Ten years gone but not forgotten

Politicians from all parties united in their tributes to Kenny Macintyre

Ten years have passed since one of the BBC's most respected journalists, Kenny Macintyre, died suddenly at the age of 54. BBC Scotland's former controller John McCormick reflects on his unique talent.

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It was always difficult to persuade Kenny to take a day off, even on a Saturday, but I had coaxed him to come to Hampden for the Cup Final.

A number of other BBC people were in the company including some colleagues from London, all of them pleased to meet the man they had heard so much about.

It was a happy day with lots of laughs and lots of good gossip. Kenny was in great form. As we drove off from Hampden, around 6pm, he asked me to drop him off, not at home but at Broadcasting House.

"I just want to check what's been happening."

A little over 24 hours later as I was leaving a BBC music event in Glasgow city centre I got the call. Kenny had died.

They all enjoyed talking to Kenny and telling him what was going on. And often they relied on him telling them John McCormick

Ten years later I can still recall that moment and that dreadful feeling. That feeling of loss has never gone away.

It was a shocked and devastated newsroom I went to that Sunday night. As the news spread, folk began to gather to share their thoughts and to begin to prepare a unique edition of Good Morning Scotland.

So many wanted to take part, to tell their story of a journalist who crossed all the boundaries; a journalist like no other.

Tony Blair described him as "an institution". Gordon Brown said "he brought a human touch to Scottish political journalism". Argyll man George Robertson said that "the biggest and best light from Argyll had gone out".

Alex Salmond mourned the loss of "the voice of Scottish politics". Donald Dewar said he was politicians' "agony aunt".

That was it. They all enjoyed talking to Kenny and telling him what was going on. And often they relied on him telling them. Kenny had built up a huge reputation.

He treated everyone alike. He was impossible to impress. He pursued his contacts ruthlessly, whatever the time of the day or night. But often they enjoyed the pursuit and the chance to discuss an issue with a man they trusted.

Politicians knew that he was as fascinated and intrigued by the business of politics as they were.

Memorial pitch

While he pushed and shoved and hassled and harassed to get to a story the politicians knew what he was about: politics and parliaments were important and he wanted the people to know what was going on.

They trusted him because they knew he was only interested in getting to the truth and that he would handle it with due care and seriousness.

In an industry awash with awards ceremonies he was simply not interested in baubles. He turned down an honour, taking me into his confidence saying: "I'm only telling you in case it crosses your desk. I don't want to embarrass anybody but it's just not right to accept."

A memorial he would have approved of is the football pitch dedicated to him in his home town of Tobermory, giving local youngsters the chance to play the game he loved.

The gathering in the kirk in Taynuilt where we laid him to rest would have done justice to a senior statesman. The official representative from the BBC's London newsroom looked around the graveyard packed with famous faces. She shook her head, saying "I had no idea…"

Sadly, we had a very good idea of what we had lost. We had lost a good man and an extraordinary journalist. The 10th anniversary of his death coinciding with the 10th anniversary of the Scottish Parliament serves as a stark and poignant reminder of the extent of that loss.