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I wish I could say that I will miss you. I wish I could pontificate about what a great man you were, how you were an inspiration to us all and how anyone would strive to be half the man you were, but we both know that’s not the case. Sadly – for all of us.

When I heard the news that you had shuffled off this mortal coil, my initial reaction was "Oh, so it finally happened then – took yer time, didn’t you?" On one hand I felt guilty for responding like this, yet on the other hand I know that because of your actions, I couldn’t really feel any other way.

Later that day, I withdrew into myself a little, feeling sad. Not sad at losing a father as others would, but sad at what might have otherwise been, sad that I wasn’t able to really feel sad (if you catch my drift) and sad that you spent the last years of your life in what I would consider to be very sad circumstances. Yes, that was a lot of use of the word ’sad’ there, but that’s how it all ended up.

I was mentally recalling picture’s from mum’s photo album – you remember mum? She was the one you used to slap about when you first started drinking – where you were building the extension on the house in which I was born. I can see you in that photo looking all proud – you had a wife, 3 children, a good sized house and a good job. Things were only on the up, and how might things have been if that good upward curve had continued in that fashion?

My early memories of you are blocked. I cannot remember the screaming rants and the violence – either I was asleep, too young or my own mind decided to file that away in a corner somewhere never to be found again – but I know they happened. My memories of you as a child are of that person who visited when he wasn’t working out of the country somewhere exotic ( Saudi Arabia – was that for the work and money alone or did you choose to work in a ‘dry’ country on purpose?) and who always came with gifts. My first brand new bike (a Raleigh Boxer) that was from you, as was the first tape recorder, and I have to give credit for my early interest in music – I was the only person in my class at the age of 8 years who could claim to ‘be into Kraftwerk’, thanks to the pirate tapes that you used to get out there and bring back.

In later years, as I grew older and was more able to understand your illness, so did your inability to be able to deal with it despite numerous occasions where people who loved you tried their darndest to help you through. There was the accident that nearly killed you (Mr Indestructible), your cry for help dive into the River Thames, your bank robbery shenanigans and the ensuing prison terms and of course the ongoing AA meetings. We tried to help but along the way and over successive years you managed to alienate everyone until all you had left was a flat in Peckham that you didn’t own and some drinking buddies who, while perhaps not angels themselves, were well aware that you could be a problem once you had a drink inside you.

You had something about you – I’ve described it to people in recent days as ‘a spark’, perhaps a cheeky glint in your eye. You were funny and always a practical person, good with your hands (even while in Prison … learning how to use the computers to make Fake IDs that later got you in to trouble, ah such fun and games!). You were intelligent too, but obviously that was not enough to tell yourself that what you were doing was affecting you and everyone else around you, such that when you died you had little contact with any of your family. When I think of what happened on the night you died – waking from sleep with breathing difficulties, effectively drowning in your own lungs before having a heart attack – and realising that the person you called from your little one-bedroom flat was a support worker, not one of your sons, your daughter, one of your sisters or a wife/partner, it makes it seem even more sad. As we ready ourselves for a Christening this weekend for baby Freddie, I cannot help but reflect on how badly things can go wrong, that one day you were like this too, cradling a child and wishing the best for him/her (and I think we all turned out pretty well, despite anything else that might have happened). I would hate to think that anything in our lives – as in your children’s lives – could ever cause us to be in the situation that you ended up in. Actually, now I think of it you have been inspiration of sorts – you’ve showed us exactly what we should not do.

So, farewell dad. I may never understand the demons in your head that caused you to go so massively off the rails and I hope that if there is an afterlife that you get a better crack at it next time around, for you and everyone who knows you.

So there I was having a surf from Malarkey’s site to Brothercake, all techy stuff and what have you when I stumbled upon Brothercake’s (aka James’) secret past - that being that he used to make music. It prompted me to dig out some of my old tracks and having listened to them I felt compelled to put them up here and share them, warts and all. Much the same as James, these are housey/rave tracks that I put together back in the early 1990s, pre-Mac, pre-Garage Band. Basically a few samplers and an Atari ST. So, for any old ravers out there, here’s some good old fashioned ravey shit to take you back to those dancing-in-muddy-fields-till-the-early-hours for you. And yes, it really does sound very 1992 (all happy pianos and stuff!)

Note - they were all recorded back off old C90 master tapes, so it’s not CD quality. Format is AAC (iTunes-friendly) Enjoy!

• Bubbles (4.8mb)
• Feel the Bass (4.6mb)
• Storm (4.9mb)
• I Know I Can Make It (4.4mb)
• Bass on you (5.4mb)
• Spring in my step (5.3mb)
• Itchy & Scratchy (3.6mb) (more like an old Miami Bass/Electro thing)

A dirty great big tree, I might add!