I doubt you ever heard of Sertraline – which isn’t a bad thing. I imagine you thinking it’s the name of a Star Wars villain or Chelsea’s new centre forward. I don’t take it because you died, but the fact I carve out two hours every year on your birthday to drink beer alone and text the mobile number that ended with you 22 years ago might mean I need a bit of help getting over it – which isn’t a bad thing. Your moped accident is the reason I don’t drive. I’ve only ever told three people that, one of whom charged me £65 an hour to sit on a navy blue IKEA Poang armchair in Brixton, avoid her eye contact, and explain how you were the worst goalkeeper I ever played with. When asked why I’ve never even had a driving lesson, I say, “Just can’t be bothered” or “Saving the environment, mate – I’m a hero!” I’ve never told anyone the reason I don’t drive is because I cannot trust myself to stay alive. Our school year are not allowed to die until we’ve tasted everything that was stolen from you. I find it difficult looking at my son on the 31 August. There’s an IPA on the pub’s chalkboard menu called ‘If Only’ that I’m tempted to try, and the landlord recommends the dill and jalapeño crisps. Arsenal are playing Liverpool at 4.30pm today and I’m hoping for a goalkeeping error for a chance to cry for you – which isn’t a bad thing.

Carl Burkitt 2025