Nick Ewart RIP

It was not on the cards that I would outlive my oldest friend with my dicky ticker. At the age of 17 Nick lived on peanut butter sarnies laced with marmalade, and when he could afford it, Tetley's mild ale. He smoked Woodbines but craved Sobrani No. 6. He lived with his Mother a, sales person at Scofields in Leeds, at the top of North Lane in Roundhay., in a private 2 bedroomed flat, just a ten minute walk from my council house. Of an evening he would turn up to raid the sack of potatoes that stood in our porch, having spent the money his mother had given him for the purchase of the same, for cigs. In those days he was as thin as a lat and perfected the Pink Panther walk that all tall boys assumed before filling out. His wit was infectious and pulled the birds. Included in his conquest were Marilyn George, a stunning long legged blond, my sister Denise, Fiona Tidswell, and Teresa Tyrell, probably all at the same time. Nick myself Denise and Fiona made up a foursome for evenings of laughter and no sex. I don't want to delve into his finances, as he still owes me money from those days, yet he managed to buy a Vespa scooter, and then a Morris Minor convertible. I don't know what he had in his trousers but he still creates rage at the mention of his name, from two of his ex girlfriends partners.
Nick was 6 ft something and I was 5'4", 5'6" in cowboy boots. Because we were art students and dressed differently and had longish hair, we were always the intended victims of the local student bashers. but we had a plan. I would climb onto Nicks shoulders and he would run us out of the  room with me bashing anyone in our way from a great height. I think the surprise element rather than my flailing limbs got us home safe with only minor injuries. One of the venues in which this tactic was used was The Kirkstall Arms,  the venue of Martin Bollands jazz band. To get there we had to drive down Kirstall Hill in my Austin 7 Ruby, which was painted bright yellow. As most of the cars in those days came in black only, it stood out like a pork sausage in a bakery. The wags in the back Nick, Brian Herbert and Jammy Douglas, found out that they could steer it by leaning to the left or to the right, because their weight lifted the front wheels off the road. Rick Brown in the passenger seat would be leaning too, but in his perverse way, in the other direction. So the journey to Kirkstall was a fight in itself. I meanwhile was praying that the lights at the bottom would be green, because it was impossible to stop with the weight of 5 bodies in the car and only cable brakes. As we careered across Kirkstall Road I would be frantically shouting left, then right to avoid a collision, with smoke coming from the brake pads and the smell of burning oil,  we somehow survived.
Alas Nick and Brian are dead, and Jammy who became dancing Dave, might be still with us. As for Rick, he's probably morphed into Darth Varder