Alan Butland, 1944-2026

My dear friends,

*big exhale*

I’m sorry to have to tell you that Beloved Mr Butland died in the early hours of Monday morning, after a short illness.

He retained his essential Alan-ness to the last. And in the end, he slept away. These are things to be grateful for; I know this in my head, though my heart, for now, disagrees.

I have spent a lot of time over the last ten days talking about Alan in relation to illness, and what he and I would want for him*, and how his care should be decided and delivered. He was treated with respect and kindness by everyone we encountered, and I am grateful (in head and heart this time) for that.

So now the illness-dialogue is over, and the death-dialogue is beginning, I am escaping to Substack and to you to tell you about the unmedicalised, brightly alive BMB who has shone into half of my life.**

Alan’s lifelong passion was theatre. He was an enthusiastic amateur actor and director. He played Dame in pantomime and William Shakespeare on a float in the Lord Mayor’s show.*** He was involved in Shakespeare’s Globe from the time when it was a twinkle in Sam Wanamaker’s eye; he and I met when we were both involved with the Friends. I spent five years as a volunteer newsletter editor. Alan was on the Globe Council until he died.

When I think of Alan, I think less about what he did and more about what he was. Endlessly patient and kind. Always ready to help, support, and put himself out for the people that he loved. Easily delighted by jokes and ice cream and afternoon tea. I mean, find someone who looks at you the way Alan looked**** at an afternoon tea.

On the day we married, I was 32 and Alan was 59. In the taxi between the register office and the hotel where we were going to celebrate, he said, ‘I think I can promise you a silver wedding anniversary.’ And we nearly got there: we made it almost to our 23rd.

I’m sure that over the weeks and months to come, I’ll be writing more about grief, and love, and beloved Mr. Butland.

For now, allow me to give you a piece of advice. Or we could call it permission.

Do not stint on love.

Do not withhold it, or compromise with it, or plan to show it later.

Give your love. Lavish it on your people. Spend every bit of love that you have.

Because if you do that, then your love will outlive you. It will find its way into the cells and blood and bones of your dear ones, and it will sustain them, when you are gone. It will whisper to them, in your voice, that you will survive this. It will mean that being loved, and seen, and understood, for all of this time has made you into someone else. Someone who can wake up alone on these grief-logged mornings and think, how lucky we were.

This is not, technically, the best of our wedding photos. But it captures something. Happiness is in every line of us, and Alan has his hand on my shoulder.

I’m not sure what the next weeks hold for me, but I will be looking in. If you can, please hold us in the light.*****

S x

*the answer ‘none of this thank you very much’ did not seem to be an option

**I was 27 when we met, and I’m 54 now.

***there may well be some photographic evidence of this, but I’m not equal to photo albums quite yet.

****I typed ‘looks’ the first time. Of course I did.

*****This time there is a PS after all of the asterisky bits.

PS Alan spent much of the last 15 years pouring love and energy into the Tyne Theatre and Opera House. If you would like to donate to it in his name, here’s the link.

And I’ve been cajoled into setting up a Ko-fi account, though we all know it’s about the tea, really.

S x