Robert Philip, a sitting-down stand-up comedian even at 16

Scene: The Broomielaw, Glasgow, a Clydeside shipyard area you would hesitate to visit alone if you weren't a local, at least in those days. I hear it's a bit more gentrified now.  

Grubby door to an office rented for interviews. I'm here for a cub reporter job at the Sunday Post newspaper, the biggest-selling Sunday paper in Scotland. I think it sold about 2.5 million copies at the time.

I've just turned 22 and graduated from Glasgow University. All of my peers went for lucrative jobs -- ICI, Shell, God knows what else. But I'd wanted to be a journalist since I was a kid. I'd applied to the BBC, ITV, the Daily Express (the Holy Grail at the time). Rejected by all because I wasn't in the union (NUJ), I did what most young Scottish wannabee journalists, including Rob, did. I applied for this job at the Sunday Post, part of the D.C. Thomson, vehemently anti-union company, with a view to joining the union secretly and moving onwards and upwards.  

So, I'm in this very bare, drab room with eight other wannabees. All of them looked terrified, except one. Turned out his name was Robert Philip. Although we were all in chairs, he was like a sitting-down stand-up comedian. He was 16, right out of school. He had me in stitches, joking about how we could gently take the piss out of the editor who was going to interview us. 

After the individual interviews, the editor comes out and starts, very politely, dismissing one at a time, saying stuff like "You show great potential, keep at it, but for now, I'm sorry, we can't offer you a job." The six of them all leave, one at a time. Rab and I are left alone.

"Robert, as you know, there's only one job available. However, I feel you and Philip can both add a lot to the Sunday Post. So I'm creating two jobs." Rab danced around like a kid. He hugged the editor, and he hugged me. To be honest, the editor, from Dundee, looked like he'd never been hugged before. 

We left together. When he saw my British racing green Triumph Spitfire outside, he burst out laughing. He clearly thought I was a poshie. I told him my dad was a shopkeeper. I bought my cars by working on building sites during school and Uni holidays. He laughed even harder when I vaulted the door to get behind the wheel. Then he did the same into the passenger seat and we drove to his favourite pub for a pint. 

Being 16 was not a problem for Glasgow landlords at the time. A 16-year-old's Clydesdale Bank one pound note was as valuable as anyone else's. 

From that day on, he called me the Caped Crusader. I never had a cape. It's just the way Robbie saw it when I vaulted into the car.

In subsequent years, Robbie and I worked together many times, including at the 1986 World Cup in Mexico where we both witnessed Maradona's two most-memorable goals -- one blatantly illegal, the other a work of genius. As head of the Reuters team, since I was based in Mexico City at the time as Chief Correspondent for Mexico and Central America, I spent most of my post-match time finding a photo that nailed the Hand of God goal. I paid a photographer for the local El Heraldo newspaper £20 to use the photo. No doubt, the guy would have asked for 50 grand these days.

Rob also got me into Wimbledon a couple of times when I wasn't accredited.  

As we all know, Rob had a way with words. But he also had a way with the ladies. He dated some of the most beautiful around. Rob was no George Clooney. With that sense of humour, he didn't need to be.

My condolences to Yvonne, his kids and grandkids.  I'm not family, but I feel like I am, because Robbie was a huge light in my life. 

Rest in peace, my friend. I'm sure you're cracking up the Angels

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