- Words, Nick Gibbs, Photos, I really have no idea as they have been shared and re-shared so much—but I think at least some are David Butler’s.
A crowd as diverse as his life gathered on Tuesday September 11th to pay their last respects and tributes to the life of Ibizan author, filmmaker and raconteur, Colin Butts.
Stephen Lawrence, the man heralded so often by Colin throughout his illness, was master of the celebratory ceremonies. We were in expert hands.
From the cosmopolitan of London’s on-the-up boroughs, to the local afternoon club regulars, Colin’s man of all seasons reputation was fairly represented in the gathering. As, I suspect, were those from another of his great reputations – though decency will not allow me to speculate further.
We walked the walk Colin often took with his beloved Shar Pei, Chani, from his house in Port Des Torrent to the beach.
We heard some beautiful percussion from Trace Harris and his partner Silvia Stuf. If you plan on dying anytime soon I would seriously recommend booking them up. They gave a sense of solemnity without sadness that held the purpose of the gathering together.
Those who wished to make their private gesture to Colin and Chani were given the opportunity to cast a handful of ashes into the waters at Sunset, a ceremony which once finished culminated in spontaneous applause.
We later moved to Pearl, the annex club to Ocean Beach, where Colin’s friends were hosted in fine fashion by one of his closest, Ocean Beach owner Tony Truman.
We heard speeches from Angie and Lia, very special, and from Tony, very funny.
We watched montages of images spanning Colin’s life, and heard musical tribute from local DJs and international singer Peyton.
Colin would have loved it all, and any of us would be pleased and honoured to have our lives celebrated in such fine style.
But I am going to close in telling you something very minor, very personal.
We were walking away from Port Des Torrent after the scattering of ashes. Just my wife, Rhian, and I.
Despite my earlier bravado of inappropriate banter in having Adila Hiam spit out her beer when I pondered the question of how many women in the gathering Colin had slept with (damn, I said decency wouldn’t allow me to mention it), at this point in proceedings I was feeling a little reflective, a little sad.
Rhian said it was the first time she had touched somebody’s ashes, and what an unusual sensation it was. She was rubbing her fingers together, they still had some residue of the ashes. Then she drew them to her nose, took a long sniff, turned to me and said, “That’s funny, doesn’t smell like Colin”
Beat that for inappropriate. Wherever he is, I think that will have had Colin laughing, that filthy laugh, a lot.