A former regional press journalist who went on to become a broadcaster and author has died at the age of 84.
Ian Skidmore, left, started his journalism career at the Manchester City News before going on to work at the Yorkshire Evening Post, and the Daily Despatch in Liverpool before working for the Daily Mirror in Manchester, where he was night news editor.
In the early 1960s he set up his own news agency in Chester, where his biggest story was the Moors Murders trial, before he worked for nearly 30 years with BBC Wales, presenting radio and television programmes, while also writing columns for the North Wales Daily Post and writing books.
Ian died at his home in March, Cambridgeshire, last Thursday after a short illness and a tribute has been paid to him on the Gentleman Ranters website by Revel Barker.
He wrote: “Skiddy and I never actually met in the flesh and yet became what he described as Great Old Friends. After a certain age you don’t make new friends: you make only old friends.
“Ours was a purely electronic relationship, depending originally on the telephone, then on e-mail and finally on that miracle called Skype.
“About five years ago, when he decided he’d like to collect all his old columns into what he’d heard was called a blog, he asked me about it and my IT-savvy daughter created blogs for the pair of us.
“His became Skidmore’s Island (the name of a BBC radio ‘station’ he had invented on Anglesey); mine evolved into Gentlemen Ranters with Skiddy as its first mainstay contributor.”
Ian moved to Anglesey in Wales after marrying fellow journalist Celia Lucas in 1971 and one of his most popular programmes while working for BBC Wales was his weekly ‘Radio Brynsiencyn’ which he presented from his cottage in the village of that name.
He also worked for the World Service, Australian Broadcasting, Granada TV, HTV and Radio 4 and wrote more than 30 books, including his autobiographical Forgive Us Our Press Passes.
After retiring in 2003, Ian and Celia moved to March and he later started his weekly blog.
The Cambs Times reports that Ian was well-known in March “for his wit and colourful appearance”, whihc included exotic waistcoats.
Ian leaves his wife Celia, two daughters and a son, six grandchildren and two great-grandchildren.
His funeral will take place at March Crematorium at 11.30 on 18 October.
Sign up for our free daily email bulletin
Follow HTFP on Twitter
Got a story? Email the Editor at
I wonder who, like me, is still around who remembers Skiddy from Doncaster days on the Yorkshire Evening News? Anyone out there?
Report this comment
Ian was always one of the big characters. I had the privilege of “editing” his column for a short time at the Daily Post, a task which usually involved me roaring with laughter and then putting in the obligatory ‘phone call to ask: “do you really want to say that?”. Invariably, he did. Brave, insightful, hilarious and a great writer. RIP Ian x
Report this comment
I knew Ian for more than 40 years. Lovely man, great journalist and brilliant broadcaster. It was always terrific fun to be out on a job with him – he was so entertaining. RIP Skiddy.
Report this comment
Although I don’t remember Skiddy I knew of him through my dad the late Bill ‘Nobby’ Clarke and of their time together in Doncaster. He seemed to be a great man who like my dad had a thoroughly enjoyable life in journalism
Report this comment
Met Skiddy for the first time in Doncaster in the early Fifties, he on the Yorkshire Evening News, me on the Yorkshire Evening Post. Once, going by bus top deck together to cover some parish council meeting, he looked at the feet propped up against the front window and observed typically: “These aren’t my socks!”
His feature stuff for the YEN was beating us hands down, so YEP editor Jack Dibb (he of the shy and retiring nature – not) hired him across the road. He then regaled us – and the local world – with sublime pieces on local hostelries, etc.
His own pint tankard hung above the bar of his favoured pub near the Market (The Wellington?) where the rest of us drank from earthenware mugs. He could then down prodigious quantities of bitter at lunchtime without visible effect . . . though maybe not quite as prodigious as he had imagined. The day he was informed by the landlord that his cherished tankard didn’t quite hold a pint was, indeed, memorable.
Our association was brief, but he was a superb social companion, a brilliant writer and one of a dwindling band of true characters spawned by this odd profession. RIP Ian.
Report this comment