George Bonney, consultant orthopaedic surgeon at St Mary’s Hospital, London, was an original. Tall, fine looking with a dominating presence, a wry smile, an acute wit and a great way with words, he amused many and confused others. He was one of the last classically trained doctors. Whatever he said, it would be unexpected, original, often funny or disconcerting. When a junior doctor said a patient needed an X-ray, he would raise his eyes to the ceiling and cry: ‘A radiograph not X-ray! You take photographs – not lights!’ Achieving legendary status and devotion among the many who were trained by him, who knew him as GB, he was much imitated, and his many aphorisms quoted. But some just could not ‘get him’ and even feared him. He was born on 10 January 1920 in Kensington, London, the son of Ernest Henry Bonney, a GP, and Gertrude Mary Bonney née Williams, a teacher. His grandfather, William Augustus Bonney, was also a medical practitioner and his uncle, who George was particularly close to, was the famous gynaecologist Victor Bonney. Victor Bonney developed the blue antiseptic dye used as a marker in surgical procedures and known as ‘Bonney’s blue’ or, as George would say when he needed it: ‘Give me my uncle’s blood!’ At the age of 13, George won a scholarship to Eton. He was a diligent student of literature, German, Greek, Latin and history, before changing to natural sciences (rather looked down on at Eton) because he wanted to do medicine. He would always go his own way. At school he developed an interest in drama and rowing. With his joy of words and a natural irreverence, he developed a brilliant wit. George’s father died at an early age and there was no money for George to go to Cambridge, so he went straight to St Mary’s in 1938, funded by his uncle. As a student he rowed and was involved in drama and, as secretary of the student union, succeeded in transforming the library into a temporary theatre. After qualifying in 1943, George and worked as a house surgeon to Arthur Dickson Wright and Valentine Ellis. He was enormously influenced by Dickson Wright and his eccentricities which, it is said, George imitated. More significant was the influence of Valentine Ellis: he developed George’s interest in orthopaedics. Still in its infancy, orthopaedics was, like sciences at Eton, rather looked down on. But George saw that orthopaedics was a growing specialty, and he has been proved right. He saw it as the true ‘general specialty’, treating all groups of patients and all parts of the body. There were many challenges – the treatment of fractures, replacement of joints and, for George, the healing of damaged nerves. Having got the fellowship of the Royal College of Surgeons of England in 1945, George joined the Royal Naval Reserve. He was passionate about the Navy – he loved the uniform and the comradeship. He said, ironically, it was good to have been in ‘at the end of the British Navy’! George became a master of surgery in 1947, the qualification he considered essential for a surgeon. He then went to the Royal National Orthopaedic Hospital in London, where he was taught by Sir Herbert Seddon, a notoriously hard task master. He stimulated George’s interest in the upper limb and injuries to peripheral nerves, the brachial plexus in particular. With the neurologist Roger Gilliatt, he did seminal research, developing a way of identifying the site of the lesion to the plexus by the axon response. This was published in 1954 and remained the gold-standard test until the advent of magnetic resonance imaging (‘The value of axon responses in determining the site of the lesion in traction injuries of the brachial plexus’ *Brain* 1954; 77; 588-609). With the sudden death of Valentine Ellis in 1953, George was appointed to St Mary’s to replace him, where he joined John Crawford Adams. Together they achieved distinction in their individual fields and in training future surgeons. George committed himself to work on injuries of the brachial plexus, the cervical spine and the thoracic outlet – pioneering surgery, which few surgeons would attempt. The operations were long, requiring meticulous technique and George would be left physically and emotionally drained. He was not ashamed of his emotions; he felt deeply his commitment and concern for his patients. These injuries were often in young people, who in an accident, usually from a motorcycle, were left with a paralysed and painful arm. George knew and taught how this could devastate a young person’s life. On one occasion, a young woman was presented at a clinical conference; George was asked what he thought about her management. He simply replied: ‘Isn’t she charming?’ It was true and showed how George was aware of the need to make her feel better, having had her horrible injuries discussed in front of others. This greatly impressed some surgeons from Germany who were present. Later, in the bar, George and the Germans spent the evening quoting Nietzsche, with George lamenting the fact that none of his registrars could quote poetry. George only published intermittently, which is a pity because he wrote so well. Even his letters were eagerly awaited by colleagues as they were so beautifully written and contained original thoughts usually absent from medical letters. He travelled little and seldom spoke at meetings. Essentially shy and deploring self-aggrandisement, he never received the credit due to him. His dedication to St Mary’s led him to the board of governors. He also chaired the medical committee and the district hospital medical committee during times of great change, but when these committees had some power. He was a formidable opponent and he achieved much for St Mary’s. Perhaps he is best known for his work with the council of the Medical Defence Union. He was highly respected by the legal profession, who enjoyed the intellect and originality of his expert opinion. He was happy to give lectures on medico-legal problems. These were highly entertaining, although some found them perplexing. He would often arrive late, having apparently ‘got lost’. In truth he suffered from terrible nerves. He would then stand at the lectern for what seemed an age – some would leave at this juncture – and eventually start with dramatic stammering, then say something completely unexpected. For example, when lecturing at the Royal National Orthopaedic Hospital, his alma mater, he would start with: ‘It’s, It’s, It’s… a great honour to be asked to speak at the Institution where I trained with the three people who have had the most influence on me – Herbert Seddon, Roger Gilliatt and…and…I’ve forgotten the third.’ Then would follow the most informative, amusing and memorable talk. He would often be irreverent, saying, for example, that the discovery of penicillin was a disaster for doctors as they could no longer expect to make their money from a good bedside manner, but be expected to cure the patients swiftly or get sued. He said that the concept of the NHS was to reduce the need for healthcare by prevention and easy access to diagnosis and treatment, but he foresaw that it just increased demand and costs, which had led to a decline in the patient-doctor relationship and this, fuelled by legal aid, had led to an increase in litigation. Intolerant of cant and sycophancy, wary of institutions and convention, George was dismissive of those who flourished in these areas. He was not political, but disdainful of politics and politicians, whose motives he suspected. With his masterful presence, his wry grin, the raised hand in recognition, saying ‘Ah…Ah…Ah…It’s …’, often with a nickname of his own making, many were attracted to him and revelled in his presence. Yet he was plagued by self-doubt and a sense of inadequacy, but no one tried harder to solve intractable problems. George Bonney was above all a very good doctor, a physician who operated. Perhaps a little surprisingly and contrary to popular perception, some of the best doctors have been orthopaedic surgeons. George Bonney was one. In 1950, he married Margaret (‘Peggy’) Morgan and they had two daughters. George Bonney died on 11 February 2007. He was 87.