Jacko, eat your heart out...

The term ‘character’ is perhaps a little overused, but – believe me – Hugh Symons was a character. Not many people, after all, get to star in GQ magazine at the age of 80. And even fewer octogenarians are selected for inclusion because they happen still to be playing football.

Hughie died recently after a period in a major London teaching hospital. He had once been a consultant there, but unfortunately – as old age and memory loss took its toll – he wouldn’t have recalled the fact. And the staff who treated him were none the wiser either.

If we turned back the clock a few decades, however, Hughie was actually a rheumatology specialist and in charge of physical medicine. Leading football players of the day would come to him with their knocks and injuries, which would have put him into seventh heaven, as Hughie himself had been a very useful player in his time. He signed for Wimbledon in an age when they’d pay you a shilling and cover your bus fare if you turned up for training. In the end, the football became a hobby rather than a profession. But a very serious hobby that took up a whole load of free time.

My father played with Hughie in a Sunday side known as London Hospitals. Each year, this unlikely band of medics and a few of their relatives and friends secured a season’s worth of friendlies based largely on Hugh’s personal contacts and organisational skills. The games would lead them to places like Gunnersbury Park, where they’d take on the staff of the District Line. Any ball that didn’t end up in the net had to be rescued from nearby tracks by one of the players, who’d need to be careful to avoid the live rail.

As a teenager, I frequently substituted for regular team members who got lost en route or forgot to set their alarm clock of a Sunday morning. I remember attractive home games at Cobham on a ground which later became a training centre for Chelsea FC, as well as rather less attractive away games in the shadow of Wormwood Scrubs. These friendly fixtures would have a ref, but no linesmen to give any guidance on fouls and offsides. Brawls were not unknown.

At the heart of the action was Hughie, who at this point – in the early 1980s – would have been well into his sixties. He lacked pace, as you might expect, but was still skilful enough to make some telling passes and score the occasional goal.

Why on earth would a group of young men turn out on a Sunday to play football with a guy who was old enough to be their father? Quite simply, because he was a legend on this particular circuit. And without his contacts and constant phone calls, there wouldn’t have been any games. No one else could be bothered with the logistics and hard graft.

Every so often, you’d get a newspaper article or regional TV news item about Hughie, who was also known as ‘Tank’ because of his formidable presence on the pitch. The angle was always the same: an extraordinary old guy who still played football at a time in his life when you’d expect him to have hung up his boots and sat himself in an armchair with a copy of Saga Magazine. There was more to Hughie than the stories suggested though. Not just the medical career, but also a spell in the Middle East with the armed forces after the war, a keen interest in ornithology and a fascination with politics. Hughie had stood as a Liberal parliamentary candidate in the early 50s, but had more in common with the old-style leftists of the Labour Party such as Tony Benn than any modern-day Lib Dem like Vince Cable or Nick Clegg. He was happy to voice strong opinions on topical issues, particularly after a couple of glasses of medicinal white wine and maybe the occasional vodka chaser or two.

I feel we gave Hugh a decent send-off at the South London Crematorium in Streatham last week. Amid all the hullabaloo surrounding the death of Michael Jackson, it’s always good to remind ourselves that we don’t have to turn on the television or surf the web to find exceptional and inspirational characters. I trust a football is being gently knocked against the Pearly Gates as I write.

Where does it all end?

Casualty 1909 is an interesting idea. But there must surely be more mileage in this particular medical TV franchise. I'm thinking Casualty 1609, perhaps.

"Fear not, for our physic works! The yellow bile is much decreased."

"Ok, I'll let Charlie know before he finishes his shift..."

Signor Felicetti knows we all like a bit of rough

From a packet of Marks & Spencer pasta:

Authentic Italian pasta, made & air dried in the Italian Alps by the Felicetti family, using select Italian wheat & a bronze die for a rough texture that picks up every drop of sauce.

If only I could meet the Felicettis and shake every member of the family firmly by the hand. As the warm Alpine breeze gradually bronzed our faces the same colour as their renowned pasta die, I would congratulate them heartily. Slapping old Alfredo Felicetti on the back and taking another quick sip from my Valpolicella, maybe I'd even propose a toast.

"You have solved one of the biggest culinary challenges ever encountered by man. For years, my enjoyment of pasta has been spoilt by its smooth and uniform texture. At the end of every meal, I would find sauce residue on my plate and ask myself why - with all the expertise and collective wisdom accumulated over generations by the Italian mountain men - has no one thought to produce some truly rough penne that mops up every single drop. You, Signor, and your beloved wife and daughters, have revolutionised pasta production in such a way that meal times will never be the same again. I salute you. And promise you a shelf in the Simply Food store at Marble Arch."

For more food blurb, follow me on Twitter: www.twitter.com/foodman

They all did very well

Another staff member from the Grace Bros department store has sadly rung up the till for the very last time. Veteran actress Mollie Sugden, who played the formidable Mrs Slocombe, will now be joining her younger colleague Miss Brahms at the ultimate bra and knicker counter in the sky.

It's a sad day for someone like me, who spent an innocent childhood in the 1970s waiting to hear the latest news about Mrs Slocombe's pussy. On the other hand, the show lives on and has been enjoyed by new generations of TV shoppers on both sides of the Atlantic.

One of the remarkable things about Are You Being Served? was that there were only three basic sets. The majority of the action took place on the shopfloor, which was ably policed by Frank Thornton's straight man, Captain Peacock. Important meetings were held in the office of 'old jug-ears', Mr Rumbold. Beyond that, we only really got to see the canteen, where the staff seemed to take a collective lunch break to scoff rissoles. What happened to sales during this period? Presumably the floor was closed to customers between 1 and 2 - an example of the quaint practices that made Grace Bros seem somewhat anachronistic even in the age of Barry Sheen and Harold Wilson.

Are any of the show's original cast still hanging in there? Trevor Bannister is unbelievably now in his early 70s and only a few years younger than Nicholas Smith, who played Mr Rumbold. I hope they both stick it out for a few years yet. As long as one or two of the store's staff are still able to measure an inside leg, there's an outside chance of Grace Bros once again opening its famous elevator doors.

They all did very well - the late Mollie Sugden included. And I am unanimous in that.

Tip of the iceberg

Mrs W has brought back a lettuce from Waitrose which is still growing.

Where will it all end? Tomatoes on the vine? All seems very unnatural to me.

Don't mention the war

Basil Fawlty's famous advice to his hotel staff came to mind while reading the autobiography of actor Rodney Bewes. The Yorkshireman, who starred as one of the Geordie Likely Lads in the popular 60s/70s British sitcom, recalls a request from a local POW camp after World War II for his family to entertain a German prisoner at Christmas. His mum volunteered to take two of the Wehrmacht's finest, who turned out to be called Fritz and Kurt. Conversation proved a tad awkward as Grandad Bewes had lost part of his ankle in the Somme during the 1914-18 conflict. The actor makes the telling observation that there is no other country in the world that would have entertained the crazy 'host a POW for Xmas' idea. Only in Britain, eh?

Hey Jacko sweetheart get ur free overnight meds

The press is full of the bizarre cocktail of prescription drugs taken by tragic pop star Michael Jackson. Anti-depressants and painkillers such as Xanax, Paxil and Vicodin dominate the moonwalking pill-popper's list of meds. It seems to me fairly obvious what happened. Jacko was targeted relentlessly by spammers. 'Gee, Bubbles, those kind folks have sent me another email...'

Making bed your final station stop

I was discussing with my old friend Hoffy (www.hofflimits.com) how the motion of a train makes both of us want to fall asleep. I don't mean that we sleep together. Hoffy lives in Essex and I frequent the slightly posher commuter routes into Waterloo. No, I'm talking about an independent desire on each of our parts to nod off on what the industry endearingly still describes as 'rolling stock'.

The Hoffmeister can't understand why he sometimes lies awake at home at midnight, unable to sleep, but finds it easy as pie to achieve blissful slumber on the 18.05 to Colchester. He wonders whether he should get a bed which simulates the movement of a train carriage.

It's an interesting idea. I'm sure there's a market for such a device in those supplements that also advertise the beds that tilt you up and down. I'd go further though. First of all, Hoffy needs to delay his departure to bed by approximately 20 mins for no good reason. He then needs to cram himself in with his Mrs on one side and a couple of strangers on the other.

Once settled, he could press a button for a prerecorded announcement. 'This bed is now open for the sale of teas, coffees, freshly made sandwiches and other light refreshments.'

Blocking the toilet before bed and leaving the bathroom door open would, however, be taking things too far.

It's time for a man-to-man chat

Until a visit to my local pharmacy yesterday, I'd never heard of the Men's Health Forum. It's a registered charity that seems to be working alongside the NHS to issue a number of challenges to British blokes. Ten challenges, to be precise.

I've picked up a leaflet and a handy pocket-sized card that I guess I'm supposed to carry around with me. It warns me that one man under 75 dies every five minutes and is full of matey, patronising advice on how I can avoid a similar fate.

Among the pearls of wisdom is the notion that I should eat more fruit and veg. Not only does this reduce the risk of heart disease and cancer, but it helps 'keep you regular'. Keep me regular? If I want that kind of advice, I can go to my mum, thanks very much.

"Chlamydia isn't a Greek island," continues the wag responsible for drafting the copy, as he 'challenges' me to a check-up. As soon as I've sorted out my constipation, I need to get myself down the clap clinic.

The whole approach is starting to make me a little angry, but I shouldn't forget about Challenge Number 5. "Stressed out? Walk away from tense situations before you blow up."

What kind of bulls**t advice is this? Most stress comes from personal and work relationships that we're often unable to walk away from. That's why they're stressful in the first place. (There's also, incidentally, some good scientific evidence that it's better to express your emotions rather than bottle them up, but that's a whole other discussion.)

And so it goes on. "Get your blood pressure checked in the next two weeks... show a doctor that thing on your body that's bothering you... if you get a backache, don't let it become a pain in the arse..."

One thing's for sure. There's only one pain in the arse here. And that's the idiot who's commissioned this confused, nannyish load of gobbledegook in the first place. My challenge to them is to look in the mirror and see if they are showing any signs of wasting taxpayers' money. There are no symptoms in the early stages, but it can become quite a serious problem in the longer term.

After 30 years, it's time to call in the binmen...

If there's one thing guaranteed to stand the test of time, it's surely academic research and theorising. Fashions may change and Twitter may replace the telly, but the published thoughts of learned professors are there as a matter of permanent record.

Or are they?

Each Monday evening, I teach a class for Birkbeck College at the London School of Economics. I've been allocated a teaching room on the Accountancy floor and sitting in the corridor is a big box of books.

I haven't had time for a real rummage, but the kind of titles we're talking about include the 1979 proceedings of the University of Alabama's Accountancy Research Convocation. No doubt the controversial papers caused quite a stir at the time. Today, they sit underneath a Post-it note which simply reads: 'Rubbish. Please remove.'

Did it really have to end like this? Haven't the LSE academics considered eBay?