Colin Hardy: We'll Meet Again

 2026 has been off to a rough start.

Not even a month in, and I’ve already lost a few friends. Now, before anyone reaches for the tiny violins and assumes I’m whinging - relax. I’m not. Yes, it always hurts to lose someone, but I’ve learned to use moments like these to lean into the good memories: the reasons we got along in the first place.

This morning, I found out my old buddy Colin Hardy passed away over the weekend.

Col hailed from Stoke-On-Trent (which I always jokingly called Stoke-On-Rye). He was a working-class bloke through and through, but we shared a deep love of music — especially the old-school rockin’ variety. We first crossed paths on a music-sharing site and immediately began raiding each other’s collections. This was back in the dial-up days, when downloading a single MP3 could take half an hour if the phone didn’t ring. Eventually, we started emailing instead.

Col sent me tracks by the likes of Crazy Cavan, Freddie Fingers Lee, and others. He was always hungry for my stuff too — especially recordings from U.S. bands that were lucky to make it onto cassette, let alone digital. One day, he asked if he could pass my email address along to a friend of his: Mickey Gee.

If you’re not familiar with the name, Mickey Gee was a brilliant Welsh guitarist. I first saw him on the old Cinemax special Blue Suede Shoes: A Rockabilly Session, back in the ’80s, playing alongside Carl Perkins, Dave Edmunds, George Harrison, and Eric Clapton. All of them were doing their thing — but for my money, Mickey was the best picker on that stage. He was knocking it clean out of the park.

So yes — of course I wanted to hear from Mickey Gee.

As it turned out, Col had already sent him some of my tracks. Mickey had already been listening to some of my music. He even mentioned enjoying my song “Continental Redneck Boogie” from our proudly lo-fi CD Live & Loud—Warts & All. I was completely gobsmacked.

Col and I also talked about food. A lot. Maybe that’s just me - I seem to discuss food with everyone. My ex-girlfriend in the UK used to say I was obsessed. I prefer to think I’m culturally attentive. (Fact: good pizza does not exist in the UK. Prove me wrong.)

Americans love sandwiches. This isn’t to say the rest of the world doesn’t — we just take things to unnecessary extremes. One day I mentioned meatball sandwiches. Col had never heard of such a thing, but he thought it sounded brilliant. And let’s be honest - it is. When Subway finally started popping up in the UK, Col practically broke land-speed records getting to the nearest one. He loved it. (Of course he did. He wasn’t a savage.)

But there was one thing Col constantly insisted I try.

GREEN GOO.

To this day, I have no idea what it actually is. Some kind of condiment, popular with folks from the West Indies. I asked if it was anything like liquor sauce — the parsley abomination common in pie, mash, and eel shops. No, he assured me. This stuff was spicy. Col adored it. He sang its praises endlessly. Honestly, it sounded awful - but who am I to judge?

At one point years ago, Col told me he was convinced he had stomach cancer. He was in pain, couldn’t keep food down, and figured the end was near. Turned out it was the green goo. He’d given himself an ulcer. Doctor told him to lay off it, he did, and the stomach problems vanished.

Note to self: avoid “goo” of any kind.

Col was also fiercely proud of his relative, the legendary British comedian Norman Wisdom. Honestly, I'd not heard of him on this side of the pond - but the internet soon solved that! A sense of humor and good comic timing clearly must be genetic. 

As often happens in adult life, Col and I eventually lost touch - about ten years back. No one’s life is perfect, and his was no exception. We stayed loosely connected through social media, but he eventually disappeared from the digital world. I’d occasionally hear from his missus, their many, many, many kids, or mutual friends. No news, to me, has always felt like good news. I never pried. Sometimes I’d just ask the kids to pass along a “Howdy” to their old man.

Even now, I can’t hear Mickey Gee without thinking of Col. And I can’t see a West Indies recipe without thinking of him either.

Our friends fill many roles in our lives, just as we fill roles in theirs. Colin Hardy was one of those people I wish I’d had more time with. I suspect we’d have invented entirely new levels of trouble to get into. At the very least, we’d have continued bonding over rockin’ music and meatball sandwiches.

Rest in peace, old friend.

Tell Mickey Gee I said howdy.

And to those reading this: hold on to the good memories. We’re all heading the same way eventually - so try to leave behind something kind, something funny, and at least a few good stories.

Col would probably give me grief for writing all of this. Too bad! You always knew I was going to do whatever the hell I have a mind to. We'll meet again, old amigo!