Journalist, editor, broadcaster and lecturer Karen Buchanan first met Michael Wynn Jones and Delia Smith in 1998 as the editor of FourFourTwo.
It was the beginning of a friendship that would span almost three decades, during which Karen helped Norfolk get to know the couple better through her interviews, writing and evident admiration for them both.
I knew preparing to write this would be hard. It’s taken me five days of wiping down the paintwork in my spare room, scrubbing all the bins, reordering the airing cupboard and dusting parts of my little flat that have never seen the light of day even to be able to be sitting here at my laptop, fingers curled precariously over the keyboard.
Hell, I even tried ironing something as a way of stalling the process.
But now the flat is sparkling, the shirt is scorched and there is no other way out. I’ve got to face the unthinkable – I’ve been asked to write a tribute to a man who is such a hero of mine, in so many ways, that I’m sitting here, rigid with fear that I won’t be able to do him justice. And, even though he was 85, I still can’t quite believe he’s no longer here.
Except, of course, he’s gone, but he will always be here.
I have read so, so many wonderful, beautifully written tributes over the last five days, from Connor Southwell’s fabulously informed and charming piece in the PinkUn to the many hundreds of heartfelt messages scribbled in the Book of Condolence. As anyone who has met me for more than two minutes will attest, I have a lousy memory and it’s certainly not been helped by Michael’s extreme generosity as a host over the years…!
And I’m just not ready to accept this canary flying the nest. Not yet. Michael is so integral to my experience of falling in love with Norwich City and had such a boundless energy and joy for the club that I really had never considered him not being here any more.
So, why have I been asked to write something? I first got to know Michael and Delia as a young journalist, as editor of the football magazine, FourFourTwo. Back in 1997 I wrote an editorial column promising to buy a copy of Delia’s Winter Collection to say thank you to her and Michael for saving our club by buying out Geoffrey Watling’s shares. A few weeks after the issue came out I received a copy of a book with a green and yellow sunflower on the front, and a card:
“Seeing as you’ve already got Winter, thought you might like Summer. Please join us for supper and share our hopes and dreams, Love Delia and Michael x”.
It was a terrifying request. Back then, I drank like a fish, smoked like a chimney and swore like a trooper – and couldn’t possibly imagine how I could get through a whole evening at the house of “Saint Delia” and her impressive-sounding publishing husband Michael without recourse to any of these crutches. Back then they were about the same age as I am now (late 50s, which seemed ancient to my idiot 29-year-old self).
Myself and my partner Gordon drove up from London on a busy Friday evening and, this being in the days before satnavs, arrived late and fractious, much to our hosts’ bemusement. “Oh we’re always doing that!” they said in unison, Delia pouring us wine and Michael offering me a cigarette. We felt instantly at ease and sat up singing football songs and making up our own until Delia pointed outside:
“There’s something funny happening in the sky!”
“It’s called dawn,” said Michael, drily. “I really think perhaps we ought to go to bed!”
That night spawned a friendship that has enriched my universe for nearly 30 years – half my life. And it has shaped my life in so many ways that I’m not even sure I properly appreciated until the last five days of pacing, fretting, cogitating and thinking.
I cannot stress enough how energising Michael and Delia taking over our club was. It wasn’t that long after the formation of the Premier League. Their input gave us hope, a new way of doing things. Not long beforehand I had interviewed the then chairman Robert Chase. Within minutes of meeting these two it was apparent things at the club would be completely different.
Kindness. Compassion. Caring. Daring. Listening. Passion.
Given control of their club they set out to make a difference – to revolutionise the offering to fans on and off the pitch, yes, but to transform the club into one that listened and engaged with its fans. Delia is fond of the saying: “None of us is as smart as all of us”. Both of them seek out people, delighting in their differing opinions, revelling in learning something new, relishing the chance to grow and connect with others. Both are brilliant at putting people at ease. Both excel at listening; really listening. And both excel at giving two hoots about taking all that on board and getting it right. They would be the first to concede they didn’t always get it right, but by god, I’ve never witnessed anyone try harder or care more.
Delia initially comes across as the more passionate of the two; louder, perhaps prouder, (occasionally rowdier!), whereas Michael’s proof that still waters run deep. Partly, I think, this is down to one of the loveliest aspects of his personality: he is happy to lift people up, to showcase them and all their glorious talents. He is completely without ego and celebrates others. I remember once being at a Northern Canaries’ bash where Delia and Michael were guests of honour.
“Delia, Delia! Can I have your autograph please?” fans were besieging Delia.
Michael sat in the corner, smiling, having a quiet puff on his Piccadilly cigarette.
I saw him across the room and ran over with my shirt and a pen.
“Michael! Michael!” I squealed. “Can I have your autograph please?!”
“Don’t be so bloody silly,” he said, laughing. But he signed it and looked bashfully pleased.
Much has been written about Michael being a steadying hand in the boardroom, an excellent negotiator and an astute football man. I’m not going to add to any of that. I will just say one thing: Michael was class. His decisions were always made with the best interests of “the best club in the world” at heart. He was prepared to make the tough calls, but he always acted with integrity, civility and grace.
I’ve only seen him rattled once or twice. Well, once that I can tell you about. Shortly after Sunderland opened their Stadium of Light, me and Gordon were invited as Michael and Delia’s guests to a game up there. After a very amusing lunch, during which the hosts introduced onto the stage their special guest “Today’s match referee Roger Fernandez” (he took the mic and corrected them: “Er, it’s Roger Hurnandiz, actually!” and didn’t give them a kick all game) we went to the snazzy new boardroom for a drink.
Except Delia and I couldn’t get in. Cos we were women and it was men only (obviously, this being the dark days of yore – oh, sorry – 1997). We were directed back to a sickly pink room decorated with bows, flowers and ladies crooking their fingers round delicate china teapots.
“Stuff this!” said Michael, who, realising Delia – the co-owner of the football club! – had not been allowed in with him, had come back to rescue his wife. “Let’s go and get a proper drink.” So, much to the consternation of the Sunderland officials, we made our way into the concourse below and had a pint with the Sunderland fans, who were very amused to see us there!
Michael wasn’t as extrovert as Delia, but he would happily chat to anyone and everyone – especially if it was about football or cricket. He would listen to fans’ views and debate and discuss and he never forgot what it was like to be taken to the ground by his dad as a little boy. He made time for everyone – and it’s a mark of the man that everyone who worked for him or with him at the football club held him in the highest esteem.
The Thursday after he passed, our little gang of Barclay Enders – Gavin, Lisa, Jen, Stuart, Kim, Glen and Alice – went to the Lion & Castle to pay our respects. It was incredibly moving to read the Book of Condolence and see all the stories about the many touching interactions Michael had had with people. Michael always talked about Norwich City being a family – and that sentiment leapt off the page.
We sat, as a family, having a pint and sharing stories about Michael, about the many times we’d spoken to him in this very spot as he came in the Lion & Castle after the game and chatted to fans. I used to love going for a gossipy cigarette with him: "Just going to check if it's snowing," he'd say and we'd giggle as we stepped outside into the sunshine. We reminisced about how he and Delia came onto the pitch when we won the title at Crewe. About how down-to-earth he was, how wickedly, mischievously funny he was, how incredibly genteel and kind he was.
And how he engendered such love at the football club. Not just the outpouring of love and grief that has overwhelmed the club since his passing and wrapped all of those who knew him well in comfort.
But a deep, deep love – a connection with the club unsurpassed by any owner before or since. An abiding concern for the club, for the fans, for the welfare of the players, the manager, the groundsmen, the catering team, the kiosk lads and lasses… he truly cared about everyone and used his position to try and make life better for everyone connected with NCFC.
We were so, so lucky to have him at our club for so long. Delia used to come and sit with me in the Lower Barclay on occasions as she loved the singing and the atmosphere. But for the big games, she always had to be in the box with Michael where they held hands tightly.
Every single game. Home or away.
We were so, so lucky to have Michael holding our hands for the last 30 years. Michael and Delia were extremely careful to only hand over the reins once they were sure they were doing right by the club, but as we embark on a hopefully exciting new era, how I will miss that reassuring squeeze.