Jago Eliot

Jago Nicholas Aldo Eliot, Lord Eliot (24 March 1966 – 15 April 2006) was the son of the 10th Earl of St Germans and his first wife, the former Jacquetta Lampson, daughter of the 1st Baron Killearn.

Eliot was the inspiration behind the Elephant Fayres, music festivals organised during the 1980s which featured bands such as The Cure, Siouxsie and the Banshees and The Beat.

In 1988, on the death of his grandfather, he was styled Lord Eliot. He was known for his hobbies of surfing and bodyboarding.

He married Bianca Ciambriello and had one son, Albert Clarence, and twin daughters, Ruby and Violet.

He was found dead in his bath on 15 April 2006. The death is not considered suspicious.

Lord Jago Eliot 1966-2006

The last time I saw Jago - the sickening truth of that statement is only just beginning to register, instilling the kind of confused numbness that only sudden, unexpected, pointless death can bring - was at the Port Eliot Literary Festival in July of last year. Jago was holed up at a table in a camper van, surrounded by enraptured faces all hanging on his words, like children being told bedtime stories. On cue, he told a joke. Adam is bored with his role as the earth's only inhabitant. He complains to God that he's lonely. 'What you need is a woman,' says God. 'A woman? What's one of those?' 'A woman?! Women are fantastic creatures! They're beautiful, alluring, a steadfast companion in times of need, they stand by you through thick and thin, supporting you through times of doubt. They cook for you, clean for you, fulfil every wish you could ever have without complaint.' 'Wow,' says Adam, 'They sound great. What do they cost?' 'All of this,' says God, 'can be yours in return for just one of your arms.' Adam thinks, then says 'That's quite pricey. What have you got for a rib...?'

I'm sure he didn't write it, but it was typical Jago. Irreverent, vaguely non-PC, ferociously intelligent, and extremely funny. For most people born outside of Cornwall, he was the embodiment of his name - totally unique. He was always disappointed when he heard of anyone else called Jago, a disappointment I often shared - there could only ever be one Jago; our Jago. And now he's dead. Unless resurrection is his best magic trick yet, I'm really not impressed.

I first met Jago in Brighton in 1989. My then girlfriend had met him, and despite our shared belief in Marxist revolution, had found him delicious. 'I really like him', she said, in a voice that made me think she really did like him, in a slightly worrying, not entirely wholesome way. 'Yeah but come on,' I said to myself, 'she can't like him that much, he's an aristocrat for God's sake...' When, a few days later, she took me round to meet him, I didn't know what to make of him. He was dressed in what looked like psychedelic pajamas, a souvenir of Bali, or Sri Lanka, or whatever exotic playground he'd just returned from. He was slightly standoffish, an attitude I later came to recognise as nervousness, of being unsure of someone until he'd had a chance to impress them, something he always accomplished with aplomb. Warming to my presence, he walked over and told me to hold out my wrist, and tied a multicoloured string around it. 'There you go, you can't leave without a gift.' It was the first of literally hundreds of selfless acts of friendship we made towards each other, and, as always, it left me heartened, seduced, and incalculably richer for it.

A couple of years later, I signed on in early summer Toxteth rain, and hurriedly drove to Brighton, to pick up Mark Waugh, who would in later years become best man at his wedding, and Sidonia, Jago's then girlfriend, to drive at breakneck speed for dinner at Port Eliot, the family's very stately home. As we took a slightly circuitous route to the house, on entering the grounds we passed a huge sign that read 'Drive with extreme caution - Kids on motorbikes everywhere!' I have to admit to feeling a twinge of jealousy - not, as may be expected, because this was a world of wealth and privilege my working-class roots had excluded me from, but more because it had taken me until the age of twenty-six before I had a chance to ride beside him - a short lifetime without Jago in it. It is no exaggeration to say every day that passes will feel like that now.

Friendship with Jago was like the happy childhood I never had. There is no question that he could be difficult sometimes, and to be on the receiving end of his withering displeasure was not a happy place to be. But it never lasted long enough to make you forget how much you loved him, or how genuinely loved by him he made you feel. He was a force of nature, and sharing time with him left you feeling exhilarated, altered, changed for the just plain better.

It is the disappearance of a future I resent the most. An eternity without Jago, without his laughter, his support, his seemingly bottomless font of ideas to light our way. I may not have heard from him for weeks, months even, then three or four excited calls would come in the same day - he'd had a new idea, a new project had occurred to him, every one a masterclass in succinctness, in cleverness, in intelligent delight. When I split from a very important relationship a few years ago, my then ex-lover told me not to be upset, as he just wasn't good enough for me. 'You need to be stretched, Ade, challenged - you need someone who can keep up with you and take you further than I can. In short, you need to be going out with Jago...' It was during this protracted 'divorce' that Jago lost patience with me - I was spending so much time wallowing in self-pity that he felt he'd lost a friend. When I finally told him what my ex had said, his reaction was not what I expected. He said he felt honoured. I hope he fully understood how honoured we all were, just to count him as our friend.

That he died in the company of the twin daughters he truly adored is both cruel, and strangely fitting. They were, without doubt, the apples of his eye. I know how amazed he was that his wife Bianca felt him worth bothering with! He had chased her around Plymouth since the first time he saw her, dreaming that one day she might notice him. I know how grateful he was that she said yes to marrying him - that they made three beautiful children together gave him more pride and happiness than I know he ever believed was possible. Amidst the tears we shed for him, and for ourselves that we've been cheated of a future with him, the bitterest we shed for them, who know best what they have lost. A husband, a son, a father, a true best friend.

In truth, I have to say that I don't believe in best friends. There's something trainspottery about ranking our friends in order of importance, something reifying and disrespectful to all the other people around us who make our lives worth living. But I am proud to say Jago was my best friend, simply because friends really don't get any better than him. One of the reasons for living is gone. He will be truly missed. Adex 18th April, 2006

External links

• Obituary in the Western Morning News
• Found dead in the bath, the aristocrat who kept gossip columnists busy in The Independent
• Review of the Elephant Fayre, Cornwall, 1983