His mother died in mysterious circumstances a few months after we all got to know him. He was effortlessly posh, floppy-haired, scruffy and lived above the pub at the bottom of the road rather than in student halls or digs. And an orphan too. Swoon.
Everyone adored him. He could therefore do whatever he wanted. He was unreliable and loving. He was dismissive and ruthlessly commited to your friendship. He was the love of all our lives and and an utter unloveable cad.
He was a talented actor and featured in the majority of plays that I was involved with. He really was very good indeed. There's no flipside to that - apart from his apparent disregard for the need to turn up to rehearsals.
He used to organise (by telepathy and osmosis - people just used to gravitate to these occasions) alldayers and lock-ins at the pub. Trying to get into one of these lock-ins almost got me arrested for feverishly jumping up and down outside the building in the hope to be admitted. The only attention I attracted was that of a passing police car.
He was obsessed with Withnail & I - we were, as a result, early adopters of that particular student cult. And people would never forget (and talked about endlessly if it happened to them) the night that they spent talking to him - all night until the sun rose. Myself included.
He was, of course, damaged goods. He was, of course, no different to the rest of us - he just had added aura!
We tried to continue the story after Uni when he ended up, surprise suprise, living above a pub in London. But it just ended. Suddenly. Until around 10 years later when C bumped into him in the supermarket and arranged a get-together. On the way home from that get-together, she and I spoke on the phone. "Well - that's never going to happen again, is it?" we both said, relieved.
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