I will miss my best friend, Rae Stewart, for the rest of my days – Stephen Jardine

Journalist’s rich velvet baritone voice was in much demand in the television world, but at his heart, he was a writer

Rae Stewart's life may have been short but it was lived to bursting point

My best friend died this week. People die all the time but not him… and not aged 56. We first met when he sauntered into a TV newsroom where I worked and said “hello old boy, I’m Rae Stewart”. Starting out in the business, I suppose we should have been rivals but instead we became firm friends.

After work when others in the pub obsessed about that night’s news show, Rae would sip his pint, take a long draw on a cigarette and turn the conversation to something much more interesting instead. He was the most rounded individual I’ve ever known with views on everything from the history of the Invergordon smelter to Ian Fleming’s typewriter choice when writing James Bond.

At heart, Rae was a writer. He appeared on the telly where his rich velvet baritone voice was in demand from STV to GMTV and ITN but he was bigger than that. When a TV boss asked him one time too many to interview a skateboarding cat, Rae quit and moved to the Greek island of Paros to write a novel. He also lived in India and retained an encyclopaedic knowledge of Goan culture and curries. For a wee boy from Tain in the Highlands, he lived a big life.

I was his best man and his stag weekend was built around a pilgrimage to Leith’s Raj restaurant. Rae ordered the vindaloo, tasted it then asked the chef to make it "properly Indian hot”. He ate what came back from the kitchen with a grin and several pints of lager while the rest of us sweated through the chicken tikka masala. Later we moved to the colourful Port O’ Leith Bar where a couple of the boys up from London voiced unease about the surroundings, Rae cocked an eyebrow and said “wait until you see the next place”.

Married to his wonderful wife Vicki and with two lovely children, Rae moved from TV into government communications in a range of departments including environment where his skills were tested by crisis after crisis, ranging from flooding to horsemeat to badger culls.

Rae was a modern gentleman but his rich Highlands’ brogue was sometimes lost in translation. I gatecrashed his Westminster Christmas party and discovered that meant colleagues viewed him as a real-life Malcolm Tucker, based simply on his accent and his magnificent talent for swearing at precisely the right moment.

When illness intervened, there was still so much to do. Another book was published this year to good reviews but one remains unfinished. We’d also talked about the years ahead when he’d hoped to have time to really focus on his writing. That wasn’t to be. Instead we made him godparent to our son, hoped for the best and tried not to think about the worst, until this week.

His life may have been too short but it was lived to bursting point. That is evident in the tributes from top politicians but also from those he helped at the start of their careers. Rae’s secret was not what he said or did but how he made people feel. If you were lucky enough to meet him or work with him, your life was better for it. That’s why I will miss him for the rest of my days.