When I decided it was time to stick my head above the parapet and Be Blogged Again, I had no idea that the first thing that would happen ghastly and horrible.
Michael Hewitt was a 'friend' on Facebook. Whilst we chatted and communicated and pissed each other both up and off, we never met. And then yesterday, while I was entertaining the wee three in London and teaching the youngest to use trains, tubes, buses and Boris bikes, I learned that he had died suddenly in his sleep, aged 52 apparently, of a heart attack.
Well, Mikey, thanks for that. If ever any news was going to wipe the shine off a jolly outing that was it. The last time I stayed in the hotel I stayed in last night with the kids (Umi Leinster Sq, cheap and cheerful) I got bored, mid afternoon and a fb'd Mikey and asked him if he'd like to join me for dinner. He replied immediately. No. He was taking the dogs (his three beloved mutts) to the vet. Surely that is the male equivalent of 'I'm washing my hair', if ever such a male equivalent existed.
Mikey was an enigma. Talentled journo, grumpy old man, bon viveur, wit, chef, journalist, savant, linguist. An eloquent, elegant, pseudo-sophisticate. And sometimes he was hilariously shocking, posting pictures of his dinner guests for the evening subtitled 'Boring cunts'. How do you grieve for someone you never really knew? Is this the new grief? I don't understand it and it feels a bit phoney. I'd like to go to his funeral because, put simply, I really liked him and will miss him. But how well did I know him? Did I know him at all? The real Mikey. Or rather, the real Michael.
My sincere and heartfelt condolences go out to his family and loved ones, lucky things. To have been loved by such a man would have been an honour. To have been friend request accepted was also a privilege.
And as Debbie Clarke so rightly said, 'And now the world will know how much we loved him'. RIP Michael Hewitt. Fuck you, Jewitt, you cunt.