I’m a bit gutted tonight, actually i’m very fucking gutted.
I found out an old army mate of mine died today of a heart attack, at the very young age of 47. He was a legend, that word gets thrown around like its going out of fashion these days, but this fella was from another planet, the planet grime to be exact.
He was what we called a minger, a gipper, an unclean motherfucker, but he was so much larger than life it was untrue. A tough as fuck gentle giant if there is such a thing, with an aficionado’s taste for the most vulgar porn imaginable, he had a heart of gold, would fight a bull, and give you his last penny.
(Horace Higson in full glory)
He used to come in your room when you were out and rob your undies, or take your best clobber from the drying room. You would be downtown and see him. “Alright H, thats a nice top mate, I’ve got one like that” “Yer I took it from your locker before”
Thats the way he was, I lost a t-shirt a friend gave me, I always wondered were the fuck it went, I was gutted when I couldn’t find it. 10 years later I was in an old army mates house, he was showing me some old pictures, and there front and center was Horace wearing my t-shirt, the bastard. I loved that t-shirt.
He used to wash his jeans on the floor in the shower room with a bass broom and vim, he was a classy guy, his dad was a Brigadier, his mum was a Major, they made him sleep in the shed when he was on leave, he was a classy guy.
He was so big and smoked that much, the ceiling in his car had a nicotine halo were his head used to touch the roof, and he was an adopted Evertonian. He was a classy, classy guy.
And more importantly a Rifleman in the 3rd Battalion the Royal Green Jackets.
And he will be sorely missed.
See you in the Re-org Horace.
Celer et Audax – Swif and Bold.