We were honoured to say a few words at Pete’s funeral on Tuesday 6th January, 2026.
These are not just my thoughts and memories, but I’m speaking on behalf of the many customers, musicians, and staff at The Red Lion, whose lives have all been positively impacted — in some cases utterly transformed — by Pete Hodge.
He wrote in his “Slightly Optimistic Song”, “Sing a happy song. Even when you’re not. Just pause and look around at all you’ve got.”
And looking around this room, this afternoon, look at all Pete had. Look at the love in his life, the joy he brought, to so many people.
But that’s not something Pete found by chance. It wasn’t luck. It’s the world he created.
Every one of you here today cared about Pete, was touched by him, had your life bettered by his presence. Some of you are musicians and artists he helped, some even became musicians and artists entirely because of him. We each now have a void in our life. And we’ll find time to mourn that void in the weeks, months, and years to come. But this is a day to celebrate our dear friend.
Every now and then, a musician would come into the pub on a weekday afternoon with a guitar, and plonk themselves in the corner. Then Pete would wander in and work through a few songs with them. Giving guidance, advice, encouragement. He would never patronise, never judge, never belittle, and never expect anything in return.
The most beautiful thing he’s given us all is not just the individual support and friendship he shared so freely, but actually, the fact that Pete’s legacy is in no way a fixed, nor limited, entity.
He’s passed on an approach, an attitude, a way of life. We have musicians playing in the pub now who Pete nurtured from nervous newcomers through to confident performers and recording artists — and I watch those very people continue his legacy as they now help even-newer, even-younger, even-more nervous, musicians find their way. One of the things I’m proudest of at The Red Lion is the mutual support, engendered by people like Pete.
The ripples of Pete’s impact will continue for generations to come, as musician influences musician, friend supports friend. There will be people in the future who have never even heard of Pete Hodge (although we’ll do our best to tell them), but their lives, their music, their art, will be better for his existence. Now thatis a legacy tobe proud of.
The last conversation I had with Pete was a couple of weeks before he died. A musician was playing a gig at the pub, covering a song I’d written, a new experience for me, and a hugely emotional one. Pete caught my eye and noticed how I was feeling, and said “It feels good, doesn’t it?”. He took such pride in his work, his instruments, his ideas being shared, and he recognised how it felt.
He’d listen to music so carefully and considerately, with his hand cupped around his ear — in my early days I’d occasionally check he was awake. But he just cared.
Ironically, there was one instrument he could never master. In fact he was bloody awful at it — in spite of all our help, and patient tuition, Pete never learned the art of blowing his own trumpet.
He would be in his element writing and recording an album, but then have to be strongarmed into actually publicising, or selling, it. We’d have a launch party at the pub, and he’d be bemused by the idea that people cared. For Pete the pleasure was in the creation, the collaboration, the journey. The friends you make along the way.
Pete always thought that life was what you wanted it to be; he literally wrote that in “Country Life”, a song brimming with the existential positivity he lived by. He would generally arrive at the pub on his own, but never in a lonely way. The Red Lion was his sanctuary, but never in an escapist way. He’d turn up late to a jam night, but everyone would stay longer — and happier — for it; people packing away their guitars would suddenly remember one more song they wanted to play. He was normally the best musician in the room, but you could never tell him that, and there was no chance he’d ever admit it.
We’d occasionally send him home with wine-stained lips, and perhaps a slight wobble, and I’m sorry for that, Brenda. Although not that sorry. He did move to elderflower cordial more recently, but always objected to how little he was spending on it, because the one thing he wanted to do was support us.
Today, we’ll be singing a lot of happy songs, even if we’re not. And we’ll pause and look around, at all we’ve got.
See you matey.
