Sandy McLachlan has died at the age of 73. It seems right to pay tribute to him here because he was one of us. And, unlike some of the drainers in our sport, who can lighten up a hall only by leaving it, Sandy, truly, was a radiator.

I first met Sandy in a West of Scotland league match in Paisley YMCA about forty five years ago. The first floor hall was cosy on a winter’s night, with a sprung floor and wood panelling. The conditions were great, but more importantly, Sandy and his teammates, John McCulloch and Alec McKeachan, were three of the most generous hosts in the league.

Sandy was a handsome man. I recall asking teammate Derek Lundie “who was next on the table?”, ever ready with a quip, he said it was the man with the Julio Iglesias good looks. That was a fair comparison. Sandy was also exceptionally intelligent. We all knew he was some sort of boffin who worked in research for the Government, but no more. I suspect it was one of those, if I tell you I will have to kill you, things.

In his quiet, understated way he was also funny. He would recount his experiences of nights out with a TT friend who had had a sensitivity bypass. Like the time they were getting on great with two girls until the evening was derailed. Unwisely, his friend told one of them that she could be a model, but only if she got her nose fixed. Typically, Sandy was tolerant of his friend’s failings and remained loyal to him.

He was a skilful player with great hands and a relaxed and elegant style. So much so, that Richard Yule used to seek him out for practice. Over time, we saw Sandy less and less, although he did appear at Holyrood occasionally, much to the joy of Sinclair Houston, Stevie Paterson and many others. It later transpired that his absences resulted from his decision to focus his energies on his parents who had serious and protracted health issues.

In some ways, Sandy had it all. Super intelligent, sweet, empathetic, handsome and talented, but he made the decision not to capitalise on those qualities. Instead, he led the quiet life of a dutiful son, for which he deserves the highest praise.