Over the last few days I’ve had the painful task of sharing the news of Ali’s passing to people who first met him 25/30 years ago. The boys from school in Bath and our wider social circle, male and female, who first got to know him on various levels in our mid/late teens. Two reactions to the news have been unanimous. Everyone remembers him. And their instinctive response was to recall how kind he was.

This was an antidote to the combination of shock, injustice and sorrow that I felt when I first learned he was so sick, and then when the news that we all hoped might miraculously not come suddenly arrived.

Two or three decades on, we all know that kindness is the most important trait a person can offer to others. It’s not so obvious when you’re a teenager, when peer pressure, the desire for acceptance and to be cool can be overwhelming. But being kind was in Ali’s DNA. It always rose to the surface, prodigiously. And he was cool as well.

On a personal level, a significant proportion of my sixth form years were spent with Ali by my side - literally. We shared classes for two of our three A-Levels over that two-year period and sat together for pretty much every lesson.

Aside from his kindness, the other two qualities that stand out all these years later are his sense of humour and his charm.

We were lucky that the same things made us laugh. Copiously. Forming a bond with someone who suffers uncontrollable giggles with you in the classroom, which nobody else can quite explain, is inevitable. This, combined with our shared studying of A-Level English, resulted in us developing similar tastes in movies, TV, comedy and more.

The one thing it didn’t extend to was football. The only time I didn’t want to sit anywhere near him on a Monday morning was when Spurs won 2-1 at Anfield in 1995 to knock Liverpool out of the FA Cup. But we sat together anyway. It was tough.

Reflecting on how charming he was, a couple of examples shine brightly. When I heard that he had passed away I was staying with my parents for a few days. I told them the news and they didn’t need to be reminded about him.

Growing up, Ali’s family home was as close to the edge of the school catchment area as possible. Resultantly, he often stayed at our house after weekend nights out in Bath. And my parents - not fully aware of how heavy some of those nights were - remember how unfailingly polite, well-mannered and engaging he was. He consistently put their hungover son to shame on that score.

Ten years later, we found ourselves at the wedding of Sundus and Phil. Phil is another schoolfriend of ours and he and Ali shared a flat in London in their early/mid-20s. I took my girlfriend along. The only people she knew properly at the wedding were the Bride and Groom and the Best Man, who was me. And we were all on another table.

She was apprehensive but found herself sitting next to Ali. He took care of her, took an interest in her, told her some terrible stories about me and made her laugh. He made the entire afternoon a memorable one for her. He also laughed at my speech more than he needed to. That was Ali through and through.

Although it now seems nowhere near enough, I am so pleased that Ali and I exchanged some messages in the weeks before he passed. I told him how fondly my parents remembered him and how much I enjoyed those days at school and the occasions since when we spent time together. We talked about going to Spurs in August. I’d sorted tickets for him and Felix. I can’t bear to think about it now.

For me and many of the boys, Ali made school and beyond a much happier and more interesting place. Kate, Felix and his family must be so proud of him. I’m proud that I knew him.