick-bags to fill, prepare to fill them now.  If sugary treacle and soft-sawder syrup is your thing, get ready to drown in the stuff.  “Sir” Alex Ferguson is departing the stage, and there won’t be a dry seat in the house.  Sky TV are preparing for an extended weepathon as their hero who hated them, their idol who despised them, climbs down unsteadily from his throne of purchased glory and totters off upstairs to chew gum and glower balefully down at his hapless successor David Moyes.

This afternoon’s live TV offering has a delicately-scripted path to follow.  There will be a soft-focus montage of many of the Purple-Nosed One’s finest moments – Steve Bruce’s 98th minute winner against Sheffield Wednesday to a background of Martin Tyler’s shrieking climax as Man U all but clinched their first plastic Title.  Giggsy-Wiggsy’s finest FA Cup goal of all time as the Arsenal defence parted like the Red Sea and we were treated to an unsolicited view of the Husband of the Year’s chest-rug.  A selection of van Persie’s catalogue of sublime finishes from the Dutchman’s “One Man Title-Winning Season” collection.  It is doubtful however that Eric Cantona’s exposition of martial-arts skills from his South London Show of 1995 will make the cut.

After the moonlight and roses video softener has set the correct ambiance, and armchairs all over Devon and Cornwall are already bedewed with manly tears, we may have an actual interview with the dearly-lamented Departing One.  Subtitles will be provided for this section of proceedings, and yet it won’t so much be what He says, but more the way He says it.  As an example, if you hear a glottal noise along the lines of “Thiznaequayshtyunabootthaaaaat” it means that S’ralex is saying something he wishes you to accept as undisputed fact.  This happens a lot.  But those craggy and broken-veined features of pasty pink splotched with purple may at some point break into a grimace not unadjacent to a smile, and this will be the cue for the suits in the Sky Studio to howl with unrestrained emotion as the tears flow anew.  It’s going to be a harrowing afternoon, and we’re nowhere near kick-off yet.

At some point we will have testimony from a group of the usual suspects as to the essential saintliness and unmatchable achievements of the man.  Lou Macari, Paddy Crerand, Peter Schmeichel, Steve Bruce, Bryan Robson and other such neutral witnesses will speak their lines to camera with all the sincerity and conviction of a tailor’s dummy. Ron Atkinson and Tommy Docherty may even appear if time permits, and attempt to mask their burning resentment at being consigned to the dustbin of history with a few clamp-jawed soundbites of faux admiration, before shambling off, clutching Mr Murdoch’s fat cheque.

And then, the game.  It has been thoughtfully arranged that the final day opponents at the Theatre of Hollow Myths should be a footballing side of attacking ambitions.  The script will call for them to make pretty patterns in midfield whilst offering no great threat to Man U’s rocky defence, where Phil Jones will be frantically gurning in an attempt to frighten off any Swansea attacker who dares venture too close.  At regular intervals, an uncharacteristically misplaced pass from the away team bit-part players will gift possession to Man U, who will then – according to the stage directions – “swoop to score another magnificent goal for the Champions.”  Ecstasy will ensue in the stands and the commentary box, and flowers will be thrown at the feet of the gum-chewing Govan Guv’nor as he performs that annoying little staggery old man’s dance from under the dug-out canopy, champing away in a Wrigley’s rictus of triumph.  It is an image that will be burned on the retinas of a whole football-supporting generation.

After the match – whatever time that might be depending upon how long it takes Man U to score The Winner – we shall have post-game interviews, more video footage to the accompaniment of weeping strings and synth, rambling reminiscence from the assembled sycophants – and maybe a final word from the abdicating Emperor himself, who will remind us, via an interpreter, that there’s “aye anither game tae go yet, by the waaaaay.”  And the crowds will sigh and depart for all points south, the lights will go out at the Theatre of Hollow Myths and the scene will gradually darken as a rainy Salford day fades into the night, as we all must sooner or later.  All that has been missing is the trademark Lone Piper, but he is reserved for even more solemn occasions, and his time is not yet.

And so it will be over.  It will be time for the Sky suits to heave a gigantic, shuddering sigh signifying end-of-an-era grief and regret, and then they must reluctantly move on.  A new hero awaits, and he’s sadly lacking as yet in the trappings of success and the aura that the commercially-aware would wish for him.  A project is to hand now that S’ralex has faded into the sunset, and that project is the reinvention of an Honest Pro into a Demigod, the Greatest Manager Of All, for such is the requirement of the twinned Hyperbole Departments of Sky and Man U for the unsuspecting Mr Moyes.  It’s a work in progress even now, but the momentum will gather as the new season approaches and the threat of upstarts such as Chelsea. Arsenal, Man City and even Liverpool, which has to be repelled for another year.  It will need to be business as usual, even without the Blessed Fergie. Life goes on, and today was merely the schmaltzy climax to the long-running soap-opera which was Man U under S’ralex.  It’s time to dry the tears and count the money.

Now where IS that sick-bag?

Alex Ferguson – A Tribute

Purty, Ain't He?

Purty, Ain’t He?

The football-related media is in a frenzy of mourning today after the announcement that Sir Alex Taggart has decided to step down as Supreme Dictator of the FA Premier League.  Who will follow him, they ask, tearing their hair and wringing their hands in distress.  Chelsea fans may be surprised to hear that Bridge-bound Jose Mourinho is being mentioned as inheritor of the poisoned chalice that is the hot-seat at the Theatre of Hollow Myths.  But Jose is surely too fly and savvy  to “do a McGuinness” as the task of following a long-serving Man U manager is known in the game.  Everton fans too may be wondering whether David Moyes will be offered the chance to step into the role of “Premier League’s Token Grumpy Scotch Git.”  Whoever ends up in Mr Ferguson’s gout-adapted tartan slippers has a job on his hands alright, and will need urgently to review the manual on “How To Bully and Intimidate For Personal and Professional Gain”.

The loss for the media will be acute.  Hacks as a breed dearly love the cosy familiarity of a tyrant at the top of the game, someone who is an outlet for all of their natural tendency to fawning sycophancy, a figurehead over whom they can compete to praise in the most glowing terms whilst neatly overlooking the glaring flaws of a man who has been a study in coarseness and choleric wrath when things even threaten to go other than as he would like.  The newspaper journos will miss “S’ralex” – he represented continuity for them, an opportunity to trot out well-worn cliches and perpetuate comfortable myths.  Now they may even have to think before starting another Man U piece – it will be a shock to be so brutally jolted out of a 26 year comfort zone.

Ferguson has his place in the history of the game.  He will serve as the biggest negative example of how to ruin the previously positive image of a historically-respected football club, making of them a byword for arrogance and the tendency to ride roughshod over the rules and conventions of the game.  He is there as a useful comparator for the true greats of football and how they went about their business, with humour, humility and a sense of their own fallibility.  The likes of Busby, Shankly, Revie, Stein, Nicholson et al are all part of the rich fabric of the game, all lost to us now, but all clearly capable of favourable assessment in the light of the Ferguson legacy; none will suffer in comparison with the man from Govan.

People will point to his record of success – and sycophants and revisionists will hastily gloss over his difficult early years at Man U when the home crowd called for his head and despaired of ever being able to aspire to the levels of Liverpool and Everton, great clubs run properly.  The re-organisation of the game and its finances when the Premier League came in was highly opportune for Ferguson, and he certainly made hay while the sun shone; it shone for him for the bulk of the remaining 20 years of his career.  Ferguson suddenly found himself in charge of a racehorse competing in a donkey derby, the interests of consumers suddenly paramount, the need to sell satellite dishes and replica shirts in hotbeds of Man U support like Devon and Milton Keynes emphasising the commercial importance of a successful Man U team.

All of a sudden, the top players wanted to go to Salford, all of a sudden the statistics of the game tilted heavily in Ferguson’s favour.  Penalties against them had never been plentiful, now they were as rare as a rosebush in the desert.  Ferguson’s natural personality came to the fore; his tendency to bully and to rant began to produce real results in terms of the attitude of the media and of the game’s officials, both on the field in the shape of cowed and terrified referees, and off it with the administrators unwilling to court commercial unpopularity by waving the rule book under that purple nose.  The most familiar sound-bite emanating from Lancaster Gate was suddenly “The FA can confirm that Alex Ferguson will face no disciplinary action for (insert example of blatant disregard for the rules here.)”

Referees became aware of the fact that those of their number who made a decision not to the liking of Ferguson tended to wait a very long time before selection for another fixture involving Man U.  These are high profile games, and referees increasingly had to look to their own career prospects as their role assumed more of a professional profile.  So they tended to knuckle under, perhaps only subconsciously, but the effect over many years has been enough bizarrely ridiculous decisions in favour of Man U to spoil the digestion of many a football fan who remembers fairer days pre-Murdoch, pre-Man U dominance.

Given this decided slope of the playing field in Man U’s favour, the wonder of it all is that they haven’t won more.  There have been years when the Title has gone elsewhere; remarkable this, in a game of fine margins where one study exposed as fact that 88% of all 50-50 decisions went the way of the Salford Franchise.  This is the measure of Ferguson’s failure; a manager who was also a good coach would surely have cleaned up in such a very favourable environment.

So what now for Man U?  To be honest, I can see their domination continuing.  It’s likely that the public image of the club will be enhanced under a manager who does not represent quite so many of the negative personality traits exhibited by Ferguson.    It will certainly be interesting to see if a world-renowned coach – if appointed – can improve on their patchy record in Europe, where Ferguson’s habit of intimidating refs has not been such a marked advantage to them.  Two somewhat lucky Champions League wins is a poor return for twenty years of almost unlimited opportunity, and a better man in charge might perhaps improve on this and finally give Man U more justification for their laughable claims that they have “knocked Liverpool (Five European Cups) off their perch.”

The question will be asked next season “Who’s the greatest manager in football now?”  The answer will be the same as this season: choose any one from Mourinho, Wenger and Hitzfeld.  All the propaganda in the world cannot make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.

Our Greatest Prime Minister

Today, Wednesday 17 April, as the late Margaret Thatcher is finally laid to rest; let us take a minute to observe a respectful silence and remember the life and achievements of undeniably the greatest peacetime Prime Minister of the last century (and some argue with justification the greatest British Premier ever). Radical and reforming, taking on the reins of power after a period of national crisis when, at times, all seemed lost, the beneficial impact of this pioneering administration on UK politics, and on the country as a whole, remained undiminished 30 years on. This was a Prime Minister with a vision, and the courage and determination to see it come to fruition, something we all have cause to be thankful for even now.

What is more, this was a Prime Minister who can quite fairly be said to have saved this country in hard times when all was chaos and confusion, from enemies without and within; a pivotal and inspirational figure when conflict raged, and an outstanding leader and innovator in times of peace; someone who dared against all precedent to think outside of hidebound tradition and vested interests, and who managed to find a gloriously better way.

Ladies and gentlemen, fellow Britons all, the toast is to our Greatest Prime Minister, with all the thanks and deep, abiding respect due to a national hero. I give you:-

Clement Richard Attlee,
1st Earl Attlee
(3 Jan 1883 – 8 Oct 1967)

Oh and – bye, Thatch.