Jeffrey Herman was a male model. He had that posh patrician look which was popular back in the Eighties. Very Tim Easton. Very Ralph Lauren. However, the fabulous Jeffrey was anything but patrician and posh. He was cheeky and irreverent and very naughty.

He always Frenchified my name, calling me See-moan. Jeffrey was never boring. He questioned everything and had extremely vociferous opinions.

Jeffrey had no ambivalence about being a male model. He loved fashion – his off-duty look was ‘cowboy’ but with a limp vintage Hermes scarf – and recognized that he was lucky to get paid for lolling about looking suave.

Jeffrey was making the gradual switch from modeling to photography. His images were stark, confident and memorable. Herb Ritts with a dash of David Seidner. (RIP to both.)

Had he lived, he would have been successful. No question.

The reason I picked Jeffrey out of all the possible pals who died back in those dark days is as follows: When Jeffrey was on his last legs, he would rant loudly and continually about being part of a lost generation. “We are all dying and nobody gives a shit and nobody will remember us.”

I am haunted by Jeffrey’s words and feel that his fears have proven to be well founded. So many gay men died without proper funerals or memorials. So many are not remembered. When the opportunity presents itself, I always make a point of speaking Jeffrey’s name.