In among all the post-match analysis of MES’s genius way with words and his theatrical gift for apparently effortless vocal dramatics, amid all these sociological meditations upon what the Fall told us about the world, let it not be forgotten what fun it was to be a Fall fan! Our great big brilliant secret. And my phone is filled with shared condolences, many from friends I made because of the Fall.

The places Mark would make us go in his pursuit of minimal venue overheads – vast forgotten Irish clubs in Cricklewood, derelict discotheques in Croydon, five-night runs in rooms above pubs, packed beyond capacity. And the nerveracking thrill of not knowing which side of the thin line between transcendental and terrible tonight’s show might fall. Two nights in a row, in the same room, with the same set list, utterly unrecognisable from one another. And who was still going to be in the band? And what hilarious half-heard fragment would you snatch from the muffled lyrical mix tonight? My favourite from the last album? “All salute at the altar of filo pastry.”

Tributes to artists often end up being more about the person writing them, but MES provided me with an alternative education, looping me into Camus, and Arthur Machen, and William Blake, and Can, and dub and old garage punk and rock’n’roll. I saw the Fall 52 times and without MES my life would have been utterly different and nowhere near as much fun. What on earth are we all going to do with ourselves now?