So many good people are leaving us right now. Yes, it has something to do with being 67, I realise that, but nevertheless...

Last Tuesday my Adur councillor wife Robina and I attended the funeral of one of her council colleagues, Nigel Jenner, a lovely, caring, witty soul and fellow Brighton fan, the same age as me. A few weeks ago we were sharing a pint and he was giving her lifts to meetings: now he’s gone, died suddenly in office. So sad. There was an incredible turnout at his send-off, testimony to a life well lived in the service of his community, a fun-loving fellow with a host of friends. Condolences to his partner Kate, to his family and to all those who loved him. Seize the day, everyone. You never know. 

As we were about to set off for the crematorium I got a message from my friend Mark. 
“Have you heard about Mike Peters?”

My heart sank even further. 

Mike was the lead singer of The Alarm, best known in the mainstream for their ’80s hit 68 Guns and with a career spanning 40 years, but in more recent times also celebrated for his long, brave, inspirational battle against cancer, having been diagnosed with lymphoma 30 years ago. He’d recently been hit with a more aggressive form and had been in hospital having pioneering treatment, but it hadn’t worked, he’d finally gone, and his wife Jules posted a magnificent, moving tribute on social media. 

I want to add a few words of my own, since I knew him from the very beginning of The Alarm. 

It was 1981, or very early 1982. A Right To Work Campaign benefit gig had been organised at Central London Poly, with The Jam doing a secret gig as headliners: I was compering as a poet, not long into my 45 years as Attila the Stockbroker. Just before the start of the gig I was tapped on the shoulder by a bloke with very, very big hair. The biggest hair I’d ever seen. And a bootlace tie. And behind him – more hair and more ties. A new band, fully formed and ready to go!

“Hello mate. We’re The Alarm. Any chance we could do a spot?”

Stage manager for the event was Paul Weller’s father John, a formidable presence. But I wasn’t fazed: I asked the question, he gave the go-ahead and the big hair and bootlace ties served up a stirring, anthemic performance. Very soon the lads from north Wales were on the up, and once there they returned the compliment, inviting me to support them and later starring in my 1990s social surrealist poem The Zen Stalinist Manifesto where 68 Guns becomes the new National Anthem and the Queen and Billy Bragg join the Alarm on backing vocals. 

I saw Mike fairly regularly from that day to this, and both he and Jules were always kind and supportive. My heart goes out to her, to their sons, and to the legions of fans for whom his words and music meant so much. And his stand against cancer was an inspiration to me when I was diagnosed as a fellow sufferer 10 years ago. RIP Mike. Your work, and your spirit, live on. 

I’m writing this on the train to Wolverhampton on Workers’ Day, where I’ve been invited to take part in Wolves TUC’s May Day celebrations. Robina’s been to her third funeral this week, she had a nasty fall 10 days ago (thanks NHS,) my neck and back are sore (a long life charging about) it’s election day and it’s a sad fact that a substantial part of the electorate has the intellectual capacity of a lobotomised slug. Very unusually for me, with my indomitable personality, I need a bit of cheering up.

So I’m listening to Jess Silk’s new release, Old, Broken Isle and it’s working a treat. Black Country Jess doesn’t inspire with a “cheer up bub” but with a “look how shit everything is, let’s get off our arses and do something about it!” And that is exactly what we need right now. As a chess enthusiast who lives 300 yards from a lighthouse and lifeboat station, songs with titles like Pawns & the Kings and Safe Harbour are going to strike a chord in more than a metaphorical sense. Jess is our finest young political songwriter, a cider-fuelled visionary with a song for every mood and every cause, I know I bang on about her – check her out on Spotify.