homepage site map Butts' Wake (December 2001) There we were, my brother Ian and I, at Butts's Wake. Butts was the landlord of the Queen's Head till he retired a few years ago and handed over to his son, Neil. Good man, Butts. A friend of my father's. Bit of a rascist as landlords go. Bit of a chauvinist in the gender department. But a true spirit. He took his role as landlord to the parish seriously even if, as Father Andrew said at the funeral, "I've spent more time in his establishment than he has in mine." There was not much hoohah made about it but there were a few pensioners enjoyed a warmer winter because of Butts. He knew everybody and they all knew him. The Queen's Head was packed. A wake at the Queen's Head is not dissimilar to a Commonwealth title fight at Bethnal Green. All the local faces are there. It's ringside. In Bethnal Green you'd get the camel hair coated former middle-weights and with them, a gorgeous, twenty year old, tiger-skinned blonde. In Maldon you get a retired High Street solicitor and a packet of crisps. It's the same thing anywhere, glamour. I nearly missed it as well. We'd finished the St Agnes Fountain tour the night before in Worksop. I returned to Maldon at around four in the morning. It was far too early to slip back into local time. I didn't make the funeral in the afternoon and it wasn't till I went to pick up the kids from school that I saw a boat builder friend of mine on his way down to the pub. He reminded me it was Butts's Wake so I sent the kids round the corner home and told them I'd be in the Queen's Head if their mum called. Butts had a grand turn of phrase. My brother was telling me about the time several years ago when Butts was talking to a young man at the bar who was about to get married. Butts said, "Are you marrying what's her name?" The young man said, "Yes, next week." "I know her," said Butts and he walked off to another customer. "I had her mother." This is what makes small town life so great.