I miss his warmth and joviality.
I miss his renditions of Monty Python’s Lumberjack song, or watching him perform on stage in all of his other roles.
I miss talking about Doctor Who, whether it was the latest episode, or some merchandise, or something a fan had made and posted on Pinterest.
I miss talking about politics; about how our mutual enthusiasm for the Liberal Democrats declined after the coalition came to power and we felt betrayed.
I miss talking about music, about how awful the number one was that week, or how great the new David Bowie album was, or reviewing a gig by the Bonzo Dog Doo–Dah Band.
I miss discussing the latest old, white man in the public eye who had said something racist or sexist on Question Time.
I miss relying on him for sports questions in pub quizzes, because none of the rest of us had a clue.
I miss his write-ups to his visits of quirky tea shops, and suggesting where he should go to next.
I miss hearing him practice his banjolele, and the song that he wrote and performed himself.
I miss his energetic karaoke performances.
I miss his friendship.