One more time

His name was Martin. He was taken before life's main course arrived. Since then I've had umpteen courses, but I fear that I have either overeaten or scraped the best of them to the sides. I don't think you'd have done that. 

We met at school, in maths circa '85. You sat in front of me and would turn around and talk football at every opportunity when teacher was scribbling on the board or telling another child off. Miss Hall wasn't it. Tiny little thing she was with a large hairy mole at the side of her chin. She had zero authority, and the louder she shouted the less people listened. Things got so bad once some girl pushed her over in a lesson. We were only the middling naughties, sort of under the radar so to speak. I don't think we learned shit during those days. Not sure many did.

Occasionally, I would stand with you at football matches, although that was later on, nearer the end. Most of the time we were in different sections of the ground; you were in the family seating area, me more of a singing yob on the terraces swaying with the masses when goals were scored. We'd catch up and talk about misses and goals every Monday while Miss Hall had her back to us. 

You leant me your dad's porn videos once. It was a real breakthrough moment. First time I'd witnessed any moving images like that. I had probably done the same and given you some of my dad's old mags from the top cupboard. Those winter nights when my parents were out. Great times.

Then you got ill, said you'd not been feeling well. You can't have been more than 20 years old. I wasn't sure what to do with it. I had travelled a lot before that and not seen you much for a couple of years, been drinking myself stupid and crossing borders. I can't remember you ever drinking.

One day I stood with you at the football, and you hardly spoke. I knew then.

Last time I saw you you were in hospital in London. I was on a night out and had a few already. You were showing me your signed Watford football and shirts, all those best wishes, all those star player names. It was hard to know what to say. I didn't know you'd be gone so soon or else I would have hugged you and told you I'd sing for you at all the matches, louder than I had ever sung before. I just left you and got pissed somewhere in town.

I got the call at uni from my mum, about October '93. I was a mess, so I went back to my parents for a week, then went to see you at the Jewish cemetry just by the M25, told you about the football and what I was up to through watering eyes.

I don't know why I've felt like writing this now, some 27 years on, something pricked me inside somewhere. Maybe it's because I don't dream about you anymore? You used to accompany me through the night. Once I remember dreaming meeting you and putting my hand out to touch you, expecting my hand to pass through you again. It didn't.

Guilt got the better of me for many years after you went. I felt like you deserved to live more than me being as sensible as you were. Me, I just pissed it up the wall, lost. You had it all to live for.

Not long after you went I met a girl at uni. My first girlfriend. We lived together for a few years. She'd lost someone recently too. Both of us were confused and mixed up souls, and it was hard to pick which one of us was more distressed. She showed it more; I helped her through her pains. When we eventually split, I melted and struggled to recover. It wasn't all about you; I'd always been struggling, just never knew why.

Hey Martin, I'd love to take you back to Vicarage Road, just like old times. I'd buy you a dodgy pie at half time if you were lucky, then could hug each other with every goal we scored. We could hug each other and jump up and down and sing together. We would hug each other and sing together and laugh about Miss Hall. You and me, just moaning about all those missed opportunities.