I am Richie's cousin, a year or so younger; we were close in the early teen years, going to the same youth club dances and to pubs along Liverpool's dock road where Richie knew they allowed underage drinking in the backroom. We had fun; even took girls on dates to Formby beach together (still got the photos!), and I had absolutely no idea what Richie's real life was like. But Richie was charismatic and it was always great to be with him.
About 35 years later I recognised his voice instantly on a BBC radio interview and I got back in touch. I read his books and, as the university literature expert I'd since become, I recognised the brilliance of his literary talent. More than that, I recognised the integrity of his writing which exactly matched the integrity of the personality I began to rediscover. Richie had been a rentboy, but he transformed that experience not just into literature, but in his own daily life. He became a counsellor, and co-founded a charity to support others caught up in the underworld of male prostitution. But more than that, even as he was dying with HIV-Aids, he oozed love, compassion and saintliness in the most disarming, unassuming and matter-of-fact way imaginable. If there are saints, he was one even if he didn't know it: those who loved him did. And those who read him will share in the abundant love he had, in the wonderful way he had of ennobling and dignifying the human condition, however sordid it might have seemed at first blush. Read his books;do yourself - literally - a favour.