Dan Morris: The Ballad of Jimmy Le Fidge

I felt like Del Boy. New York, Paris, Peckham? Pah! Try Bridgnorth, Bilston, Hong Kong old son! Lovely jubbly!

However, before you picture me revelling too much in the reach of my haphazard musings, it should be quickly pointed out that the reader in question did in fact turn out to be a very old and much-treasured acquaintance of mine.

A young man synonymous with the enjoyment of my formative years and the childhood brother that I never had, for the purposes of this week’s reflections, we’ll call him Jimmy Le Fidge (you know who you are old buddy).

Formerly of this parish, Fidge was without question the most polite and endearing child who ever lived. With manners and conversational skills well beyond his years, as a little ‘un he would put the rest of us to shame with his chivalrous demeanour, delicately expressive tone of voice, and a sense of propriety that most people 30 years his senior would struggle to hold true to.

He was a shining star of a lad, and an example for anyone of any age to look up to. That said, the wicked sense of humour with which he had been blessed and cursed in equal measure installed in him a wonderful appreciation for mischief, and indeed, a penchant for its perpetration.

Hours, weeks and, in fact, years of our youth were wiled away as rural boys forced to make our own fun, yet at the same time cultivate our burgeoning imaginations.

Often you could find us at home in the branches of trees that to us, of course, were medieval fortresses from which we ruled a vast kingdom.

On other days we would – along with other noble companions – trek for hours through the farmers’ fields and woodland groves near our home town, in our minds on a daring Tolkien-esque pilgrimage that inevitably would end with one of us knee deep in a cow’s best work and at least two of the others nigh-on hypothermic from an ill-advised winter vaulting attempt of a stretch of river.

Well, this was the countryside... and we were the yokelest of locals.

Now in these instances I remember Fidge being something I would be inclined to describe as an ‘honourable puppet master’. Using his exemplary charm and powers of persuasion, he could always convince another of our cohort to be the first in either the cow pat or the freezing water. Yet once anyone had fallen victim to his exquisite blend of reverse psychology and false promises of assured hero worship, he did the moral thing and followed them with both feet into whatever abyss he had nudged them toward.

I remember one classic example when we were very young involving a wasp nest and a cricket bat. Alas, on this occasion Fidge’s sense of honour among thieves and fools left him particularly badly scathed.

But this of course is the mark of a true pal – he may be the one to sometimes get you into trouble, but he’ll stick by your side and share its load, no matter what.

A true pal Fidge indeed was, with another of his sterling traits being his bright-eyed eternal optimism.

Until my last breath departs my body I will never forget the occasion in our very early teens when my dad became possessed of the bold notion that the three of us would attempt to scale Ben Nevis, famously Britain’s highest peak. Well we’d been trekking around those farmers’ fields and woodland groves for years, how hard could this be for two strapping 13-year-old lads and a 46-year-old smoker? Very, in fact.

We made our valiant effort up the mountain, only truly realising the enormity of what we’d taken on when we were about a third of the way up. Still, we were valiantly determined to make it to the top, and reassured in our quest by the promise of the cafe that another walker had divulged was situated about two thirds of the way to the summit. Onward we trudged, spurred on by the thought of the sublime greasy spoon that surely awaited these weary travellers. My dad, I had curiously spotted however, seemed rather less motivated by this guarantee of a full belly.

While Fidge verbally fantasised about the gluttony he would shortly engage in, I questioned my dad on his apparent lack of enthusiasm.

“Think about it son,” he said with a grin spreading across his cheeks, “how would they get the food up here? You two’ve been had!”

Reality dawned on me, and my heart began to sink. My meagre dream of sausage, egg and chips was no more. My dreams in the dirt, I didn’t have the heart to shatter the hopes of my greatest friend, who clung to his vision of pie and mash far beyond our passing of the two thirds marker. Not until we were only 200 ft from the top did the mighty Fidge finally pause for breath, wipe the cold sweat from his brow, place his hands on his knees, look up and utter the ultimately cherubic, “To be honest, I’m not sure there is a cafe up here after all”.

What some would call naivety, I call faith and trust. They are two elements of this wonderful man’s character that I hope – though nearly 20 years have passed – have never faded.

And so, to Jimmy Le Fidge himself. I can’t tell you how wonderful it was to hear from you, old friend. Thank you for being one of the best pals I have ever been blessed with.

I’m delighted that your adventures have taken you to some fantastic far flung pastures, and cannot wait to hear all about them in person.

More than anything however, I hope that when the day comes for that Herculean voyage, there is a better-than-average cafe two thirds of the way along your route.

Godspeed good sir, and thanks for reading.