George had fought with the SAS – or possibly the SBS – in Greece in World War II, and brought home with him a Greek bride. They had a son, and George helped his wife, a dressmaker, set up what grew into a successful shop in central London. By then, though, the marriage had collapsed, whether because of George’s drinking or his hot temper (the origin of his nickname, “Ticker”) or both, I do not know. By the time I first met him in the mid-1960s, they were permanently estranged.

However, I did meet one of George’s old wartime comrades, a professional man he occasionally called on to help with private affairs he could not, as a homeless man, deal with himself. This friend seemed still to have respect for George, despite his clearly reduced circumstances, and bore out his account of his earlier life. But that relationship, too, failed in time.

I must say, George’s explosions were only occasional, and, as he aged and had to resort to a walking stick after breaking an ankle, he became less of a threat to others at such times and more given to railing bitterly against the whole world. But generally, as long as he had a drink in his hand or one was in prospect, he would be in good humour and ready with a roaring hearty laugh. He had been educated well enough and, in the earlier hours of an evening, was happy to join in good conversation.

George was Welsh, and had a fine tenor voice which he liked to show off with a small repertoire of operatic favourites. It is in that mode that Geoff Perrior obviously has captured him, arms outstretched, at the Brushfield Street fire. I know what he is singing. His signature tune: “La donna è mobile”.

I am so glad Geoff found George and photographed him, and I thank you for publishing the work.

Vale, George. You were a good mate.

Love & Peace
ACHIM