I’ve been asked to write a few words about Ian Cameron to get this thing started. So much to say, but I’ll try and keep a lid on it…

The news of Ian’s passing was simultaneously shocking and expected. True to form for Ian. Keeping us guessing till the end. 

I was first introduced to the big man 20-odd years ago and he immediately struck me as an intriguing, engaging and complex character. 6 foot and a few inches besides in height, a working class poet, non-drinking, non-smoking, non-driving, committed cyclist with an easy tendency for expletives, he didn’t fit into any of your usual preconceived ideas of what people should be like. He had a political astuteness, sharpened with a healthy intolerance of the upper classes, and consolidated by a blithe indifference to the opinions of those of us who chose to live more conventional lifestyles.

Ian loved London and seemed to have lived forever in the family flat in Stockwell, which he crammed with his beloved newspapers, nick-knacks, and an extensive archive of political activity and literary research. This was later augmented with his computer ‘systems’ which he loved and loathed in equal measure. Joe, a resilient cockatiel, and Billy the Budgie kept him entertained, engaged and emotionally committed, and no doubt lived the lives of Reilly, having ‘access all areas’ in the aviary which doubled as Ian’s accommodation.  He was, of course, eventually heartbroken by the inevitable demise of both.

He was a traveller, both international and domestic and loved to visit my home town of Margate. He had a strong connection with the coast here and would reminisce about childhood visits to Cliftonville with his family. During his circular walking tours here, he made friends with the local café owners (providing their roast dinners met with his approval) and enjoyed his beloved gelatos.

Ian’s love of ice-cream was surpassed perhaps only by his love of animals. He was active in resisting the gassing of pigeons, once celebrated as an internationally renowned attraction for the tourists in Trafalgar Square before falling fowl of the authorities, so to speak. Ian would leave home with his pockets full of birdseed. This  he would distribute surreptitiously in any neighbourhood through which he passed in order to lend a helping hand to his feathered friends. 

During his extensive treks throughout the Palermo region of Sicily, Ian would often befriend the most nervous, timid, malnourished and mistreated street-dogs to which he would feed scraps and nurture to some semblance of health before reluctantly abandoning them to return to London. He marvelled at and had a respect for all creatures, large or small, wild or tame, living or dead. His appreciation of wildlife was mirrored in equal measure by his contempt for all who caused harm to any creatures, whether in the name of sport or through indifferent neglect or vicious spite.

Ian’s creativity was legendary. Illustrations, poems, stickers, badges and blogs. I remember attending an evening of poetry reading where he could barely read aloud because he was laughing so much at his own poem. Even when he was robbed on one of his tours of Sicily, he managed to glean some humour from the situation, ‘Cleaner Cleans out, Cleaner’ was the headline he penned.

Many people of Ian’s generation experience technology as a strange and alienating concept, but he managed to turn the computer into a major weapon in his political armoury. What our postman must’ve thought of Ian’s home-made illustrations of Blair, Bush and any of the myriad oppressors of the working-class I can only begin to guess. He would infiltrate the trendy gallery spaces in Margate and add his seditious stickers to the inside of expensively inaccessible publications on offer from the well-known members of the art establishment.
Ian was both a David and Goliath. A giant of a man who knew how to throw a small, metaphorical political pebble, and thrill at the thought of sending its ripples far beyond the boundaries of our imaginations. No one was spared his satirical sarcasm. Not police officers, not housing officers, not council officers, not any officers, nor popes and priests, dukes and duchesses, nuns, dictators, celebrities, you, me, all were fair game for his scathing observations and cantankerous castigations.

There is much more I could say about Ian, but you have your own memories of him to share I’m sure. It would be better if you added your own thoughts to this page, so that we could, between us, forge a chain of appreciation of the confusing, confounding, and ultimately inspiring man that was Ian Cameron.

I’ll sign off, using the moniker Ian gave me.

Steve the Reeve