I have spent all of today being a fucking idiot.

On Tuesday Steven Wells, my favourite rock writer, died after a three year battle with Hodgkin's lymphoma. Like most people, I only found out today and, with 99 per cent of the NME office being en route to Glastonbury, it’s been left to me to compile an obituary for next week’s issue. I’ve been a fucking disgrace. I’m thoroughly ashamed of myself; the sheer weight of articulating what his words meant to me, let alone at least two generations of NME readers, has almost ruined me. I’ve made cups of tea, I’ve smoked cigarettes, I’ve been for an obscenely long lunch. I’ve done anything I could do to avoid writing something on page. Even in death, the unique talent, spirit and flair of Steven Wells has left me questioning everything I’ve ever believed. Articulating the life and times of a character as big as Steven Wells is a job for a big man and I can’t help questioning whether I’ve got the girth for the job.

To paraphrase Steven’s article for the Philadelphia Weekly upon learning he had cancer: JAMES YOU FUCKING LOSER SHITRAG BIS FAN. Shut the fuck up and grow a pair.

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