Yesterday I lost an old and dear friend. Not that he was old. I’m touching fifty and he was a few years younger than me. Way too young to go. We had been friends for twenty-eight years. That’s fairly old as friendships go.

We didn’t always see each other frequently. Months and months might go by before we’d arrange to meet for a pint, but we’d pick right back up where we left off. I’ve always felt that’s a sign of good mates, that ability to be completely relaxed and natural in each other’s company without a trace of awkwardness, no matter how much time has elapsed since last they met.

I’d usually end up sharing a room with him when we went away on rugby trips or on stag weekends. Perhaps I was the only one who could cope with the chainsaw sound of his snoring. And he with mine.

We all have our faults and weaknesses. Large amongst his was alcohol. It tightened its hold upon him, slowly but inexorably like a creeping vine, until it squeezed the life from him.

He was good company, great fun to be around, animated when talking about Welsh rugby or Liverpool Football Club. Like many of us, he sometimes inhabited a dark place, but usually presented a cheerful face to the world. Often, that ready smile concealed a troubled soul.

Well, he is troubled no more. If rumours of the afterlife are true, I am sure he’ll be in a better place. Good friends don’t die; they leave early to get the first celestial round in.

There are stories I could tell about him, but the pain is too raw. There is more I could say about him as a person, about how kind and generous and comical he could be, but sometimes even writers struggle to find the right words.

Rest easy, my friend. I am honoured to have known you. I’ll catch up with you one day and we’ll share a joke over a pint once more.

Post script: a week ago today was his funeral. It was, as you'd imagine, sorrowful. A lot of people came; he was much loved. It was also strangely uplifting. A fitting send-off. Now I'm moving on. He, more than anyone, would want that.