Aron B

Aron B (real name Aron Lake) was a founder member of King Rizla. He was a poet and a much-loved friend. We read, and were critical of, each other's poetry; we respected each other's opinions.

Aron also worked as a sound engineer on the local gig circuit. I accompanied him on one assignment - Foxes and Rats at the Civic Hall, Dunstable. Aron took me back stage to meet Paul Fox (The Ruts) and Rat Scabies (The Damned). It was all in a day's work for Aron but I was in awe! I chatted with Rat Scabies and was impressed to note that he smoked Players No. 6. A real working class hero!

I recall going for a walk with Aron one summer, through the woods and fields of rural North Hertfordshire. My hay fever, at the time, was quite severe. Aron said, "it's all in your mind, man". I think I responded with some off the cuff remark like, "Fuck off Aron, you twat!" He looked at me with those penetrating eyes of his and simply smiled. I remember thinking, "actually, he may be right!" Aron had a way of cutting through the baggage and bullshit and communicating with you on a profoundly deep level. Hard to explain but those of you who knew him will know what I mean.

Sometime in late 1991 I was at home alone in my flat. I hadn't really seen Aron for a couple of years. We had gone our separate ways: he had started a family and I was engrossed in my latest musical adventure and half way through a tempestuous love affair that was destined to end in tears. It did. There was an unexpected knock at the door. It was Aron. I don't recall too much of our conversation that evening but I do remember reading my latest poem to him. He looked at me, smiled, and said, "It's not your best, is it Russ?" That was the last time I saw him.

A few weeks later I received a phone call from Tim. "Russ", he said, "I've got some bad news..."

Aron had had enough. I don't know why. In his late twenties he had decided to end his life. When Tim broke the news to me I was angry. Aron, you bastard, how can you do this? I spoke at Aron's funeral. One of the hardest things I've ever done. Standing behind the lectern, before me a sea of sad, tearful faces. Aron's family and friends. I declared that Aron had gone to a place where there was no anxiety and no suffering, then read a poem I had written called 'The Spirit Lives'.

What I took away with me from that terribly sad occasion was the germ of an idea that Aron had made a choice, that he had chosen his fate and that I should respect his decision. It has taken a long, long time for that idea to germinate.

Aron, you twat, I miss you brother.