Sharing my two minute’s worth at Martin’s funeral yesterday:

I’ve only got a couple of minutes, which isn’t much in the great scheme of things. After all, the universe is 13.77 billion years old.

And it took the universe all that time to make a Martin Simmonds. Astonishing.

And I was astonished when I first saw him. So much so, that I clearly remember my first words,

“Who the fuck is that?!”

Because there he was, lager in one hand, lager in the other hand, whirling a jig in the middle of the living room, and making that yodelly noise he made when he was having fun (which is what I first heard before seeing him). We were about eighteen at the time, and I was holding a party while my folks were away, so obviously the only thing that concerned me was the state of the carpet.

But it was obvious that I couldn’t get rid of him… so we became mates instead. In fact, Martin became my very best friend and we shared amazing times together.

Of course, as you all know, this was easy, as Martin was kind, intelligent, generous, loyal, nuts – all that stuff – but the one other thing that really defined Martin was that he was headstrong. He would always do what he decided he would do: not necessarily the best thing – just the thing he decided on.

And now, here we are, wondering why Martin should take his own life. Depression, illness, craziness… none of these is really the reason. Because, looking back over the forty-odd years I’ve known him, it’s obvious to me: he was always going to be the one to say when he was leaving.

Sure, I’m sad because the last time I spoke to him, was the last time I spoke to him. And I’m sad that he’s not here to go for a drink with afterwards. But sad because of what he did? Nah.

So, like I said: 13.77 billion years.

But the truly astonishing thing is that we were all here to witness the event.

And for me, it’s as though we were all invited to his party. Now the host has left, and it’s up to us to clear up the mess.

So thanks Martin: it was a blast.

I’m publishing this the next morning, and I’ve had some more time to get to grips with the universe going on without Martin. But I can’t: the hole he left will take a long, long time to heal. Yes, his was a life well lived, and during that time he touched a great many people, of whom I was only one. But the fact of him not being here any more makes no sense to me: I can still hear him, and see him sucking his moustache before launching into either a political diatribe or a hearty cackle, see him gambolling (Martin was the only adult human I ever met who could gambol) across Peckham Rye, swap tracks with him for hours (bastard’s still got some of my records), trudge across the tundra – mile after mile, fly kites, get egg (ask me and I’ll explain), walk dogs, argue… and laugh together like a drain-brothers.

But mostly I can hear just his voice.

Which, funnily enough. is exactly how I met him.