Former Caxton editor dies

Fellow journalist Rod McGillivray joined his Scots ancestors in the heavenly highlands a fortnight ago.The bearded Rod was a true Scot, from wearing kilt, playing bagpipes and smoking pipe.

He was a sub-editor on The Star until I head hunted him in the 1980s to join the Roodepoort Record.

His first day in the office gave me apoplexy. When asked how copy and the pages were going he replied, in rich accent while sucking on his pipe,“Not good. All rubbish. Spiked the lot”.

It took some power of persuasion to make him realise the rubbish was all we had, and his job was to do the re-writing. And that he did with fanatical intent, teaching junior reporters the craft.

He was later appointed editor of the Brixton Telegraph, a newspaper within the Caxton stable.

He went on to sub on The Citizen and The Times.

He had a humorous side, despite the “dour” description supposed to characterise a Scot.

One story, a true one, still makes me giggle. His wife Jean was admitted to a local clinic to have wisdom teeth removed. Rod arrived in the ward as she was coming around. “How you doing, lass?”

Now this is where he acts the part that has his listeners falling off their chairs in a paroxysm of laughter. Jean opens her eyes and mouth and smiles and says an undistinguishable “Waim fwine”.

All Rod sees are bloodied gums. No teeth. Her beautiful perlies missing.

The surgeon had removed all her teeth.

Not to worry, says the surgeon, we’ll provide Jean with a free set of dentures.

So, all’s well.

Wrong.

The two go off on holiday. Jean is having trouble with her new teeth. Each time she tries speaking or eating, the top set falls down onto her bottom lip. For the duration of the holiday she keeps the teeth in a Steradent cup. When they go to a restaurant Jean wraps her mouth with a scarf. “With the scarf she looks Muslim and with her teeth in and without the scarf like a baboon”. Here he performs the part of King Kong.

That wasn’t the end.

It was later found Jean had been given someone’s else’s dentures.

With this story he’d keep his new chums amused for a long time. Until Jean joins him, that is.

Whenever I hear “The Flower of Scotland” I picture Rod in full regalia, playing the pipes.

It was a privilege to have known him as friend and colleague.

*Rod is survived by his wife Jean, daughter Fiona, son Donald and grandchildren Tarryn, Caitlyn and Izebellah.

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