Steve was a brilliant salesman. He could have sold anything to anyone and made himself a lot of money. But, being a highly-cultured, almighty autodidact, he had no interest in wealth or status. Steve committed his life to accumulating and imparting knowledge, and subtly hustling culture. If he introduced someone to a new band, a new book, a new film, a new word, or a new way of looking at things, then that was a good day.

Steve was a naturally-gifted snooker player, footballer, and tennis player. His horse racing knowledge was so rarified that he was invited to an interview by The Sporting Life (sadly failing to secure the position when they realised he was only 14). He was a lifelong Sunderland fanatic, singing his heart out for the lads hundreds of times at away matches all over the country for as long as he was able to travel.

Steve had a huge library of books. He was always reading, and always writing. He wrote in many different guises and styles over the years. He was a romantic poet, a satirical social commentator, and an agony aunt. He wrote biting political analyses, nihilist dystopian fiction, and spoof letters which elicited responses from John Motson, Peter Mandelson and the Intellectual Property Department at the BBC.

Steve was such a casual master of misdirection that it was almost impossible to see quite how vulnerable and lost he had always been, not until after he died. He always managed to convince people by force of his will that he was okay, it was okay, everything was okay. He was always laughing and always making others laugh. For, whatever pain he hid, Steve still absolutely loved life. He was endlessly fascinated by the world. His interests were so broad that he found common ground with everyone. For Steve, every person was an individual. He would bow to no one, and would have no one bow to him. He absolutely fucking abhorred all forms of bigotry, prejudice and stereotyping. And he was always incredibly good fun to be around. People loved Steve because he was completely and unashamedly himself, and that allowed them to relax and be themselves too. No judgement, no side, no snide.

Indeed, Steve was so good at being Steve that, no matter what he ingested, nothing actually seemed to have any effect on him. Even at the greatest extremes of his adventures along Wonderland Avenue, it was impossible to tell. He was just Steve being Steve. And for all the last nine years of his life which he lived in total sobriety, he was still just the same Steve he’d always been. Right to the last few days of his unique and brilliant life, Steve remained completely himself.

And what greater life is lived than a life which is lived true unto itself?