Few Northern League people may have heard of Jon Smith, or at least not the Jon without the ‘h’ who was a long-time Darlington season ticket holder and innovative, all-round genius.
They’ll very likely have had cause to be grateful to him, nonetheless.
Jon it was who designed, produced and masterminded Northern Conquest, the gloriously groundbreaking volume which marked the league’s 125th anniversary in 2013-14. He came up with the title, too, said he’d discovered the joys of the Northern League when the Quakers spent an “unexpected” season there in 2012-13.
“Designed and produced using Indesign CS5 and Adobe Photoshop 8” it said, arcanely amid the small print, but whatever the technological trickery it would have been impossible without Smithy.
Jon it was also, a few years later, who took the rough-hewn 100,000 words of Unconsidered trifles, my autobiography, and with accustomed alchemy transformed it into something altogether more glistering..
In both cases the fee, both sought and received, was the same, though probably (in both cases) we gave him a bottle or two.
Had ever he been immodest enough to write his own memoire, it would surely have been called Silk purse, sow’s ear.
Jon died last night after a long, long illness that increasingly restricted his mobility but did nothing to limit his love of writing, literature and local history or, happily, to quench his thirst for a good pint.
We’d been colleagues on The Northern Echo back in the 1980s, Jon the chief sub and I the news editor, roles between which a certain creative tension (as the euphemists would have it) traditionally existed. It was never the case between me and Smithy; between me and Smithy it was open bloody warfare – but he was a truly brilliant operator.
He went down to Fleet Street, illuminated its every ginnel, became a media trainer, returned 40 years ago to the Teesdale village of Barningham where he chaired the parish meeting, embraced technological advance, helped sustain the Milbank Arms – until recently one of precious few pubs without a bar – and ventured far in the hope of better days for Darlington.
In retirement he also wrote books of his own, none more wondrous than Round the world, its horizons paradoxically limited. It was a 187,000-word A-Z of life and times in Barningham, a village of little more than 200 residents, the “world” the two-mile walk along which locals would exercise their dogs.
“Ridiculously magnificent” the Echo not unreasonably supposed.
There were 1,815 entries, 342 pictures, pearls beyond measure. “Rusty”, the book recalled, was a tame fox at the Milbank Arms in the 1960s which thought it was a dog but then further advised to “see under Tommy.”
Tommy was the cat which slept in a box beneath the pub dart board around the same time, unharmed and unperturbed, even during matches.
Jon supposed at the book’s village hall launch that there could have been more. “It seemed enough to be going on with” he added.
More recently he’d written and researched a historical detective novel called Snowden, with which he’s pictured above. That one began around 187,000 words, too, until he asked Sharon to edit – and, indeed, to abridge – it. Properly prudent, he never asked me.
He remained stoical, laughed often, blamed the fags for his plight. In all things he coruscated. Smithy truly was a genius.
*Not an hour after news of Smithy’s passing, an email reports the death on Saturday evening of John Armstrong, son of long-serving former Northern League president Ernest Armstrong and brother of Hilary, who followed her dad into Parliament.
John – lovely man, oft quiet and reflective – was perhaps most familiar around the league when presenting the second division knock-out cup named in memory of Ernest. That’s him, above right, though memory offers neither the ground – Willington, perhaps – nor the identy of the recipient skipper.
A good Methodist like all the illustrious Armstrongs, he’d long lived in Bishop Auckland and became ecumenical officer to the Diocese of Durham, a role he fulfilled both thoughtfully and vigorously in improving cohesion between the churches.
As with Jon Smith, funeral details later.
*After so grim a morning, it’s particularly joyful to be able to mark the elder bairn’s birthday with a family lunch at the Bull in West Tanfield, an attractive village between Ripon and Bedale in North Yorkshire. The September thermometer says it’s 27 degrees, the riverside garden’s delightful.
Those tempted to head there while the sun shines should note, however, that West Tanfield is nowhere near East Tanfield. That one’s near Stanley in north-west Durham, about 60 miles north.
It’s a lovely occasion. Carpe diem, or what?
Grass Routes 