Phil Meade 1938-2025

[Joey Stewart]

Unfortunately Phil died last month, he had been somewhat inactive as a player since lockdown but up until then had continued to play top division league chess at a high standard and in years past was also an active 4ncl, and county player as well as a qualified arbiter who was regarded as one of the fairest, able to resolve disputes often to the agreement of both parties.
Outside of chess he was quite a fan of various mental puzzles and challenges, being one of the few people in existence to be able to solve cryptic crosswords.

A good player and solid teammate who will be missed by all who knew him.

[Ronnie Burton]

Very sad news. Played Phil at Guernsey many years ago and won a lost position. Very strong player in the 1980's

RIP

[David Mabbs]

My abiding memory of Phil dates from August 1958.We were among a gaggle of chess players staying at the Leamington Spa youth hostel during the British Championships (Phil was playing in the Major Open). On the free Sunday several of us made the madcap decision to walk to Stratford upon Avon some eight miles away. Once arrived, we made an even sillier decision, to hire a self-drive punt on the River. Scene two, and said punt was accelerating uncontrollably towards a weir about ten metres beyond a road bridge that we would be swept beneath. Enter Phil the hero: he stood at the front and raised his arms to thrust us away from the bridge, and somehow we passengers reached the bank. But for his part, it seemed for all the world that he free-dived into the water, wearing his spectacles and a pack-a-mac. He struggled to the bank and, despite it being summer, we found a boiler-house where he could dry off. But he was still in a state of shock, and as we headed back to Leamington Spa at the front upper-deck of a bus he came out with the immortal enquiry "What time did the cats-eyes light up ?" (Answers on a postcard, please.)

[Christopher Kreuzer]

Goodness. Did the punt go over the weir?

[David Mabbs]

No - the punt, with us in it, travelled like a retreating Bishop and collided with the portside river bank where we managed to grab hold. Most middle Sundays (of chess congresses), which were free days, were almost always marked (or rather, marred) by some catastrophe or other. The most infamous that I recall ended with my having to be rescued (by a mountaineer and a policeman) from the shale face of a hundred-foot cliff near Whitby. As consolation, I made the front page of the Daily Telegraph - "man loses nerve on cliffs". Happy days !