But in 1998 Sutch died by his own hand, approaching 60 lonely, broke and depressed, still grinding the motorways to crummy rock'n'roll gigs, his private life in endless confusion. Graham Sharpe, who knew Sutch well for nearly 30 years, has now written the first biography of this enigmatic and singular man - an odd Zelig-figure who cropped up in everyone's life, but only as a larky bit-part, and who eventually found his life stalled in an endless Groundhog Day of superficiality and display. Sharpe's book is an affecting, sometimes shocking portrait of someone everyone has heard of, but hardly anyone knew.