John Hughes The Man
I was asked to write a few words about That John Hughes—an in-joke for those who know him—for his retirement celebration. There are so many stories that this has ended up being more of a novel than a few words.
In the beginning
I first met John in the early 1980s, at the start of our opticians’ course. Even then, John stood out from the crowd: a little flamboyant, knew everyone, enjoyed the occasional drink, and was a star of the optics sports team.
Fast-forward to 1985, when we found ourselves working together in East Kilbride. We got on straight away, mainly thanks to a cardboard tube we used as a baseball bat and the various balls we battered around the staff area. A few things got broken along the way—including my watch—but a friendship was formed.
Hughes, Macdonald & Davidson Opticians was born
Later, when the opportunity came along, we became business partners. Along with Donnie Davidson, we started with Peterhead, then Inverurie, Banchory and Turriff. We were incredibly lucky that the three of us got on so well. In all those years, we never really argued—probably because we each had our own strengths.
Fortunately for the rest of us, John took on the job of paying the wages. This was before computers and bookkeepers, when it involved working through tax and National Insurance tables by hand. He did a brilliant job, although I’m sure I picked up a few new swear words whenever the subject of wages came up.
Over the past 38 years, there are plenty of things I could tell you about John—although some of them will remain safely in my memory. Not long after we started working together in East Kilbride, I tore ligaments in my back and was lying flat on the floor, unable to stand. I phoned John to say I couldn’t get into work. Naturally, he responded by telling joke after joke while I lay there howling with laughter—and pain, because laughing was agony. I think I eventually had to hang up on him. He did something similar when I had a minor operation, including making up a song about the procedure. I won’t be repeating that one today.
Patients loved John for so many reasons.
He was kind, sympathetic, funny and, at times, downright rude—but only with the people who were more than happy to give it back. John is a natural storyteller. He can turn the most ordinary event into something hilarious, and he has a story for absolutely everything. Holidays and work seem to provide some of his best material. If you ever get John and Karen telling a story together, you are in for a real treat. Just be prepared for sore sides from laughing.
On the odd occasion when a little too much beer has been involved, John has also become: the best and worst snooker player in the world; the best George Clooney lookalike; the loudest storyteller in the room; and the most successful horse-racing pundit you could ever hope to meet.
Never a dull moment
I remember one trip to Hull, when a bus tour from Inverurie arrived at the hotel where we were staying. Once everyone had said hello to John, he ended up joining them for bingo and quiz night until late. Being the quiet one, I went off to bed early—before the fun started. That didn’t last long. I was woken three or four times during the night by John phoning from the competition, supposedly just checking that I was asleep. I can still hear his laughter as he kept calling to make sure I didn’t get my early night.
John has also managed to get through more than a few computer keyboards, thanks to coffee apparently deciding to throw itself over them. Who knew coffee could be suicidal? I’m sure this is where his lifelong love-hate relationship with computers began. I recently re-read some of the HMD blogs John wrote. They are brilliant, and each one shows a different side of him. If you can find them, have a read—you won’t be disappointed. One of my favourite John stories is a perfect example of his self-deprecating humour. He tells it brilliantly: driving past a sign saying “Flood”, then driving straight into the flood and getting properly stuck. After forcing the car door open, he waded to dry land—only to realise his mobile phone was still in the car. So he had to wade back into the flood to get it. We were all hugely sympathetic, of course. Not.
John has been a hard worker when needed, a lover of fun, a great storyteller, wine connoisseur, cook, golfer, family man, gin expert and businessman. But, more importantly to me, he has been a friend. Enjoy retirement, John. I’ll miss you at work, as will thousands of HMD patients. Have a ball—and don’t be a stranger.
Your friend Alan
