For John, June, Jack, Amy and family

John wasn’t just my friend—my soul mate, brother, a budding misfit who lived on his terms. Our story began in the heart of London, at a magical place on Earlham Street, a hidden world between a Victorian pub and an old hardware store, where creativity and freedom breathed through every floorboard. I was sixteen years old.

I remember him most for his spirit—that incredible ability to live without the crushing weight of societal expectations. John and his then-girlfriend Anna embodied the hippie philosophy of the time: open-handed, charismatic, and beautifully unconventional. Their room in this purposeful maisonette was more than just a space; it was a sanctuary of acceptance where creativity trumped conformity.

What I loved most about John was his profound philosophy of living. “Try not to get a job,” he would say, but it wasn’t about laziness. It was about purposeful existence. He believed in finding what you love and pursuing it with everything you’ve got, regardless of money or status. “It is better to have a brief life full of what you enjoy doing rather than a long life spent miserably,” he’d tell me, his words echoing now with more poignancy.

John saw life as a tapestry of experiences—sleeping rough, not too rough, pursuing passions, and connecting with others. He didn’t judge. To him, life’s struggles were just part of the journey, something met with laughter and resilience. With John, shame had no place. He gave me confidence in something my parents had embedded semiconsciously; they couldn’t find words. John articulates the infinite story here, where you, me, them, us and nature dance among the stars. He told me that conventional success did not measure our worth, but the authenticity of our lived experiences did.

He was a proper person. He was one of the last few conscripted in the early1960s and found himself in the Grenadier guards. John’s father loved opera. And with his dad in mind, he welcomed the few times he went on stage with his platoon at the Royal Opera House in Covent Garden. Thanks, Guv. A little extra cash on the side will do Whiteley nicely. He would have worn that imposing black bearskin cap with a white plume made from horsehair on the left side, spick-and-span, standing tall, in the infamous red tunic, brass buttons spaced precisely, a ‘grenade fired’ on the collar, Royal cypher on his epaulettes, sparkling black boots, head to toe, proud to be in full regalia and proud to represent his dad.  

John loved tradition but told me he had doubts, dilemmas, and questions about the army. At some point, he decided he’d had enough and refused to get out of bed. The platoon sergeant stormed into the barracks. Ramrod-straight next to the bed.
Get up, Whiteley!, he barks.
John, still as a pin.
You hearing me, Whiteley?
No answer from the bed.
I said NOW, WHITLY! AND I MEAN NOW!!
Never mind the alias. John doesn’t budge.
I’m going to count to ten, Whiteley. If you’re not by your bed in the upright position facing me, I will have youcourt-marshalled, do you understand!!?
Not a dicky bird.
One…five, six… seven… eight… nine… ten, ATTENTION!!
From under the covers comes that soulful glance.In utter bewilderment, the sergeant caves. In all my days, he mumbles, leaning in. I’ve never known anything like this. What is it, Whiteley? Trouble at home? Girlfriend trouble?

John got detained. Imprisoned, I think. After his stint with the Guards, conscription ended. The same sergeant approached him as he was about to pass through the gates of Wellington Barracks for the last time. Well done, Whiteley, he said. Good luck with your life, son. Knowing you, you’ll be alright. They shook hands. Like all of us, it seems he’d enjoyed John’s company. There was respect. His sergeant might have got frustrated, but like all of us, I’d defy anyone getting genuinely annoyed with John.

Before being called up, he served his apprenticeship as painter and decorator; he knew how to gild gold leaf, cut in with the paintbrush, and line and lay wallpaper neat as any I’d known. He made wallpaper, infusing marbling patterns that became synonymous with the time. He was a decorator to the Stars, the best sought after by the likes of David Gilmour, David Bowie, Pete Postlethwaite, Storm Thorgerson, Aubrey Powell, Katharine Hamnett, etc. 

Our shared interests ran deep—we bonded over the philosophical writings of Alan Watts and Jiddu Krishnamurti, constantly questioning, always seeking. He and his lovely wife, June, found a derelict corn mill in Shropshire when Lena and I were looking for somewhere cheap to do up, a symbol of our shared dream of living differently and creating something meaningful.

Shropshire was an exceptional time for us. Woven in the spirit world, rummaging about in the material, bringing family and works of art to life from nature’s feast. Does anyone know if that bespoke latch is for sale? John Whiteley, help you out. It may take some time. He’s making some from that old oak that blew down in the gale. Pass through Wrentnall and ask anyone local for the cottage. If you’re lucky enough to be invited in, a nice cup of tea, some good cake and proper nice vibes by the fire.

As I write this, I hear his voice: “While you live, live.” And oh, how John lived. Not by society’s script but by his loud, imperfect, and wonderful melody.

I’m right here, John. You paved the way, and there go I.

*In loving memory of John Whiteley—a friend, a philosopher, a true original.*