Greg’s passing is not only a huge loss to the Kings Lynn & District Motor Club but also to the many friends who were lucky enough to know him.
He was undoubtedly a “Marmite” character — you either got him, or you didn’t. Luckily for me, I got him.
Greg was certainly from a generation before mine and his was a long-standing membership of the club, dating back to the sixties. Our relationship began in earnest when I joined in 2006, and it grew closer once I became a committee member and the Valve Bounce editor. By then, Greg was no longer competing, but he remained incredibly active — deeply knowledgeable and endlessly passionate about all things motorsport.
He and Judy quickly befriended Helen and I, and we became regulars at the dinner table during club events, always sharing laughs and great company. Our last event together was the December 2024 team quiz. Greg, Jody, Judy, and I managed to avoid last place thanks almost entirely to Greg’s impressive motorsport and general knowledge. Who else would have known the name of the tower block from Die Hard? Of course, Greg did.
His generosity was immense. He constantly put his hand in his pocket to support the club — even when there was nothing in it for him or his business. He gave freely of his time too, helping to set up events and attending every monthly committee meeting, where he never failed to buy me a pint and, more often than not, secretly paid the venue for the catering — again, from his own hard-earned.
Greg’s input at meetings was always thoughtful — sometimes adamant, but always right. He committed fully to every event, contributing time, funds, machinery, straw, and venues — limited only by his relentless dedication to hard work on the farm. He absolutely loved “graft.” I had many conversations with him about retirement in recent years — conversations he couldn’t get his head around. Why would he retire? He lived to work. When he was ever forced to stop — through injury or illness — he was clearly unhappy. Retirement, to him, made no sense at all.
He was the definition of “old school.” Built to work hard, his huge hands bore the scars of lifelong effort. Nobody could ever tell where his hairy chest ended, and his woolly jumper began! He suffered no fools.
Greg had recently struggled with hip issues and, after a replacement, reluctantly took a few weeks off the tractor to recover. More recently, his eyesight had begun to trouble him, and the idea of missing a committee meeting due to night vision problems concerned him greatly — as did the possibility of more time away from his work.
The cancer came quickly and, without a doubt, painfully. Yet Greg knew exactly what was happening and accepted it with remarkable positivity and zero complaint. In his mind, he was only going to be out of action for a few months — and that was that.
Jody and I visited him in his final week. Though he had lost the use of most of his body, he was still communicating perfectly. As we walked in, I quipped that as it was my first visit to his house, he could’ve at least made the effort to get up. His response was the usual two-fingered gesture — typical Greg.
We shared a lovely hour with Judy, reminiscing and laughing. As we were about to leave, Greg called Jody and me back for a quiet word, away from Judy’s earshot. He had two final requests: First, he insisted that my rally car lead the hearse at his funeral — and that it hit the rev limiter as he arrives. Second, he asked us to tell Judy how incredible her love and care had been throughout his illness. He had been too proud to talk to her about funeral arrangements or show his softer side — but he wanted her to know how deeply he appreciated everything.
I loved Marmite.
Steve Tilburn.
