So many fond memories of Charles, but one in particular stands out. It was 2004 and we were travelling together to the Welsh Lib Dem conference where he was due to give the set-piece address – he’d been given a 15 minute slot and his speech was to be broadcast live on Welsh TV.

Anna Werrin, his formidable adviser, who has also sadly since passed away, charged me with the task of writing some speaker notes with Charles on the train journey there since a speech had yet to be drafted. I cannot think why that was, but my abiding memory of his brilliant and engaging speech writer Greg Simpson was that he never had enough hours in the day to write all the speeches Charles delivered, so that probably explains it. At any rate the responsibility for having something scribbled down for Charles fell to me. I of course obliged, and was told in no uncertain terms to keep the office updated on the progress of the speech. I was not going to drop the ball on this one.

Aboard the train, as was the case then, we hunted out the smoking carriage. Charles sparked up the first of many of Silk Cut Silvers and I dare say it was accompanied by an equally insipid Diet Coke (his other great tipple. Really). I suggested, after a time, that we might scribble down some notes for him – after all Anna, I quivered, has insisted we jot down something. In fact it was not uncommon for those of us with Charles to be given these kind of instructions and it was always made clear it was not worth our lives not to push back. Charles suggested some lunch first. And so we ordered, lunch came and went, and then again I tried to cajole him into thinking about this speech. Again, no. By this time a call or two came from London, ‘Any update?’ I fudged ‘yep, few bits down, getting there’ and so on.

I decided with no real basis that perhaps addressing this again on terra firma would be a better option. We arrived at the conference with two hours to spare. The first hour was taken up with media engagements – sitting down with print or broadcast journalists during which Charles effortlessly riffed about one thing or another. An hour to go still – enough time to flesh out his speech. Good news – a room had been provided for us. But instead I was charged with finding a quiet place for us to have some ‘fresh air’ (a key attribute of any member of staff was to have a nose as to where the nearest emergency exit was, ideally somewhere private where he could have a fag unnoticed and uninterrupted). As a fellow smoker, my skills in this respect were – I prided myself – fairly well honed. We smoked, chatted, I kept hold of the notebook not too subtly, but the page remained blank.

We returned indoors – forty minutes still to go. He availed himself of the services. I went to our alloted room, ignored at least one call from the office, and got down to just writing something, anything. My neck was on the line. I was beginning to smell disaster – the full force of the Kennedy Office coming down on me when the one person responsible for this damned speech had not actually managed to write anything.

Charles arrived after what felt like a long delay – ‘just chatting to a few people Olly’. ‘I’ve written down some notes,’ I say ‘if you want to have a look’ I hopefully venture. I think he duly obliged and had the courtesy to read through them. Then a knock at the door – ‘Charles, we’d like you to come to the stage, still fifteen minutes left, but by the time we’ve walked there, a dab of make up – just want to ensure we can introduce you in good time.’

Despair. That’s it. Chance blown. Anna Werrin’s going to find the most hideous, slow, painful way she can think of to kill me. More missed calls, well, ignored calls – now it’s me that needs time to craft my best lines.

We stand together at the very back of the auditorium. I think from memory Alison Goldsworthy was giving the speech before him but I’m not really listening, I’m just contemplating my own impending doom. There’s a calm silence here in the darkness, the two of us stood at the back, overlooking the auditorium. Alison is wrapping up her speech. He turns to me. ‘I know you’ve been trying to help me with the speech. I know Anna wanted you to get me to note something down, but I’ve never given a conference speech without notes before. I just wanted to try it. Busk it. Just this once. See if I can.’ He smiles. That wry, cheeky, devious glint in his eye. He pats me on the back. His name booms over the PA system. A spotlight tracks him as he bounds down the stairs onto the stage, energised. Not a single note. No autocue. Nothing.

* Olly Kendall is a former media adviser to Charles Kennedy