Fleet Street's finest died yesterday. When Keith Waterhouse hung up his typewriter in May, his friends feared it would kill him.
The end came quickly. Despite his prolific success as a novelist and playwright, Keith never gave up the day job. His twice-weekly column was his lifeblood.
Waterhouse on Monday and Thursday was a must-read for millions. For Keith, it was a must-write. While his exemplary copy continued to flow, he was indestructible.
His frail body disguised a ferocious work ethic and dedication to duty stretching back over half a century.