No, not at all, Maurice - my Dad would've laughed at it!
That's exactly, of course, what happened, as you say, it's the build-up of uric acid crystals which causes the awful inflammation and pain. It was hard to see someone who I'd taught to ride, who enjoyed hacking out, motorbike and sidecar riding with his mates, endlessly tinkering in the innards of his cars, brought so low by something that is so unobvious.
The autopsy revealed 'scarring' of his kidneys, and then his Mother recalled that when he was 12, he was virtually in and out of consciousness with a very high fever for nearly two weeks. He also got malaria in Zambia, and was in a drenching sweat for four days before recuperating. I imagine it's possible for these severe illnesses to have affected the kidneys in some way?
It was just too bad that kidney transplants were in their infancy in 1963, as my Mother offered one of hers to save him. But, as the docs said, they needed one of his to be okay to take one of hers, in case hers was rejected. That wasn't the case, and he died six weeks after being diagnosed. The care was as good as possible (in Plymouth's Greenbank Hospital), to be honest.
You know, Maurice, if I put my Dad's life in the balance, though he went far too early and before we totally mended some of our rifts, I know that he enjoyed everything he had done so much. He adored my Mother and was a terrific Dad to me (though I didn't always think so at the time - but I was 18, in mitigation, and a complete know-all!), and Mum and I agree that any decrepitude in real old age would've depressed him.