I can’t quite remember when I first met Steven Gilligan. It might have been at the school library, where I soon joined him, John Greenwood and Sam Dixon as a student librarian. It might have been after someone suggested I look in on a writers’ group (made up mainly of the same people) that was meeting at lunchtimes. Or I might just have met him in the hall at lunchtime one day. However it happened, it was a lunchtime, and he made an immediate impact on me, and we quickly became involved in a dozen silly projects together – we performed sketches at the school shows, started a band (Master Zangpan and the Mechanical Housewife), tried to start a marbles revival, sold trumped-up horoscopes, offered a ghost hunting service, created New Words, launched Silver Age Books, published our novels, and most recently we created November Spawned and Theaker’s Quarterly Fiction, to both of which he made notable contributions.

In amongst all that, we laughed a lot, talked a lot about computer games, tv and music, and drank a bit from time to time. He introduced me to Hellblazer, HP Lovecraft, Warhammer, Primal Scream, My Bloody Valentine, Joy Division, Vic Reeves’ Big Night Out, and a million other things I love so much for which I’m forgetting to give him credit, and took me to my first ever gigs (The Wedding Present and The Wonder Stuff).

He gave me confidence in whatever I wanted to do, gave me a kick up the butt when I needed it, taught me how the importance of the punk rock spirit in everyday life, and did a brilliant job as the best man at my chaotic wedding.

Anyway, he’s gone now – he died at the end of May in 2007. For the rest of my life it’ll feel like something’s missing. My daughter’s lost someone who would have been the best “bad influence” uncle a kid could ask for, and I’ve lost a best friend. He was also the best gift-giver I've ever known – birthdays and Christmases are going to really suck now.

We have some of his Helen and Her Magic Cat strips in hand, so his presence will be felt directly in the magazine for a little while yet, and indirectly for as long as it lasts. If we can, we’ll also put together a new collection of his work at some point.

I think he would have appreciated the way I found out that he was a goner.

Sitting in the lobby of his tower block, waiting for news from the police who had gone to open and investigate his room, I heard someone, a cleaner I think, yelling, “Have you heard? Someone on the first floor has kicked the bucket!”

I couldn't help laughing, because that’s exactly how Steven would have wanted it. – SWT.