MY FRIEND RHODRI ...BY NEIL KINNOCK
They formed a lasting friendship as young political activists in Cardiff and shared a flat in the 1960s before both eventually becoming Labour heavyweight figures. Following the death of former First Minister of Wales Rhodri Morgan this week, once party l
WHEN Rhodri Morgan joined me and two other friends in a Cardiff flat in 1963 he was an instant hit. There was his distinctive mop of wiry hair (“lot of toilet brushes in our family,” he explained).
Then there was his “jogging” (he brought the then new word and some weird shorts back from the USA); and also his lurid green minivan (“so small I can wear it”) that made him very noticeable.
Add to that the fact that he was extremely bright, with degrees from Oxford and Harvard, and he was unmissable.
But it was his infectious enthusiasm for sport, Labour politics and life itself that gave him a special sparkle.
Within weeks he was at the centre of preparations for the Labour 1964 General Election campaign, gathering friends in the Old Arcade pub near Cardiff market – later known as “Rhodri’s HQ”.
He taught us the Civil Rights songs that he’d learned in the USA and was starting to go out with Julie, his lifelong love. He radiated zest, laughter and a willingness to courageously challenge injustice, pomposity or silly rules wherever he found them.
Nye Bevan said that “the essential equipment for a socialist is a big bump of irreverence”. Rhodri Morgan was born with that.
In addition to those attributes he was relentlessly hard-working and deeply thoughtful – a feet-on-the-ground realist with a great, colourful imagination, a mixture of wisdom and audacity, a combination of common sense and cheekiness.
And he had an amazing memory for detail.
He used that gift with deadly effect in political and economic arguments, and with great delight in endless discussions about sport, especially Welsh sport.
Rhodri was tough, as he proved when responding to disappointment or pressure with tungsten resilience.
He could be acidly irritated by colleagues or sportsmen who seemed not to be trying their best: “If you put the shirt on you must be willing to die for it”, he declared. Failure was tolerable, lack of effort was not.
Above all, running through Rhodri was a great artery of normality.
He was completely free of vanity, arrogance or false charm.
“Charisma?” he asked, “has he got a café in Ponty?”
When taunted for being ill-kempt or “too casual” in his dress, he said: “Shirts are for wearing, not for stuffing.”
And he had unaffected empathy – he really could, and did, put himself in other people’s shoes.
His sympathy was never false, his joy and sorrow never for “show”.
He was the genuine article. It earned him precious trust, even love.
These natural capacities were enriched by skills learned from some good fortune and some hard knocks.
Few people have lived a life that was instinctively dedicated to serving and improving the lives of others.
Rhodri Morgan was one of them.
The world and Wales have abundant cause to be very grateful for that.