Mel Webb, former golf writer for The Times, died of a heart attack last Thursday. His long-time friend and colleague, Peter Dixon, pays a personal tribute to a perceptive and colourful writer and observer of the game.
I became a friend of Mel when we worked together as sub-editors on the sports desk of The Times. We first met when I joined the paper in 1986 in what were turbulent and difficult days for the staff after the sudden move from Gray's Inn Road to Wapping. In fact, Mel had been part of Rupert Murdoch's advance guard, one of those selected early to be trained to use the new, direct-input technology that was to shake up the industry.
It would be fair to say that Mel made an instant impression on me. He was softly-spoken, helpful, friendly, interested in others, a good listener, kind, witty and by far the most neatly-dressed journo I had come across - he did enjoy buying clothes, did Mel. In fact, he could probably have given Norman Dabell a run for his money in terms of the size of his wardrobe, if not the style of his dress.
But if you had to pick one key attribute that most summed him up, it would be his great feel for words. As a regular chief sub, he was a great protector of the writers. He was meticulous in his approach, always improving the work in front of him by use of a scalpel rather than an axe. He took a personal interest in every word that appeared within the sports section, keen that any editing should enhance a piece, not change it beyond recognition. On top of that, he was a good headline writer and page designer and was always happy to pass on his knowledge.
His real love, however, lay in writing. He was first given his chance to report on golf after Tom Clarke joined The Times as sports editor from the Daily Mail, not long after the paper had moved to east London. In those days, Mel would accumulate extra hours on what could be killingly-long shifts and use them to go off to report for a few days at a time at European Tour events. When he returned to the office, he could not wait to get back on the road again. He did not have to think too hard, therefore, when he was offered the chance to become a full-time writer on a contract basis for the paper.
What he brought to the job was his own, unique style of writing. His pieces were always entertaining, well-crafted and full of humour. Mel was nothing if not versatile - he also covered football and darts for The Times and penned Teddy Sheringham's autobiography - and always tried to look for the positive side of the people he was writing about. He had a wonderful ability to tell a tale as he saw it, rarely wasting a word, while on occasion he would use a silken touch to make a serious point. My favourite line of his was aimed at the promoter who went out of his way to berate the written press for criticising his tournament and then came back later in an attempt to mend bridges. "He went on a charm offensive," Mel wrote. "It wasn't charming. But is was certainly offensive." Brilliant.
I don't think Mel would mind me saying that he also enjoyed his food. A day at the Open could not begin properly until he had availed himself of a couple of sausage baps - the second to make sure the first was okay - smothered in a good helping of brown sauce. He also liked his fags and, like John Daly, drank the odd Diet Coke, or two.
It would also be true to say that Mel had the odd moment of melancholy. At times he seemed the unluckiest man on tour. His lovely bungalow near Bisley was once over-run by squatters, who did their best to wreck the place; later he had a fire at his house in Swanage; and he once broke his ankle after falling over at a tournament. But it did not take much to get him to smile again, his sense of humour always shining through however much it had been tested. Of course, he had a wonderful partner and soul-mate in Yvonne, his wife of many years. Sadly, Yvonne - who has multiple sclerosis - is in hospital at present suffering from septicaemia. I am sure everybody's thoughts are with her at such a testing and sad time.
Quite simply, Mel was a friend and a gentleman. He will be sadly missed.
