At the end of January 2026, I attended a funeral. This was of Peter Millson, a lovely man of about my own age, who took his own life after a debilitating and increasingly painful skeletal condition which had been diagnosed in his early twenties and finally got too much for him. He came from south London, studied in Oxford and lived in Berwick-upon-Tweed, any of which would have been a suitable venue for his funeral. For all kinds of reasons, it in fact took place just up the road in Sheepdrove’s Burial Wood.
It was lovely to see a few close friends (including Owen Jones, Penny Post’s Hamburg correspondent), some others whom I hadn’t seen for years, and to meet many others whom I may, to my regret if not theirs, never see again.
This sense of the transitory nature of connections washes over you at such events. There’s rarely a sense of true conclusion: rather a feeling that you’re briefly peering through a number of half-open doors or re-visiting a number of forks in the road which at the time you never investigated and now wished you had.
Emotions resulting from a funeral are intense, thought-provoking and often surprising. I can’t recall being quite as affected by one before. I’m still trying to work out why.
Perhaps it was because I realised that, through our various connections, I had had so many chances to know Peter better, almost all of which I squandered. Perhaps it was because it re-connected me to parts of my decades-old past. Perhaps it was because I was unprepared for having this past life and my present one collide geographically in such a highly charged way. Or perhaps – and maybe I leave the obvious reason to last – it’s just because I’m growing old and so more aware of the the way the past and the present knits together in often unexpected ways.
As these things go, it was a hell of a funeral. A lovely setting, a big turn-out and lots of sentiment, some spoken and some musical, that really socked home – none more so than than the eulogy from his twenty-three-year-old step-son.
Of course, these public recollections always show the best side of someone. However, my own memories and conversations before and after revealed that they told the truth. Kind, clever, talented, funny, gentle – so my loss, for only knowing him so much less well than I would have liked.
All this was compounded by his final selection of music for the ceremony, Bach’s Violin Concerto in A Minor. This might well be my ultimate choice if I’m invited onto Desert Island Discs (which I’m not counting on). Hearing that nearly finished me off.
Funerals are designed to celebrate the life that’s passed. The participants, however, are often left in an equivocal state, grappling with feelings of missed opportunities and a general sense that they’re bearing witness to the passing of a better person than they can ever hope to be. These were my prevailing impressions.
A better man I may perhaps become as a result of the examples of Pete’s life provided at his funeral. I doubt, however, that I’ll become a better man than him.
One thing that’s certain is that I’ll never become a better guitarist. He played like an angel, as a search through the back catalogue of the Jazz Butcher Conspiracy and his own solo output under the name of Max Eider will reveal.
What a player, what a man. Glad to have brushed past you in this brief passing show, mate. Click here or see any of the songs on the above-mentioned web page for samples what we’ll be missing.
Brian Quinn
Photo taken from the Max Eider website.
