Our Watford correspondent remembers his great friend and mentor

Oli Phillips meant very much to me and had such a huge bearing on my life, both professionally and personally.

He was a wonderful man. A true friend who you’d want next to you in the trenches. A tremendous teacher who shared his knowledge and time willingly in order to help me be the best I could be.

As for his journalistic talent and writing skill . . . well I really don’t feel worthy attempting to describe just how gifted Oli was. The man was a walking thesaurus who had the very rare ability to be able to put into words exactly what he’d seen, so that the reader could picture it clearly in their mind’s eye.

Working alongside him, reading his copy, listening to how he engaged with people, understanding the importance of facts, accuracy and being thorough. It was tutelage which money could never buy.

As a fan, long before I got to work at the Watford Observer, I hung on his every word about the Hornets. Oli took us all inside the club, inside the mind of the manager, onto the pitch at games and then into dressing room after the final whistle.

And best of all, you knew he did it as a devoted fan, just like the rest of us.

As a boss, he was a hard taskmaster. He set a very high bar (and at his height, he could push it far higher than most) and he expected the same from those who worked for him. In return, he gave the gift of his knowledge, his experience and his caring nature.

I never had a problem with the occasional verbal blast because I knew Oli was there to help me develop character as a writer, expand my vocabulary, explain the importance of relationship building, help me fulfil my potential – and be a better human being.

Oddly, neither of us – as I found out later in life – had a great deal of confidence in our own ability. I like to think we were both modest and always striving to improve.

There are so many anecdotes, but one that immediately sprung to mind when the news of his passing came through was Oli’s loathing of superfluous words in a story.

“Don’t describe someone’s death as sad,” he told me regularly. “All deaths are sad. You wouldn’t say someone happily died, so don’t say they sadly died. Save that extra word for something else.”

The sports desk in the WO offices was tucked away in a corner, so it meant we really were a little team, working as one. It also meant that those of us in the team got first warning when Oli was having his lunch which, for many years, was a plate of curry and rice that he had brought from home, covered in cling film. At 1pm he’d head down to the canteen and get them to warm it up in the microwave.

As he came back, the aroma of whatever curry he was having would get back to the desk long before the man himself with his plate. It filled the whole office. Every day. And you could set your watch by it.

“Ah, Oli’s having his curry, it must be 1pm,” someone would generally say.

He’d then sit down and open the drawer next to his desk which was full of a variety of hot chutneys and pickles. He’d pick one, and dollop a large spoonful on top of the curry. If you hadn’t smelt it before, that definitely did the trick. He’d stir it all together and munch away.

Then one day he told us he’d been getting stomach cramps and heartburn in the afternoons, so had been to see his doctor, who told him it was either what he was eating or the time he was eating it.

A few non-curry lovers breathed a deep sigh of relief at the idea of that 1pm pungency no longer filling the office.

Not so. Oli simply brought the curry forward to 10.30am and carried on as normal.

One lasting legacy from Oli is a nickname he gave me at the Watford Observer. He dubbed me ‘Fly’. Former colleagues still use that monicker, as do people at Watford FC and some of Oli’s family. I really don‘t mind at all.

That nickname is my link to a very happy past, given to me by Oli because he thought I was like a fly, moving from job to job, desk to desk, always busy and never stopping. He also reminded me that people would swat at flies if they become too annoying!

When I left the WO to work for Watford, I know that the reference Oli gave to Graham Taylor helped seal the job. He only wanted me to go further and gain more skill and knowledge.

We talked and met regularly, and as I grew older and wiser we would share experiences, exchange opinions and ask each other for advice (though that was loaded heavily in my favour).

I grew to share his love of curry, but even Oli couldn’t get me to appreciate the music of Bob Dylan. He didn’t much care for my dance/pop tunes either, so we met halfway and both enjoyed Fleetwood Mac.

When the idea of me returning to the Watford Observer to do the ‘Oli role’ was suggested last summer, the first counsel I sought was that of the man himself. I was actually a bit nervous: they were big boots, a large hat and an oversized gilet to fill after all.

“Go for it,” he said. “What do you think I spent all those years helping you for?”

I’d known how ill he was for some time, and truth be told I dreaded seeing his name come up on my phone for fear that ‘this was it’.

However, even when he was most ill he still loved a chat, even if sometimes he became more random.

One Sunday morning my phone rang at 6am. It was Oli. I answered, half dreading what I might hear. “What time is it?” that familiar voice boomed.

I told him it was 6am, and he replied: “Oh well go back to sleep then. I’ve lost track of time. I’ve nothing much to say anyway.” And he hung up.

I last spoke to Oli a week before he died. Out of nowhere he had mastered the art of video calls, and so that last conversation was visual and audio. I even took a screengrab of us talking. That’s an image I’ll never delete.

We spoke only for a few minutes as I could tell he was tired, but he still wanted to chat. We covered Watford, how the job was going, how my family were. Then, as was often the way when you spoke to Oli, he signalled the end of the conversation was coming by interrupting with a long “Anywaaaaay”.

I paused, he paused. I knew deep down this was to be our last conversation, and he did too.

“I need you to know, you’re doing a really good job. You really are. Ok?”

I nodded, he smiled, we both had a little tear or two, and the call ended.

Fortunately, I had met up with Oli in November. He made a flying visit to England during the World Cup, and we had a coffee together in Watford’s Atria shopping centre.

I can’t lie: I was taken aback at how frail he’d got. Like so many of us I’m sure, in my mind people I know are frozen in time at the age when they were in their prime. But here was Oli, my great friend and teacher, now looking a little bit stooped, almost as bald as me, and visibly tired.

Nonetheless, the conversation, the stories, the jokes and the banter flowed. It was like being back at the desk in the WO offices at Rickmansworth Road all those years ago.

When it came to time for us to head home, I think we both realised this would likely be our last meeting in person. He’d usually visit around Christmas time, but had said he might give it a miss this year.

I shook his hand – well his huge hand encased mine in his usual vice-like grip. He put his other hand on my outstretched arm, smiled and said “Be in touch Fly.”

I turned to walk off, then for some reason I paused and turned around. Oli hadn’t got far, and he had paused too. We were a distance apart, but close enough that we could both see the other was choked up.

He gave me a knowing nod, and signed off with the same phrase as he had in so many conversations, phone calls, emails and messages over our 35 years of friendship:

“Be lucky.”

I was lucky, Oli. As were all those who knew you, worked with you and read your work. We were very lucky indeed.