The day before Jack Gold suffered his first stroke and collapsed in Alexandra Park, north London, last September, he was his usual warm, cheerful, self on the tennis court.
Between his strong backhand strokes from the baseline, and his controlled drop shots, he enriched any game of tennis, sharing a new witty anecdote, or remembering an old one. With a mixture of glee, frustration and anger, he would recount the follies of Labour politicians, the absurdities of small-minded bureaucrats, and the latest example of corruption in public life. We called him Jack the Chop because he had the kind of outrageous chop shot that was more martial arts than tennis. His sense of fair play extended to outlawing fist-pumps, high-fives, cheers or anything vaguely self-congratulatory.
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