You see, the other delights on a worryingly long list of first courses were often very tempting to the eyes of the overweight slob I had become. And to hope, usually in vain, that I might be able to veer from eating what might “test the kitchen” almost became an obsession. So tempting were the deep fried whitebait (yum!), the prawn cocktail (bliss!), a cream of tomato soup (would it be Heinz?), avocado vinaigrette (please?) or corn on the cob even (with, naturally, lashings of butter), that I would nearly succumb. For the first time I realised we had been born just 24 hours apart. How strange that seemed, when for so long I had regarded him as practically my polar opposite. And then I remembered that look in his eye, and I knew where I had seen it before. When I used to inspect for The Egon Ronay Guide, years ago now, there was always one first course on the menus of some restaurants that used to fill me with dread.

It would be sitting there, amongst all the other dishes, lurking, in wait. I should first explain that this ordeal would only take place in restaurants where one just had a gut (oh! poor gut) feeling that they were going to be – in the nicest possible way – crap. There, on the opening page, were the dates of Michael VerMeulen’s birth and death. In the circumstances I interpreted the outcome less charitably.I suppose I was lucky. My mind had been concentrated on the proceedings the moment I entered St George’s and glanced at the service sheet.

“Sorry, old chap,” whispered Sylvester, “this one’s reserved for family.” One female editor looked around at the assembled mafiosi and said: “If a bomb were to fall right now…” What she meant was that London’s media would be devastated, its best and brightest buried under rubble. “I’ve already decided on my music,” remarked another self-mourner, “three Beach Boys songs, two ballads and one upbeat.”Others were overawed by the serried ranks of literary celebs, including a self-regarding novelist who turned up with his cronies at the last minute only to be ushered out of a front row pew. A female literary agent remarked “Wasn’t that moving?” “Well, I certainly hope I get as many,” replied her companion. Few, it seems, could resist the urge to fantasise about their own big send-off. Not to mention the video highlights.Afterwards, we stood on the church steps talking about how moving the service had been, how evocative of the man. Of course, we would all desperately love to attend our own funerals, if only to see how many old lovers showed up.

But for those in the media especially, it seems such a wasted opportunity – the chance to art-direct our own memorials, greet and seat the guests, order the flowers and choose the music. VerMeulen would have noticed and remarked on them, too.In his sparkling eulogy, Christopher Sylvester noted that Michael would have been thrilled by the turnout, a sentiment that sent a ripple of appreciation through the crowd. Of course, VerMeulen’s closest friends were there to honour his memory. But I hardly knew him, and though I certainly wanted to bid him a dignified farewell, I went as much out of curiosity, and because it was a big media event. Does that sound shameful? In journalism, the dividing line between work and social life is hard to discern, if it exists at all Some people even went along hoping to pull. It made me wonder about something I’d noticed, a certain look in his eye It was strangely familiar, but I couldn’t quite pin it down. There was some element of hysteria, something manic and uncontrollable.Last Monday I went to the memorial service Like many others I had mixed reasons.

When I called my friend to confess, the party line had changed. “He’s really a nice bloke when you get to know him,” he said, sheepishly.A few weeks ago I called GQ to explain a missed deadline, and learned that Michael VerMeulen had died of heart failure following a suspected drugs overdose. “Listen,” said VerMeulen, winking at me, “this guy is the only thing standing between you and the fucking abyss.” He quoted an extortionate figure “OK? Good Here he is.”You can probably see why I liked him. But he was direct and honest, so I wrote for him and he did indeed pay me a lot of money, and even made others do the same. I was in his office when the Guardian called to ask if he could possibly write a short article overnight, a real emergency. “I could,” replied VerMeulen, “but I’ve got a date tonight, and anyway, I have Alix Sharkey sitting in front of me and he’s a much better writer. So how much you gonna pay him?” He snorted derisively at the answer.