In October this year an old friend passed away. 

I had known Howie since I was eleven years old. We lived next door to each other in Liverpool. We listened to music, played football, read novels, went on holiday, watched films, danced at parties, frequented pubs and just about grew up together. Our adult life followed separate roads but our friendship brought us back together on many happy (and sometimes sad) occasions.

We were both among a group of mates whose friendship grew during lively days and nights spent in the pubs of suburban Liverpool. We called ourselves The Boys of 78.

At Howie’s funeral some of the boys carried his coffin and some gave readings. The whole thing was so beautiful and moving that I felt compelled to somehow put the words down for posterity. I have used favourite photographs of Howie (Thanks to Phil McAllister for some of these) and quiet images of the Liverpool estate where we lived.