This morning I had a shock, a very good friend of mine, Brendan Mullen, the realGodfather of Punk, died in California last October. We’d been later-day Beats, but thevast expanse of sea that grew between us, meant that for the last twenty years wehadn’t so much as written a letter.The last time I heard from Brendan was when he sent me a copy of Jim Morrison’sThe Wilderness, he told me he’d found it in Allen Ginsberg’s City Lights book storein San Francisco. I suspect though, he would have found in a dime store in New York.But that wouldn’t matter, Brendan would simply have been living our dream of turning the truth into something far more romantic than reality.I don’t have the book any more, an old friend of mine, Mike Wood, borrowed it.Mike and I were good friends too, so it didn’t bother me that he was sharing this giftfrom Brendan, but now, under the circumstances, I would be nice to at least hold itagain.Brendan and I were wild children in Manchester in the 70s. We lived on beer, guile,anxiety and drugs. We were both beautiful and a little bit insane and we shared anambition to become writers … inexplicably we’d washed up together at the Ashton-under-Lyne Reporter.We did something in the early 70s – something happened and I don’t know what. ButBrendan and I left the Reporter with twin clouds of shame hanging over us. Whatever we did might have been shocking, outrageous, immoral or just plain crazy … butthere is no doubt it would have been very very funny.Brendan decided to head for New York and decided I should go with him. Almost thatsame day I found out I was to be an unmarried father. So, at 19 years old, I tried toface up to my responsibilities.Brendan sailed for New York alone.My ambition to be a writer was fulfilled partially as I tore a fairly successful career out of journalism. But Brendan in his own eccentric, single-minded, romantic way became the new Godfather of Punk. He opened a 10,000-square-foot basement behinda porn theatre on Hollywood Boulevard. He also made it as a music journalist.