My father, Jonathan Sale, who has died aged 81, spent his entire career as a journalist. He was known for covering quirky and retrospective topics and his writing reflected his personality: curious, kind, and humorous.
He cut his teeth on Fleet Street in magazines, at Queen and later at Punch for many years, where he eventually became features editor and, for a time, the wine correspondent – a slightly odd fit, as he had been teetotal since leaving university. In 1986, after Punch was taken over, he was made redundant. His severance package included a new Apple Mac computer, which became his pride and joy as he set himself up as a freelance writer – a role he remained in for the rest of his life.
Born and brought up in Cambridge, the son of Ellen (nee Webster) and Arthur Sale, an English don at Magdalene College, Jonathan went to the Leys school and studied English at Christ’s College, Cambridge, in the early 1960s. He was far more interested in working for Varsity, the university newspaper, than in his formal studies.
Jonathan wrote for the Independent, the Times, the Guardian (where he wrote many obituaries), the New European and the Daily and Sunday Telegraph, among others. His work focused on unusual and nostalgic themes – musings on eccentric bicycles, his own impending baldness, the joys and sorrows of parenthood, and meeting Lonnie Donegan. Whatever the subject, his writing always struck a thoughtful balance between gentle humour and seriousness. My siblings and I had to be careful, because if you did anything out of the ordinary it was likely to be described later in a newspaper article in which you would be gently mocked.
His regular column in the Independent, Passed/Failed, where he interviewed public figures about their schooldays, was published as a book in 2014: Telling Tales Out of School.
He was a lifelong supporter of the Labour party, famously breaking his decades-long sobriety only once – to raise a glass when Labour won in 1997. He later became chair of the Peckham Rye ward. During the acrimonious post-Brexit years, he was praised for running meetings “like discussions around a campfire”, bringing out the best in people even when tensions ran high. He campaigned to save Honor Oak Park Rec, and served on the committee of the Friends of One Tree Hill, working to preserve and enhance this patch of wild south London woodland.
Jonathan’s main mode of transport was always his bike – when deliveries were made from local shops, the name on the order was often simply “man on bike”. His other great love was music, especially jazz and blues. He was at his happiest in his study, with the Guardian open and Miles Davis or Muddy Waters playing in the background.
He met my mother, Ruth Bateman, a civil servant, in 1968, and they married in 1970. Jonathan cared for her when she became ill in 1985 with what was later diagnosed as a slow-growing brain tumour. Ruth died from it in 2005.
Jonathan simply couldn’t be engaged in a boring conversation – it wasn’t in his nature. He was known for his gentle humour, playfulness and love of a practical joke.
He is survived by his partner Diana Aubrey, whom he met in 2007, his children, Rebecca, Jessica and me, and his grandchildren, Jack, Heather, Solly and Reuben.
