I think the best word to sum our feelings up is "stunned". It's not really sunk in yet. We've got used to Charlie's ghost at a lot of gatherings, so it's hard to understand that now he could really be gone. Just seeing those words as I've typed them seems so very peculiar. I hear they haven't found the plane yet. Maybe it will be real when they do. But I don't feel that he's dead. The Charlie-ghost hasn't got that sort of authority yet. It's likely as confused and worried as any of us.

So today, I think, I'm not going to talk about tours. I'm not going to talk about gear. I'm going to talk about Charlie.

A random fan at one of our American concerts on the first tour told me, over a beer, that she'd never seen anyone who put their soul into everything like Charlie. "You look at him," I recall she said. "When he's playing, that's what he lives for. When he's boozing it up, that's what he lives for. When he's dancing, that's what he lives for. Y'know, I'd love to get him into bed, because he probably makes love like he lives for it too." She laughed, but truly, that girl (hello, darling, if you're out there) said it. That is precisely what defines Charlie. That incredible lust for life.

When I first started working with DriveSHAFT, I was everyone's tech. It wasn't until just before theGTG tour that I persuaded Ted Tallis, our excellent manager, that one of me was not equal to the task of keeping all four of them on the road. He allowed me to do a little headhunting and I came up with people enough (whom I'll write about another day) that I only had to see to the two guitarists and Charlie. Soon enough the crew multiplied again; I laid hands on two of the finest techs I knew. Since they were both guitar specialists, and I did everything, that left me with the basses, and with Charlie.

I spent a lot of time with Charlie that tour, and every tour after that. Y'see, one of the things about Charlie is that when he parties, everyone parties. My very first DriveSHAFT party, in fact, he noticed I was looking uncomfortable because the only person I really knew was Sinjin, and he personally supervised my intoxication until I'd got to a sufficiently uninhibited state that I was happy to join in. All I remember about that night is Charlie's voice, "C'mon, Zap, mate, we're all delinquents here, no-one's gonna hold it against you," and the feel of a cold beer bottle being pressed into my hands, uncapped already. Because that's Charlie. He hates to see anyone not having a good time if he himself is. He's always been a master of sharing the love, as well; I wouldn't venture to count the number of times I've seen him cuddling fans, under the theory that they like it and he likes it so everyone wins.

Say what you like about Charlie, ladies and gentlemen. We all know he's had problems. I probably know that better than anyone. I mean, I'm his tech. We all know he's flirted with disaster. It was inevitable, for someone who's flirted with everything else on this earth. But Charlie's problems are Charlie's problems alone, and he worked awfully damn hard at dealing with them. I am not ashamed to admit that I've waded into a few fights on his behalf, because Charlie, after all these years, is one of the best mates I've got and one of the best people I know, really, and I won't stand to hear him called a useless druggie. And no matter what he was wrestling with himself, he always did his best not to cause any trouble for anyone else. I've picked him up at three in the morning, drunker than a whole Houseful of Lords, and the first thing he'd say to me was, "Christ, Zap, you're too good to me. You are. I'm sorry. But I couldn't drive." Not "I'm sick," not "C'mon, mate, le'ss do another pub, I've not had enough," (always dear old Sinjin's line), but "I'm sorry". I bet, when he comes back, the first thing I hear is "I'm sorry".

Right now I miss Charlie because, as usual, there's a gap where he's supposed to be. There's no fourth voice at the DriveSHAFT meetings, or if there is it's mine. I have his bass at my house, his pet Fender. I was taking care of it while he was in Australia. And I want to give it back to him. It doesn't fit in my flat. But that doesn't necessarily connote that he's not coming back. He's been gone before.

In two weeks, if he's still missing in two weeks, I will miss Charlie because there will be no-one to come up behind me in dark rooms, hug the bejesus out of me and slop lager over my wrist while trying to hand me a pint. I will miss the happy faces of the girls he'd have draped all over him. I will miss the random small possessions he'd leave strewn about anywhere he was, so that for weeks after I had him over to my house I'd be turning up stray wristcuffs and abandoned shoes. I will miss waking up after a heavy night on the town and finding him passed out on my sofa and things written on me in his handwriting. I will miss the way a huge and unfamiliar theatre could feel cozy and welcoming as soon as he shot you a grin and invited you up with him. And he meant it to feel that way; that's why he did it.

I found a Sharpie yesterday, stuffed down the side of the sofa.

Right now my left hand says "keep up" and my right hand says "the Pace".

Because someone's got to fill in until he comes back. We can't just let all his hard work go to waste.

If you see me, feel free to claim a hug. Everyone wins.