Desmond Christy and I met during his first essay into journalism, more than 50 years ago. He eagerly helped to extend the Northampton Chronicle and Echo’s theatre coverage to take in Coventry, Leicester, occasionally Birmingham, sometimes London, and significantly Stratford, when the first thing he might tell me was that he had caught a glimpse of Michael Billington in the bar.
An early-ish school-leaver, he had a strong dislike of “froth”, to which he made absolutely no contribution. He was indeed a “stubborn bastard”, with a deep sense of humour and an incurable kindness.
