A TRIBUTE TO BASIL -  Andy Puddifoot

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If Basil were organising this service, I think he’d skip this bit.
“We don’t want all that nonsense!!,” he’d say. In fact, I think he’d go straight to the Wagner music at the end, and just play us all an hour’s worth of that. Job done.

 

But if he could be persuaded that just a few words about him might be quite nice, he’d make a point of sitting you down, listening carefully to your speech, and then saying something like: “Yes. That was very nice Andy. There are just one or two things there that we might want to think about…”

 

Both approaches were inherently Bas; natural humility and meticulous preparation. In his world, self was a distraction, and if something was worth doing, it was worth doing assiduously well.

 

Like the time in November 1994, when he received a phone call from an anxious mother about her Old Pauline sons who had become involved with an unsavoury so-called ‘spiritual school’ while on their gap year in Asia, and had decided that they wouldn’t be coming home. Could Basil possibly help?

 

A few days later, our man drove to Heathrow airport and boarded a plane for Bangkok, to embark on what was effectively an international rescue mission. When you’ve narrowly missed out on the role of James Bond, it’s amazing the lengths you’ll go to to compensate.

 

Of course, Basil tracked the boys down on their remote Thai island, where he met the questionable leader of the ‘school’. Cue several days of trademark Moss negotiation, persuasion, perseverance and charm with all concerned, after which – of course – the boys agreed to fly back with him to London.

 

That was Bas; always prepared to go the extra mile – or, in this case, six thousand miles – to help out.

 

It seems Basil wasn’t always the Basil we knew and loved. “I was a nasty child!” he confided to me once. Even if that’s true – and we must bear in mind his love of hyperbole – something soon changed that. It might have been when the captain of St Paul’s School casually threw him an application form for something called the summer house party, run by The Pauline Meetings. By that point he was already set on the idea of taking to the stage, but that house party was a revelation to him, and after it, he found himself thinking, “What would I rather be when I grow up; a famous actor, or one of the leaders of the Meetings?” And he decided the answer was the latter.

 

As it turned out, he achieved both: 15 years later Basil Moss became a household name thanks largely to his regular roles in the popular TV soap-opera Compact and the radio drama Waggoner’s Walk; five years later, he was asked by the leaders of The Pauline Meetings if he would like to join them in their work. He said yes.

 

Those things would have been enough for most people, but not for Bas. He learned to play the trumpet – well – and started a jazz band. And many of us fondly remember the St Michael’s Jazz Dances that raised so much money for this place – a cause and a community that Basil believed in deeply, and which he loved. And which loved him.

 

Then there was his involvement in the Old Pauline Club, of which he was president, and for which he organised and captained countless rugby teams. He wasn’t much good at rugby, but his half-time team talks were often said to be the highlight of the afternoon.

 

He was a principal driving force behind the building of the wonderful Old Pauline clubhouse at Thames Ditton, and the creation of what is now Colets Health and Fitness Club. That venture was a huge success, and I am told by those who know, that Basil’s warmth and empathy with the staff and members there helped create something that was more like a happy family than a business.

 

Of all these endeavours, one was front and centre – The Pauline Meetings, which – in partnership with John Beastall – he ran for decades. For Basil, whose Christian faith was paramount, that was the most important contribution he could make, and the thing that took precedence over everything else – to the annoyance of his agent.

 

Like Colets health club, the Meetings and house parties thrived under Basil’s leadership. Something to do with his indefinable charisma – it simply drew people in, and then made them feel at home.

 

The Compact annual, a treasure-trove of trivia and information about the TV series, describes Basil as “a self-confessed incurable romantic”, and so he was, as we will hear for ourselves in just a moment. He certainly cried easily. Films, music, Australian soap operas – they all set him off. But mainly music, which was, of course, his passion.

 

The musical language was one that he understood instinctively, and one that spoke to him of God. If some performance of Strauss’s Four Last Songs or Puccini’s La Boheme got it just right, he would be deeply moved. And it wasn’t so much sad things, but happy ones that brought a tear to his eye. Some display of compassion, or a finely wrought drama with a happy ending. At such moments he would often talk about joy, with a wistful smile, and his perception would somehow remind you again that life is so much richer and deeper than you had thought.

 

With the possible exception of a premium seat at Covent Garden, Basil loved nothing more than sitting with good friends in a Greek-island taverna with a charged glass and, sometimes, “a little Marlboro light” which he would look forward to smoking with mischievous glee.

 

He cherished life, and he hated wasting time. If he wasn’t trying to teach Paulines that love, and how we show it, is the most important thing in the world, he would be extolling to them the more prosaic – but equally loving – virtues of time-management.

 

And he was a skilled communicator, both in the talks he gave and the discussion groups he ran, and on the telephone, where it often seemed as though he spent most of his life.

 

One or two recent thoughts about Bas from among the hundreds of people who knew him:

 

 “I so so envied his lack of worry, his memory of only good things, his common sense, loyalty and incredible kindness”

 

“No-one has had a greater or more positive impact upon my life than Basil”

 

“We have lost a saint”

 

And then, from one of his neighbours, posted on a local WhatsApp group: “I didn’t really know Basil, but he seemed a kind man. I will miss seeing him walk along Cleveland Road with his carer, but I will not miss his driving.”

 

His driving was, shall we say, spirited. But he could be challenging in other ways too – often strong-willed and single-minded – and he was not afraid of ruffling feathers for the sake of something he believed in. He wasn’t always right, but he usually was.

 

Basil’s memory was never the greatest. During one typically exuberant restaurant lunch, conversation turned to the films of Arnold Schwarzenegger. The general opinion in the group was tending towards the negative, when Bas chipped in: 

 

“Now, wait a minute, there was one very good film of his. Ohhh, what was it called…”

“Give us a clue Bas.”

“Oh dear, erm, something to do with Mars, Oh what was it….”

“Total Recall, Bas. It was called Total Recall.”

“That’s it!”

 

There followed a delicious second or two before Basil realised the irony, and, well, the laughter flowed freely. It was a lovely moment; one of many that Basil, intentionally or otherwise, gifted us.

 

Some things he did remember. He remembered to cherish his friends, and to show his appreciation. And he remembered to be so very generous, both with his money and his time. And we will remember his thoughtfulness. And his infectiously carefree laugh.

 

His memory began to fail him more fundamentally in his last few years and, at a time when some become bitter or anxious, he simply became more open-hearted and appreciative. It was a masterclass in acceptance, and his parting gift to us.

 

I want to briefly mention a couple of other people today. My great friend Mark Harrop, who has done so much in the last few years to support Bas and help him with all his affairs. On behalf of Bas, a massive thank-you, Marko.

 

And to Basil’s two carers Ruth and Flora who have both been exemplary. And especially to you, Ruth, his main carer. Or, as Basil liked to call you, his PA. Your constant dedication and love have been a genuine inspiration – he couldn’t have asked for more. Thank you.

 

Basil had many pithy sayings, one of which was “Sentiment, not sentimentality.” So, to avoid any risk of mawkishness or cliché, I’ll just finish with a piece of information.

 

One of Basil’s favourite lines from Hamlet was:

 

“Goodnight sweet prince, and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.”

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                                                                                                Andy Puddifoot