I never met him.
We never went for a coffee.
I didn’t hug him when Platt got a late winner at Italia ’90.
I’ve never swayed with him in Albion kebabs after a night on the sauce.
He never lent me a tenner.
I never lent him a fiver.
I never phoned him at the birth of my children.
Or the death of my mother.
But I miss him.