Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio: a fellow
of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy: he hath
borne me on his back a thousand times; and now, how
abhorred in my imagination it is! my gorge rims at
it. Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know
not how oft. Where be your gibes now? your
gambols? your songs? your flashes of merriment,
that were wont to set the table on a roar? Not one
now, to mock your own grinning? quite chap-fallen?
Now get you to my lady's chamber, and tell her, let
her paint an inch thick, to this favour she must
come; make her laugh at that.
Stuart was a mate of mine from Uni days. He was one of the funniest men I've ever met, a mad bugger and had an encyclopedic knowledge of music that would put anybody on Spics and Specks or Rockwiz to shame.
He died in an accident at work.
He was 35.
There's not a day when I don't think of him.