7 October 1999

Percy died yesterday afternoon. He died as he lived, on his barstool in the Port o' Leith Bar. Oh - he clung on for an hour or two, but to all intents that is how it happened. And that is how it should happen.

When Bob Rennie died, the light-sabre technically passed to me, but it was really Percy. He was the father of the pub, and we knew it. He is survived by his two children, and by their mother, but as much as that he is survived by us, his family in spirit. We can and will pick up the pieces, and many a happy tale will be recounted, on the lines of, "Do you remember how Percy used to ...." And we'll drink then, and briefly he'll not be dead, he'll be there back with us on his stool. Only very occasionally do you meet someone who enters your life to the extent which Percy did, and of course they sometimes have to leave. He shipped in, but I guess he'll never ship out now.

Was it eight years ago? Ten? I remember it was probably at the height of the Hamish Irvine period, when he and I and Angela and Collum held most power in the place. All who came were subject to our scrutiny and our approval. But Percy had none of that. Breezing in and plonking himself right at the far end, the fashionable end, the "in" end, he was just suddenly there.

He worked at BPC as an electrician then, (I think), before his first heart attack, and would come in sober at ten, when we were all as relaxed as newts. I did heavy drinking myself in those days, and could easily drink away the day and the night without flinching. "This is ma pub!" Percy would say. "Ma drinkin pub! I feel safe here."

I admired his fashion. Despite being in his middle years he never sank down into drabness, the way I and so many have gone. Nifty leather jackets - running tops with hoods - badges, stickers, Tee-shirts. He just did it. It was right for him. Oh, there were bits I attempted to copy! You didn't experience Percy without wondering if some of it might rub off - his easy way with people, the manner in which women flocked to his side. "They all want to be my friend, but none of them want to go with me," he would moan. But not too seriously - I think he knew where the boundaries were.

We partied long and late - him, me, Rick, Hazel and Andy. We smoked and drank and laughed. One vivid memory was Andy putting on the Pet Shop Boys in Rick's house in Bernard Street. It was the Dusty one. I thought they would hate it. I thought they were taking the piss - so easy in those days. But no - just as Dusty burst into ..."Since you went away, I been hangin around..." there was Percy, grinning from ear to ear, his fingers dancing in the smoky dark. I loved him for that.

I'll stop there, as that might be enough. A volume wouldn't suffice, and yet for me that one picture sums Percy up. A magnificent man, who truly will never die in memory. God bless you and keep you, marrer.