Victor Bulmer‑Thomas 9th January 2018
Whenever we lose a loved one – family or otherwise – it is always a hard blow. It is doubly so when the one we lose is in their prime. Such is the case with my nephew Inigo, taken from us in his 50th year.
Inigo was born on 28th May 1968. As someone who later took a keen interest in current affairs, Inigo would have relished the age when he was born. It was a month, and indeed year, of great political turbulence. De Gaulle was clinging on as President of France, the Czechoslovakian spring was under way and the Tet offensive was about to be launched in Vietnam. Inigo would have been delighted to have been born in the middle of these events – or évènements as the French called them – although his political awakening was still some years ahead. Indeed, by the time he came of age the world looked very different.
Inigo’s school years were marked less by academic achievements and more by a series of escapades that have become legendary in the family for their telling and retelling. Indeed, some have probably never been told to those of my generation, instead being passed around among his contemporaries like Samizdat copies of Solzhenitsyn in the Soviet Union. I will leave it to others on other occasions to spell out what these were, should they wish to do so, but suffice it to say that at school and university Inigo demonstrated his skills as a ‘people person’, bringing joy to those with whom he fell into contact and demonstrating his enormous capacity to listen to others.
These skills can be demonstrated by the impact he had on others. Here is one quote from his childhood friend Antonia:
"We used to participate in the W11 children’s opera every winter and as we got older he began to get better parts than me as he had a good voice. It was hard not to feel a twinge of jealousy at his elevated status among the hundred or so other children involved in the production. I remember hearing my sister relate a story of Ini hiding a bell in Hugo’s piano so that whenever he played in the upper registers of the piano, it would tinkle and tip Hugo into paroxysms of irritation as he was unable to locate the source of the sound for some time. There was always a story when Ini was around, life was so much more fun. How wonderful to have known Inigo."
University was followed by a career in advertising and marketing. It is fair to say that Inigo was one of those who worked to live rather than lived to work. Yet once again he demonstrated his personal appeal through the wide circle of friends he developed through his business contacts, forming friendships that would last through his life. And that was the secret to Inigo’s success as a human being – an extraordinary capacity to make friends and to remain faithful to them whatever the circumstances. As his friend Mark has said:
"Inigo was such a great, irreplaceable, one‑off friend that I know I shall carry an Inigo‑shaped hole in me forever. No‑one else could have that combination of clear‑sightedness and unsentimentality yet with generosity of heart and unwillingness to judge. To see the world for what it is and still love it ... he could turn that self‑knowledge into a multi‑layered thing, ‘on a dime’ as it were. That was the brilliance of him – his sparkle and his love – and his passion for the world and being in it and enjoying all it could bring."
Nothing demonstrated this more than his devotion to Ann, the woman he married in 2001 the year after his mother Jennifer died. Their love was unbounded and together they shared a blissful marriage in which their compatibility was shown in so many ways. Each was the greatest supporter of the other, recognizing in each other talents that perhaps they did not even know they had.
Their two children Zelda and Jago – born respectively in 2001 and 2004 – brought them endless pleasure. How Jennifer would have loved to have known them. And Inigo, released from the burdens of a job that brought diminishing satisfaction, was able to throw himself into parenthood with his customary enthusiasm and dedication. He was an exemplary parent, delighting in introducing his children to new experiences and rejoicing in their academic success.
Inigo never ceased to amaze his friends and family. On meeting Brian Eno in the street, his former neighbour in Blenheim Crescent, Inigo accepted an invitation to visit Eno’s recording studio where he was able to inspire the brilliant and experimental musician to revisit his collaboration with Herby Hancock whom Inigo and Ann had met on the Queen Mary.
Inigo had a serious side as well. He was always writing letters – a quality he shared with his grandfather Ivor – about ways in which local conditions could be improved. MPs, police chiefs and others were the recipients of these missives all delivered in perfect prose and elegant style. Indeed, Inigo was a good writer who perhaps should have done more to nurture that talent.
Music was another love. Whether listening to Beethoven with Hugo, Fela Kuti with Ann or the Kinks with the children, he had an encyclopaedic knowledge of music that he always wanted to share with others. And as a child he was not a bad cellist, just being overshadowed by the brilliance of his brothers on the violin.
Inigo returned with his family from Florida in April last year only to fall ill a few days later. Full recovery looked promising, so much so that the family were able to travel to Paris, Lundy Island and other places in the summer. Yet it was not to be. The illness returned even stronger in September. Although he now knew the prospects were not good, he faced his illness with extraordinary courage. Those of us who saw him in these last weeks will always remember the brave face he put on what was happening.
Inigo – the name in Basque means "my little love" – exuded a warmth of friendship that made him excellent company for all those lucky enough to come into contact with him. We will all miss him, especially his lovely wife and children. But we will all have special memories of him that we can cherish. Mine is of the little boy dressed in a ‘babygrow’ the colour of purple that would be passed to our children. The ‘kurkle’, as it was known, was a constant reminder of Inigo as our children were growing up and even now reappears from time to time during periods of spring cleaning. Those moments will now be more poignant but I – like everyone else here – will always remember Inigo with a special affection.