When greats and good from both sides of what was described as "the great football divide" – Collingwood and non-Collingwood – congregated at St Paul's cathedral for Lou Richards' funeral, it was his daughter, Nicole Morrison, who most astutely summed up the spirit of the occasion.

"He would have been humbled by this response," she said, "but not for long."

So began a funeral that was state but scarcely stately, a solemnisation sans solemnity, prompting another eulogist, media man Tony Jones, to remark: "We've almost turned a state funeral into a sportsman's night." Tall tales were the hymn, laughter the refrain. That, of course, is just as Lou would have had it.

Put another way by veteran football administrator Ron Joseph, representing all on the other side of the divide, Lou had predicted a state funeral for himself, adding: "That'll give Bob and Jack the s..." Bob and Jack were, of course, Bob Davis and Jack Dyer, Lou's mates-in-mischief on uproarious League Teams and World of Sport. Now all, shows and showmen, are gone.

But for two hours, Lou was again larger-than-life. There was Lou the footballer, the Collingwood premiership captain, a star, but even on non-starring days reliably up for some skulduggery in the Magpie cause. Collingwood president Eddie McGuire revived old-time footy writer Alf Brown's description of Lou as a footballer with "a slow-moving conscience", always sorry, but only afterwards.

There was Lou the irrepressible imp, who would tuck a football sock into his suit pocket as he headed off to a Saturday night dance so that the smell of liniment might announce him as a footballer. It was one such night that he met Edna, the love of his life.

There was Lou the self-proclaimed "multi-media megastar". Once, he prevailed on then prime minister (and Carlton man) Bob Menzies as he left the Meet The Press studio to appear impromptu on World of Sport; Menzies could not resist.

Collingwood coach Nathan Buckley is a solitary figure during the funeral procession. Photo: Eddie Jim

Another time, said Jones, he counselled Fijian prime minister Sitiveni Rabuka thus on economics: "You just can't have your people sitting around under palm trees waiting for coconuts to fall on their heads." Lou could get away with almost anything. Joseph remembered the day at World of Sport when "Uncle" Doug Elliott was reading from a sheet of butcher's paper held by two cameramen, the autocue of the day – until Lou set it alight. Somehow, he became an official National Trust national treasure anyway.

There was Lou the dedicated family man, also Lou the publican. "He was a frustrated song-and-dance man," said Mrs Morrison. "He was a terrible singer, but a surprisingly good dancer. We had the best fun learning to dance to with Lou, because he was just such a show-off – to put mildly."

There was Lou, the grandfather and great grandfather. Grandson Ned Morrison told of how each descendant had a dawning moment when they realised theirs was no ordinary patriarch. For his sister, Lucy, it was at school pick-up one day, where Lou was mobbed. "The trouble for Lucy was that her grandfather was more appealing to the teenage boys at her school than she was," said Morrison. He was 75.

At length, Lou's celebrity did fade. It is more than 30 years since World of Sport's heyday, nearly 10 since Edna died, a crushing blow for Lou. Most of the principals in his story are gone, too.

St Paul's was full, but in the streets and squares outside, where space was cleared for a crowd, merely a scattering appeared. Instead, there was a pre-war Herald delivery van, a poignant effect. A young Asian woman paused to ask what was happening, and when told replied politely but blankly: "Oh."

This ought not to have surprised. Lou was 94. As at the death of Sir Donald Bradman in 2001, the man had been lost to sight and mind for some time already; it was the era that was passing now. But the memory is forever, woven brightly into the tapestry of this town. Said Joseph, obliquely addressing the AFL's by-the-book refusal to dub Lou an official Legend: "Lou is bigger than a legend."

Photo: Scott Barbour

Collingwood players formed a guard of honour before the cortege disappeared into the Melbourne grey, which really is black and white made one.