Anyone who knew Graeme as an adult would instantly recognise the schoolboy, for he changed very little over the years, despite the increasing responsibility his rise through the army ranks placed on him. He was funny, irreverent and annoyingly bright. He navigated his way through school with a great deal of success but without seeming to have to make too much effort.

He particularly enjoyed playing rugby, listening to heavy rock in the sixth form common room and, as later, liked the odd drink. When we were in the sixth form we would sometimes skip school at lunchtime and head for a nearby hostelry for a pint or two. Saturday lunchtime everyone met at The Crown or Dark Lantern, and in the evening it was off to Friars club to watch David Bowie, The Edgar Broughton Band, Osibisa or one of the countless rock bands Graeme loved.

The parties he had at home when his mum was away were legendary, the highlight often being Graeme dancing manically to the Rolling Stones and Johnny Winter. The scene the following morning was utter chaos. Goodness knows what his mum thought.

By the end of our school days, Graeme had easily won a place at Oxford University, but soon discovered the course wasn’t for him, and he left to join the army. Our friendship continued, and when I was at Art College in Coventry and Graeme in the army and posted at Kineton, he often used to visit me. On one memorable occasion we were picked up by the police on our way to a party dressed in full nurses uniform, plus bovver boots (us, that is, not the police). They bundled us into the back of their black maria and drove to West Midland Police HQ where we were told in no uncertain terms to keep quiet, sit and wait. Minutes later the doors flew open to the sound of disappointed cries from a crowd of policemen, who realised the gorgeous nurses promised them were just a couple of hairy, half-cut idiots!  Graeme thought it hilarious, and another great evening ensued, although he did make the ugliest nurse I’ve ever seen.

Whenever Graeme came to stay with my family, we were always promised a weekend of constant activity and much merry-making. He kidnapped me once, and phoned my wife to say he was holding me at an unknown location and would return me the following morning – which he did, much the worse for wear. His boundless energy and enthusiasm often resulted in things going awry, such as the time he knocked out our son’s front tooth from an over zealous see-saw ride, and then squirted our daughter in the eyes with perfume. You couldn’t get annoyed with Graeme, though. He maintained an air of child-like innocence and love of fun that was infectious and endearing. He was a great and true friend, clever, thoughtful and always ready to help. On top of everything else, I always have to thank him for marching me to the Register Office to book my wedding to Amanda, as he’d had enough of my pathetic prevaricating and shilly-shallying around!

A sample from one of the many and completely un-PC letters he sent me when posted abroad, sums up Graeme to a tee:

Sweetheart!

Thanks for your tedious letter, which I have just received. I have been on exercise for the last two weeks so it was good to have some contact with civilization, however tenuous.

I am glad to hear that business is looking up. You may be completely without talent, but at least you keep on trying you old *******!

Thanks, Graeme. You are and will be, missed.