Remembering Tim Hoare – a man like no other

He was a Falstaff in his drinking and in his celebration of life, but his greatness lay in his friendships. Like his closest friend Nick Scott, who left us two and a half years ago, he roamed the world making friends and being as generous to them as a fairy godfather. The years, with all their disappointments, teach us caution, but Tim Hoare remained reckless to the end. Here he is in a high life column from 15 years ago:

We hit a hurricane while sailing off the Riviera last week, a hurricane called Tim Hoare. I have never in my long life met anyone quite like him. The words, in posh English vintage 1940s tones, tumble out so fast, enwrapped in alliteration and so clogged with onomatopoeia, that a poor little Greek boy like me misses three out of every four.

On that particular trip, Tim’s private plane blew an engine mid-flight and was circling uncontrollably. He was alone with the two pilots. So he rang us but failed to tell us he was in trouble. He just said that he might be a while. He spent only one night on Bushido and presented me with the grandest and most beautiful old Cartier lighter that has stood proudly on a mantelpiece ever since. It is half-a-foot high and was made in the 1920s.

A friend described him as Falstaffian in girth, too, with a booming voice that radiated assurance and confidence. He was generous to a fault, extremely intelligent and well read, and atop it all was an abundant shock of jet-black hair. He and Bob Geldof were like brothers and made a very strange couple: the rich old Etonian clubman and the proud and exceedingly talented Irishman playing the poor Irish lad scrounging a living.