Donal McCann was a friend in the awful days of adolescence. We were copy boys together in the Irish Press. Our job was to run errands, make tea, collect galley proofs and act as servants for the important journalists whose names appeared in the paper.
We were unsure teenagers in a world where the egos of the nearest adults were immense. It was at that awful time in everyone's life when the first surge of hormones left one utterly confused. Donal, I remember, was, at one time, unsure of his sexuality. "I think I might be `queer'," he once told me. I, who suffered from the teenage boy's intense interest in and immense fear of girls, assured him expertly he was "all right". The words "gay" and "straight" had not been invented at that time.
We went our different ways. I stuck with the journalism when he went to the theatre. I became a sports journalist and Donal, the actor, never lost his love of sport. The horses were at the top of his scale of interest followed closely by the greyhounds. It was in the blood. His father had died at the dog races at Harold's Cross.
His role as "Phineas Finn, the Irish Member" in the BBC series The Pallisers was memorable not only for his performances but also for his stories of life as a young and rambunctious Irishman in London. A tale of dog-racing at the White City followed by a night at her majesty's pleasure was a favourite reminiscence in Grogan's.
At his great Gate performance of Juno in 1986, when it was impossible to get a booking even a month in advance, I was provided, at his request, with a little chair to sit on in the middle of the aisle at the back of the hall.
We talked about that performance later. The success was, he said typically, due to everyone but himself. Michael Colgan was the real star. "You know, he comes backstage and says `So and so's out there. He thinks it's the greatest he's ever seen.' Can you imagine Eoin Hand or Jack Charlton not going into the Irish dressing room at half time? Can you picture them in the boardroom instead discussing what colour jerseys the players should wear? That's the way it is in other theatres, but not the Gate."
In those days he was weaning himself off the drink. He was trying Kaliber: "This stuff's not bad but isn't it a bit, you know, like inflatable women?" Inflatable critics were not appreciated either. One journalist who rushed gushingly into print before a curtain even rose was put down mercilessly. " I felt like suing him for premature ejaculation."
We last met for a pint in Kavanagh's, the Gravediggers, in Glasnevin. He was as self-effacing as ever. When I brought up the theatre in conversation, he moved the talk towards horse racing. He obstinately refused to recognise the immensity of his own talent.
In the past decade, our contacts were by post. My congratulatory messages invariably elicited responses in which he said he was simply doing his job. His comment on my first novel was that it was about time I got "up off my arse" to write something serious.
In the end, I left it all at correspondence level. Our friendship was from a different era. A visit would have served only to confirm that his death was imminent.
Donal McCann would have recoiled from the phrase that "his death has diminished us all". But now I've said it. It's true and he can't answer back.