Richard Stott

I was deeply saddened when I heard this morning that Richard Stott, with whom I worked closely during the editing process for the single volume of Alastair Campbell's diaries, died this morning from the pancreatic cancer he had been fighting against for much the project.

I had known Richard slightly ever since I worked in the Downing Street press office, but got to know him well as we went about the protracted editing process. I came to admire him as a journalist of great flair and fibre, and phenomenal energy. He coped with the disease with immense courage and bullish good humour, as well as what I would describe as an optimistic fatalism, often shown in sudden flashes of biting - but good-natured - wit, very often at his own expense.

I will always recall the long discussions we had about the relative merits of one form of words over another for various footnotes. He would often correct me over a point of syntax, and I would often correct him back on a point of detail. He never got impatient or gave the impression that he thought his view (ie as one of the great modern newspaper editors) was any more valid than the whippersnapper he had been asked to work with.

The last time I saw him, perhaps a few months ago, he had just had weeks of therapy and seemed to be very much on top of the cancer, cracking jokes - usually at the expense of the man he called either "Campbell" or (for more pointed fun) "the diarist", who had worked for Richard when he was editor of Today. Working closely with Richard was a great education and great entertainment - he would frequently have me in stitches with a mischievous remark, lobbed like a hand grenade into the most serious conversations.

I can remember at that last meeting, a long evening called to take careful stock of where we were with the diaries with publication looming, that despite his obvious ill-health he had the team laughing off our worries for him. He did a very funny and totally spot-on impression of Alastair reading out his work for the audiobook version with every snort and throat-clearing that anyone who has had a conversation with AC would recognise instantly.

I'm sure Richard was pleased to know that The Blair Years was published, and I know AC made a point of driving to see him in hospital, where he had worked on the last proofs of the book, where he was presented with the very first copy off the presses.

I am sorry I will never see or talk with Richard again. He was a good man, a Labour man, and only 63. Cancer is the cruellest of diseases.