Vic and I first played on the same team on a works football pitch in Erdington, Birmingham, one cold Sunday morning early in 1967. He was a determined centre-half, a grown man already carrying that worn-in look of experience. He was just 23, I was 17.
We were to be team mates again - on the editorial floor of the Birmingham Mail, under the clatter of Imperial typewriters and a fog of cigarette smoke; on Saturday night shifts on the Sunday Mercury, followed by a couple of pints in the Queens; in the dock at Birmingham Magistrates Court (enough said); at TVS in Southampton, where Vic honed his television skills, and ultimately at Sky, the pinnacle.
Vic was a first-rate journalist with an uncompromising eye for detail. Inevitably we grew to share many similar values and opinions, but who could match his phenomenal work-rate? First in, last out.
As Sky Sports grew from one channel to two, then three, I suggested we split weekend viewing duty among the seniors. I gave up an entire Saturday, making notes for the Monday meeting, only to find Vic had been watching anyway. As well his Sunday shift. And Roger Moody's Friday.
He could be frustratingly secretive. I once discovered that he - and I - had been promoted by reading a story on the Press Association wires. But that was part of the man's charm.
It's been a pleasure and an honour to be in your team, mate. I can't quite come to terms with your passing; I thought you were indestructible.
Mark