My best friend died a couple of years ago. He was 35 years old and had suffered from OCD and alcoholism for a very long time. I didn't give him OCD but I did introduce him to alcohol. As a lazy teen I started 6th form college and screwed my first year entirely so I decided to switch courses.

I started back again with no friends doing English and History with mainly female students. Then as now I have always been terrible talking to women and I found myself on the first day sat next to a quiet young man with a blue lumberjack shirt and a Nirvana T-shirt. The entirety of this first lesson I was trying to make myself known as the class clown (before depression ruined me I overcompensated with humour). This guy sat next to me said nothing but chuckled to himself at my generally outrageous behaviour. I saw him again later in the day in another class and we both nodded at each other. As the weeks passed I started talking to him and slowly he started talking back to me. Unbeknownst to me these were the first tentative steps towards the best friendship I have ever known.

He liked music, The Beatles, Guns N Roses, Nirvana. I liked metal Metallica, Slayer, Pantera. There was a gulf I had to bridge so I introduced him to The Wildhearts (the most under rated British band ever). Soon he was starting to get into the music I was listening to, joining me and my friends at the pub and parties and becoming a friend and not just a mate.

Over time his OCD started to really kick in and he withdrew more and more. I always invited him to things and he would politely decline, but that was just Lee.

We spent a thousand nights talking and drinking and a thousand hours comfortable in each others silence. When he was down I was there for him and when I crashed to unfathomable depths he would always have a sympathetic ear.

His daily life was hell. The rigorous hand washing and avoidance of anything he thought flammable or unclean. The tattoo sleeves he loved so much faded at the wrists through scrubbing. He had many, many an unhappy hour.

However he was kind and caring, witty and talented. His poetry was exceptional as only a truly tortured genius artist can achieve.

He stood by me through my divorce, my financial troubles, my many meltdowns with stoicism and genuine love and concern and I loved him for that.

The alcoholism finally won out. He got an infection. Innocuous, petty, nothing that would really affect anyone seriously. His immune system was so weak from his lifestyle that he developed pneumonia and died in hospital.

I had the privilege to speak at his funeral. I read some of his poetry and laughed at the absurdity of the situation (as I knew he would have wanted me to). After the ceremony his sister made a beeline straight to me; teary eyed; and thanked me for my words. I have never felt less worth than trying to pay tribute to this dearest of people. This was the only time in my life that my father said he was proud if me.

Before he died he had taken up drawing and he was good. The purpose of this blog is to post the portrait he did of me. I had seen his self portrait and loved it and so wanted him to do the same for me.

He was not kind with his art and I loved that about him. The warts an all ugliness of his drawing was amazing, he even captured the sadness and despair in my eyes.

This is simply a long winded tribute for the nicest person I have ever met and I really should have done it earlier.

If you have read all this I apologise for being so long winded but I wanted to tell his story through my eyes.