It was 20 years ago today that Paul Rimstead died. Those of you who never met the man just don't know how much you missed


By PETER WORTHINGTON
torontosun.com
Published: May 26th, 2007

      
Paul Rimstead (Sun-file photo)

Today is the 20th anniversary of Paul Rimstead's death -- an anniversary that may not mean much to younger readers of the Sun newspapers, but a loss still felt deeply by those who knew him.

Rimmer was the early Sun's most popular (and unusual) columnist. But he was a great deal more than a columnist, and from the very moment he joined the Sun after the Toronto Telegram died in 1971 (killed, maybe), Rimstead became our self-appointed Boswell, documenting the foibles and vagaries of Sun life and, consequently, daily life in Toronto.

Some of those who knew and loved him thought his untimely death was a form of suicide from alcohol.

He had a choice, and he made it, in the full glare of his newspaper column. He scolded any who scolded him or tried to persuade him to change his ways -- like me, when I was editor, and foolishly tried to shame or badger him into abstinence.

I was in Angola when Rimmer died a very unpleasant death in Florida, when a Sun seminar was attending a cruise. I wasn't available for a farewell tribute so, in a way, this serves as something of a eulogy -- 20 years too late.

Rimstead is still remembered by people who read him, and didn't actually know him, but thought they did. In the years since his death the Sun has sought to find a replacement -- another Rimstead. A pointless task, because there was only one Rimmer.

He did zany things, but was really a shy guy and genuine character with a sense of fun, and mischief without malice. His irreverence knew no borders. From his first column, he mocked publisher Doug Creighton's fondness for lunchtime martinis, editor Worthington's pursuit of Communists (under rocks or on the mantelpiece), and general manager Hunt's addiction to saving the company money -- Dr. No.

For a while, Rimmer headed a consortium that owned the world's most hopeless racehorse -- Annabelle, to whom he gave the sort of publicity that would have made Northern Dancer envious. I'm not sure Annabelle ever won a race. Not coming last was a triumph.

In another life, Rimstead went to the world monopoly championships as the Monopoly Champion of Canada, dressed in a tuxedo with a personal butler, or valet.

They took him seriously, and he behaved as a champion should, giving interviews and acting important. But he lost.

At the Sun he had a tendency to invite readers to visit him in the newsroom, right on deadline. This drove managing editor Ed Monteith bonkers, as 5,000 would show up. Rimmer was likely to invite the latest Playboy Playmate to attend these visits, in or out of uniform.

In 1972 he decided to run for mayor, with the late Ben Wicks and myself as campaign managers. We made the announcement at a press conference in the Brunswick House on Bloor St. W. While Ben and I treated it deadpan serious, Rimmer really was serious. He soon dropped us as we were too frivolous and became his own campaign manager.

He dealt with issues that other politicians avoided -- guns in Toronto, racial issues, rebellious kids, law and order. One who took him seriously and became a friend and began echoing Rimmer's concerns was David Crombie. Other mayoralty candidates resented Rimstead as "interfering with the democratic process," but Crombie saw Rimstead's concerns were citizens' concerns. He viewed Rimstead's candidacy as the essence of democracy, and of course Crombie came from nowhere and trounced everyone. Toronto's most popular mayor, ever.

Rimmer finished a respectable fourth.

He and Crombie became friends for life.

We'd send Rimstead to the Calgary and Edmonton Suns to help boost their circulation. He became an ardent westerner. It was in Edmonton where he got the medical ultimatum: "Stop drinking or risk death." Rimmer tried abstinence for a while (maybe 20 minutes), then decided that without booze, life wasn't worth living. I once scolded him in print, hoping to shame him into showing that he had resolve.

Foolish me. He wrote a column telling me to butt out of his life.

At the Sun's 10th anniversary seminar to London, Rimstead was on the wagon -- for him. He drank only creme de menthe, which he didn't consider real booze, but a lady's drink. Nor was wine, drinking. Too hoity-toity.

In London, feeling no pain, he mounted a soap box at Hyde Park corner on a Sunday and launched into his philosophy of the world. He attracted a large crowd, and then proceeded to berate Creighton, Hunt, Worthington and the Sun's board of directors, who really didn't know how to drink.

During the first year of the Sun Rimstead decided he'd motor down to Mexico -- San Miguel de Allende, something of an artists' colony -- to write a book. Management at the Sun agreed, on condition he write a regular column en route, and when he got there, about any topic he wanted.

Fine in theory, lousy in practice.

Rimmer often missed days, so I wrote in his place, telling readers that I was filling in for him because if publisher Creighton thought he was missing, he'd fire Paul. Please, I wrote, don't let Creighton know he's missing.

It sounded bizarre at the time, and still sounds bizarre, but during that time I'd get letters and phone calls from Rimstead fans, thanking me for helping Rimmer, and don't let publisher Creighton know he's gone missing. You figure it out.

Rimmer was always complaining about management. He felt he was underpaid (he was our best-paid columnist), and grumbled about it in print. Always in print. The problem for management was that more times than not, he didn't cash cheques. Even after his death, bunches of uncashed cheques were found.

He married his girlfriend, who he wrote about as Miss C. Hinky, and we published Rimmer's tales of their life together.

For a while, Rimmer hosted a half-hour TV talk show. I and other friends were often recruited to appear with him, to discuss various topics. It was an intriguing show, with five sessions filmed on Mondays, to appear during the week.

The trouble was, Rimmer always had a cup of coffee on the show -- rather, a coffee cup filled with rum or scotch. The Monday show would be reasonably coherent, but as the week progressed, Rimmer got deeper and deeper into his "coffee," until Friday was chaos and anything goes.

He played the drums professionally, and with various groups comprised of free-spirited musicians attracted to his irreverence.

He was also an excellent athlete, and pitched for the Sun softball team on which cartoonist Andy Donato was catcher and I was permanent second baseman because I signed the vouchers for each year's jerseys and equipment. Rimmer was an excellent pitcher, even when he was hung-over, which occasionally he wasn't.

Even recalling Rimmer and the past makes one nostalgic and wistful. He radiated decency and sound values, and was one of those writers who was a joy to read, whatever he wrote. He had a rapport with people, was always himself and without guile. Had he been motivated to extend his horizon, there's no limit to what he might have achieved as a writer.

But he chose a doomed lifestyle.

While one can regret his passing, one also feels comfort at having known him, having tried to harness and control him, and sorrow for those readers today who never had a chance to live vicariously with him.

Lord, but I miss him, as do those lucky enough to have known him.

always loved the Rimmer and the horse in the old O'Keefe beer commercials