Friends gather for funeral of Helston musician Dave Sugarbeet

Friends fundraised to give the blues violinist - who died from cancer just two days before his 70th birthday - a proper send off, raising more than £3,200.

They have now gathered to pay their respects in a service at Penmount Crematorium, with friend Jonathon Xavier Coudrille saying afterwards: "The ceremony was lighthearted and loving, full of thanks for a wonderful life."

A key part of the funeral was a eulogy written by Dave's lifelong friend Nigel Trevena and read by Jonathan, to laughter and tears from mourners.

Nigel recalled how, having met Dave at the age of six at primary school, they shared a similar background, with both their fathers recently returned from the war.

"I was that most miserable of objects - a solitary new boy at a strange school. Dave was an old hand of at least a year and broke the ice by showing me his new Dinky Toy, which so excited me that I had a trouser incident and was sent home," said Nigel.

Recalling years of hero-worshipping Porthleven Dam Buster leader Guy Gibson, craving new protective weaponry from Eddy's Toy Shop and and hunting The Giant Heffalump in an abandoned Jeep, they were parted in 1959 when Nigel's family moved to Camelford - only for a reunion in 1965 when a subsequent new home in Camborne meant Nigel could travel to Helston to finish his education.

They both spent years in London, with Nigel writing: "Over the decades we grew our hair, hung out at rock gigs and, whenever within feet of each other, drink was taken.

"We parted and re-united, separated for many years by my own ill health. Spiritually though, we were brothers. He was always there, even when he wasn’t. That’s a difficult trick, but he could manage it - perhaps he still can - because Dave was one of life’s treasures - someone unlike anyone else. A one-off. "

He paid tribute to Dave's "needle-sharp wit" and humour that carried him through his illness, along with "sheer guts." Nigel said: "I learned during our 1956 water pistol battles that Dave was brave. He remained so to the end."

Finishing his tribute to the "brother he never had," Nigel wrote: "It hasn’t sunk in yet. I can’t believe he's gone. The world has changed. Certain people are irreplaceable, not because they are angelic, but because they are unique; not because they have accrued wealth or fame but because they are unlike anyone else. For me, the loss is simple and it is devastating. It is the end of that most precious of things....childhood."

Soon, at the brand new primary, we shared a desk and our friendship deepened. His dad was our form master, whacking us with a ruler as required, bellowing with laughter when we amused him. We drew battleships and Spitfires, read Eagle and Jennings Goes To School, hero-worshipped Guy Gibson VC - and fancied our classmate Karen Marner without knowing why. We watched ice-white V-bombers wheel in the cloudless blue sky at Culdrose Air Day. In an abandoned Jeep we hunted The Giant Heffalump - to the best of my recollection we never found it. We spent hours at the station, where steam locos puffed and shrieked, trucks clanked and the eternal two-coach branch train from Gwinear Road rumbled in under the road bridge.

Recalling continued: "This being an unremarkable English market town, Dave and I were, of course, heavily armed at all times. Lone Star pistols in holsters flapped against our grubby knees, I shouldered a plastic repeating rifle and Dave sliced the air with a wooden sword. We craved new weaponry in the wonderland that was Eddy’s Toy Shop and gaped in awe at Hornby Dublo locomotives and new Corgi Toys cars which, astonishingly, had windows.

Occasionally, bitter warfare erupted and our cap pistols blazed. No matter how many times I filled him full of holes Dave refused to die - a practice known as ‘not taking your shots’. Myself, I loved clutching myself and falling over, shouting ‘He got me!’ - just like the bad guys on the TV Westerns. I still do it occasionally.

And then - real disaster. In 1959, just into our first grammar school year, Dave and I were parted. My family moved to Camelford and we lost touch. But it wasn’t meant to last and it didn’t - in 1965-6, from my new home in Camborne I bussed in to Helston to finish my schooldays with Dave. Within minutes, all the old gags, stories and sense of the absurd were again in full flow. Our appearance had changed - disconcertingly - but the boyhood chums’ minds still met and our hearts still beat as one. It was Part 2 and this time beer and ladies were on the menu: not for us, of course, we were too busy laughing at everyone else. And hiding, obviously.

I left for a London job in 1966: another parting - as Dave stayed behind to resit an A level. But the thread had been reinstated and now, for rest of one life at least it would never be broken again. Dave hit London a year later and Part 3 began.

Over the decades we grew our hair, hung out at rock gigs and, whenever within feet of each other, drink was taken. We parted and re-united, separated for many years by my own ill health. Spiritually though, we were brothers. He was always there, even when he wasn’t. That’s a difficult trick, but he could manage it - perhaps he still can - because Dave was one of life’s treasures - someone unlike anyone else. A one-off.

He was also the funniest person I have ever known. And, I am sure, it was that needle-sharp wit, the poke at the absurd, and that self-effacing sense of humour which sustained him through his big fight with a big illness. Plus, of course, sheer guts. I learned during our 1956 water pistol battles that Dave was brave. He remained so to the end.

Folk say: ‘ Oh, that chap’s like my cousin - or that bloke remains me of him off the telly.’ No one - NO ONE - ever said that about Dave Phillips.

My memories of him, boy and man, are of the brother I never had, the feed to my gags, my reminder of character in an increasingly bland and politically correct world. Like me, he was sensitive enough to realise right from the start that the world is a tough old place. Dave taught me the power of humour, showed me how it dismantles a threat or dissolves the pain. Without his insight into laughter and his unfailing wit, right back to the age of six, I might not have made it through. For that alone, I am forever in his debt.

From Dinky Toys to drunks, from school book doodles to trying to roll a Ford Cortina, from cap pistols to electric guitars. It’s all done now. A journey ended. My world and that of his scores of friends is depleted. I am so sorry, Dave that you didn’t make it through.

And so I turn away from my computer, blinded by tears.

Say hello to your mum and dad for me and see you again one day. We had our 64 years together on Earth: next time we meet, my dear Dave, our friendship will be eternal.

With love and respect, from Nigel

Jonathon Xavier Coudrille One of a kind and, the bravest of the brave.