Happy birthday to this marvellous man, my imperfect, rebellious, stubborn, charming, infuriating, talented Dad. You'd have been 81 today. With the luxury of distance and hindsight, I can pick and choose my memories, in no particular order...

Reuniting in London after a gap of 15 years, me becoming instantly livid at you for a snide remark about the length of my son's hair; a few days later, struck with awe as you charmed partygoers with your dance moves, grinning like a Cheshire cat while the ladies moue'd at each other over the next dance with you.

As a boy, I remember you clambering into the attic with your shotgun, hot on the heels of burglars making their escape through the roof; the gun went off as it was handed to you, nearly taking your head off.

I hero-worshipped you after one of your epic drives in the Mara through 40 miles of glutinous black-cotton soil, at night, in the rain, with 8 of us in the back of our Series III Land Rover. I was devastated when your advancing years caused you to trade it in for a nasty little Suzuki...

With a grapefruit-sized tumour in your skull and barely able to string a sentence together, you, engaged in a single-handed stand-off against the police, the paramedics and your pastor, refusing to go to hospital, and insisting on going to work. It always reminds me of the final scene from your favourite movie, "Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid". That didn't end too well either.

And on they go. Someday, I'll write them all down, but on your special day, here's a salute from me and my friends. RIP, old man, although, somehow, I think you'd be bored with just doing that.