Donald Forbes - grumpy but the best company you could find

Many of Don’s colleagues had a tendency to see him as a bit of a curmudgeon. Yes, he was an excellent hack, enjoyed the Fleet Street pubs and certainly had a way with women – these days he might have been called a “babe magnet”.  But there’s no doubt he could be very, very grumpy – unless the company was right, and the booze was to his liking.  

We met in our mid-twenties, having landed at Reuters via the AP, and were both newly married. Don’s wife was straight out of central casting’s roster of French maids. And more than fifty years on, they are probably still talking about her debut appearance at my local pub in darkest Surrey. “Donald, did you hear what that man said to me?” She cried at one point.

When this marriage failed Don fell for the charms of Reuters journalist Lesley Chamberlain, who moved around the newsroom like a gazelle and had many admirers. It came as something of a surprise when she hooked up with grumpy Don. But they went on to have a daughter, Elizabeth, whom Don adored.

After this relationship ended, the last of Don’s big affairs took root in Poland, where Don had been posted to cover the upheavals which followed Lech Walesa’s rise to power.  He met Irena Czekierska, another Reuters journalist, and they married, having two children – again much-loved by their father.  

Later, as Belgrade bureau chief and immersed in the Balkan wars, Don declared he had no intention of ever returning to London and, with Irena, bought a substantial spread in southwest France. This was used as a family base while Don continued working and then as a retirement home for almost 30 years.

France was Don’s natural habitat and he always seem at his happiest there. His gruff accent was a very difficult melange of Glasgow and Newcastle, and very few Brits found it simple to comprehend, particularly if he had supped a few pints of his favourite Youngs Special ale.  But in Paris one never found a bartender or restaurant worker who believed for one second that he was anything but French.

And talking of beer, Don was a great lover of Mrs Moon’s dive bar in Fleet Street, a favourite haunt of Reuters hacks until it was demolished in 1984. 

One evening, long ago, Don, myself and three others were having a quiet drink in Mrs Moon’s when Don went to order a round. Within seconds, all hell broke loose at the bar, and it was clear he was in trouble. 

He had accused a giant 20-stone printer from the Telegraph of being “a wanker” because he had blocked access to the bar. The “wanker” insult had only just come into fashion in London society and the printer had not been slow to grasp its meaning. He declared he would break Don’s neck.

A simple apology would probably have fixed it, but that was not Don’s style.  Mrs Moon ordered us to leave the pub for the denouement and we all trooped outside.

The giant printer stared at Don with malevolent intent and then one of us piped up: “Sorry to spoil your beer sir”.  “Yeah” said the printer,  “But what’s your friend going to do about it?”  

 Don considered the question for a second before uttering a reluctant and grumpy, “I’ll buy you a pint”. They shook hands and we went back to the bar, somewhat relieved.

The incident illustrated the fact that if you were a mate of Don’s, you had to be ready for anything. But for all the grumpiness he could be the best company you’d ever find. And there’s a lot to be said for that. ■