'The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles'. Jack Kerouac

A couple of weeks ago I had a review published in a local newspaper. I was excited to get something in print, as you can imagine, so I drove up the M3 to Winchester to grab a few copies from the office. It was the briefest of visits as it was deadline day, but the editor introduced me to a few of the staff. And a pleasant bunch they were too. My next assignment had come in: I was to do a write-up on a night of wrestling at Southampton Guildhall. On hearing this, a big bloke with a bigger smile turned from his screen and shook my hand. He was introduced to me as Max, the reporter, top boy etc. He'd just covered the boxing a few days before at the same venue and wished me luck with my task. We chatted for a few minutes about the Guildhall's terrible bars and draconian anti-smoking policy, shared a joke or two then I made my way out. I probably could have stuck around and made myself useful but the truth was I wanted to get back to the car where I could have a good look at what they'd done with my story (did I get a byline? Did they use the photo?), away from the stares of professional journalist types for whom that was a weekly occurrence. I arrived home a little later to an email from the editor suggesting that I shadow Max the reporter for a few days, to get a feel for the paper and the local area. It's unusual for me to warm to an individual so quickly, but I had a feeling that this Max character was exactly that (a character, for those dozing at the back) and we were going to have a right old laugh. I even mentioned it to my girlfriend, who is far more used to me moaning about the pond life I seem to encounter in my daily life, at least most days.

I was doing my usual rounds of the web yesterday, trying to find inspiration as always for projects not yet conceived. I checked the paper's website (you never know if they're going to put your work online plus you can get an insight into the style, so it's worth a look) and found out that Max Jones had died in a car crash on March 18, two days after I'd met him. He was 33. Now, anyone who knows me will know that I'm not the mawkish type. I don't go for weak sentiment, the new disease of the soft-brained English (a club of which I am a very reluctant member). I've been to more funerals of family members who exited before their time in the last couple of years than anyone I know (apart from the poor buggers who attended those same services). You have the conversation that goes "Death is part of life etc etc" so many times it becomes automatic. And there's the phenomenon whereby an individual is canonized in death when we all know what a grubby loser they were when alive; loving and generous in the tributes, a sadistic despot in reality (note the complete absence of any tossers among the victims of the London bombings; sorry if this sounds glib, it's merely an observation).

But this news really spun me around, made me stop and think about my own life in a way that nothing else has in a long time, almost in inverse proportions to how well I knew the man. Max was the same age as me, give or take. He had a baby daughter. Most of all - having read his work and the many tributes - it's pretty clear he was one of those rare good guys, if such categorization has any meaning at all. He was making his way in the same industry (not forgetting the same world) that I'm trying to infiltrate, doing his job well, enjoying himself and making a lot of friends on the way. What more could you want from a job, or indeed life?

Of course, I've only got his writing and tributes plus one brief meeting to go on. But in this case, that's good enough for me.