Fitz remembers broadcaster Sandy Gall... and some true Devon characters

On Saturday, June 28, I was searching through my bookcase for a cookery book on game when I came across the signed copy of Don't Worry About the Money Now by Sandy Gall. 

Just 24 hours later we lost him, so I must start this week with a personal tribute to this one-time work colleague as he was a true gentleman, a remarkable journalist with a brilliant set of communication skills and a unique voice. 

It was that voice that I used to narrate a documentary I had produced on the Red Arrows aerobatic display team and thus got to know him but briefly. 

The ‘Reds’ used to base themselves at Exeter airport in the summer period to perform throughout the peninsula and I got to know one of the chief pilots whilst having dinner at RAF Cranwell. I had met him on the runway apron in Exeter and much to my surprise, he suggested a trip in the back of one of the Hawk aircraft... maybe it could lead to a documentary. I sold the idea to ITV and thus a very successful programme hit the screens in the 1990s. I say successful, it went on to win an Olympic committee award, presented in Spain at a glittering dinner by the president of the committee, Juan Antonio Samaranch. Sadly, I couldn’t attend as I was doing a voice over for Trago Mills! 

The next time I saw Sandy was also in Devon. He was the guest at an after dinner speech, telling us about his incredible career and trips into war zones while still raising awareness and money for the victims of land mines in Afghanistan. He never stopped; he must have been in his late 70s on his last trip to the war-torn country, still working, hands on with the prosthetic experts. 

He will be dearly missed as he was a true character from television, something which is so absent in today’s media and indeed, society.

In the good old days, whenever they were, every town and village had what can be loosely called ‘characters’. My own village, now a town, threw up some unbelievable individuals who sadly, would not survive today in  modern society. Let me take you back a bit to the late 70s…

I can clearly remember Miss Hunter, in her eighties, four and a half feet in all directions, who drove a 1955 series 1 Land Rover. When I say drive, ‘aim’ would be a better term. Being so short, she looked through the steering wheel, her hands at ten to two for the entire journey — and I mean the entire journey as she never changed gear and did not stop for anyone. 

There was no reverse on this model … apparently… and the indicator bulbs where the original factory fittings as they had never been used. She lived on Dartmoor and would slide down to the village every Friday for provisions clustered in a wicker basket. I once found her vehicle parked on a brand new mini roundabout, doors open and engine running. Miss Hunter was waddling towards the local garage to chat to the mechanic about a strange noise coming from the clutch… most of which I suspected was still lying in a Dartmoor lane! 

She had a long and detailed conversation about the problem with a pair of oxyacetylene tanks in the workshop before the mechanic arrived. A courtesy car was arranged and a chauffeur, Miss Hunter was picked up the next day and reunited with the 1955 series 1, minus the milk churn cap, tangle of bailer twine and barbed wire ball which had become attacked to the sump. The clutch was fine. Let’s face it, it was used less than half a dozen times on each Friday trip.

Then there was her close neighbour, Gilbert. Gilbert was a pleasure to encounter, a sour little cesspool of singular politeness. I once greeted him with: “Morning Gilbert, how are things?”

His reply: “What the ‘bleddy’ hell has it gotta do with you!”

Difficult to tell how old he was because he had looked 79 for most of his life. He drove a Massey Ferguson TE20 from the farm to the village and back again, thankfully never meeting Miss Hunter. Then one day, Mrs Gilbert heard of a new-fangled thing called Tesco and fancied seeing what all the fuss was about. Reluctantly Gilbert agreed and offered her the prime position in the link box, clinging for support to a makeshift roll bar which was a repurposed, spot welded piece of pig pen gate. Off they went down the A38 at a stately 15 miles an hour, before the pair were stopped by the local police on the hard shoulder just before the supermarket turning. An overly keen, brand new constable was out and quoting the road traffic act within seconds. The local sergeant stayed in the car and watched the entertainment unfold. According to him, when we met in the bar that night, this was how the conversation went.

“Is this vehicle taxed?”

“No, tis a farm vehicle.”

“An untaxed farm vehicle may only travel one mile from the farm.”

 “I’m one mile from that farm,” said Gilbert, pointing to the field beside the A38.

Young and fresh looked confused. “Is that your farm?”

“No but I does his ploughing. And before you ask, this ain’t my tractor either.”

It was at this point that newbie constable looked at his notebook and must have wondered if he had enough pages. At a glance he could see there were no lights, no indicators, no seat belts and Gilbert had switched off and was holding it in gear suggesting that there was no handbrake. In fact, there were no brakes… full stop… or not! 

We had all seen him ploughing… he used to get to the end of the furrow then wrench the steering wheel to the right, so the front wheels dug in, and the tractor slid to a stop. Thankfully an emergency shout came in and the police pair had to leave… 

“Honestly,” said the sergeant, “it did, we had an all car response.” 

Apparently, Mrs Gilbert made it to the supermarket and home but I am told never went again.

Finally, there was Mr Armitage, another truly wonderful character who was of the same age as Hunter and Gilbert and, like them, never actually passed a test. (First driving test was June 1, 1935) He was OK on most journeys unless he had to turn right. He hated turning right. Never liked crossing traffic so didn’t. Getting to Torquay was more or less straight forward. North Devon could be a day’s journey, Cornwall even longer. He once attempted London via the motorway and was turned around at Worcester by a kindly petrol pump attendant… remember them? 

Characters, seemingly, have all gone. Strangely, when I replaced the Sandy Gall book on the shelf, I noticed that beside it was the game cookery book I had been looking for. It was by Norman Tebbit.