The passing of an ad legend - Chris Miller

He had been retired for well over a decade and instead of involving himself in consulting, sitting on the boards of various companies, buying wine farms or keeping himself gainfully occupied, Miller stuck to his desire to stop working altogether and to enjoy his retirement. He did this to the full, travelling, fishing, playing golf with never once, in his own words, "feeling like getting back into business."

I'll never forget the day all those years ago when Chris Miller phoned me to say that he was "handing in his pencil box," which literally translated from that rare and roughly English-based Miller-ese dialect meant that he was retiring, quitting and escaping the rat race that was the advertising industry.

After a brief conversation that consisted mostly of one-upmanship banter and a homily from me pointing out that the ad industry could ill afford to lose talent and desperately needed that intricate balance between the exuberance of youth and the wisdom of age, there was more than just a moment of stunned silence from the other end of the line.

The former deputy chairman of Sonnenberg Murphy Leo Burnett was, for once, completely speechless as a result of hearing me say something a tad more profound than; "nice shot Miller," or "can I get you another beer?"

Clearly it made an impression, because he immediately took a telephonic blood oath swearing blind that he was "just going to relax for six weeks or so" before getting back into some sort of saddle or other and continue to contribute to the wellbeing of the industry.

A decade or so later, he hadn't budged an inch.

In fact, all of his golfing buddies discovered the ultimate gamesmanship ploy which was guaranteed to make Miller miss putts and duff drives. All we did was wait for the appropriate crucial moment on the course to ask him when he's going to start working again.

His reaction gave a completely new meaning to the whole notion of vehemence.

He was having an absolute ball being retired, which by no means entailed him sitting about on his bum and contemplating his navel. He was busier now than he'd ever been. In fact, he readily admitted that the whole business of planning holidays was pretty darn exhausting.

He was the only person I know who owned 56 weeks a year of timeshare and managed to make use of every single one.

He seemed to play less golf than when he was fully employed. Mainly because he was perpetually away from home either trying to catch trout, bundu bashing in his 4x4 or on the beach pointing out the finer points of bikini-clad female anatomies to his wife Joan.

Now there's a special person.

A wife in a million who had that wonderful capacity to laugh when Chris was being petulant and to be his best friend through thick and thin.

And no-one laughed louder than she did when I admitted to her that it had taken me years to realise that her name was Joan and not "shitlovey."

Because one of the things that struck anyone when they first met the Millers was that every conversation that Chris had with Joan was prefaced with; "Aw shitlovey, did you see that….." or "Aw shitlovey, have you seen where I put my car keys…" and so on.

I know that one of my favourite getaways was a weekend away with the Millers at their lodge at Mabula. Not only because the company was great and the ambiance relaxing in the extreme. But because it gave me a chance to see Miller doing what he does best.

And that was getting dressed up in his game ranger outfit, cranking up his open-topped 4x4 and heading off into the bush. He got a look in his eye that spoke volumes about there being not a hope in hell that he would ever put his pinstriped suit on and walk back into the boardroom.

And in the unlikely event that Joan would ever have wanted him out of the house with the suggestion that he gets some sort of part-time occupation, she would have got a lot more invective than just a mere; "Aw shitlovey, you can't be serious….."