23/03/2026
R.I.P. MARTYN BUTLER
I was shocked to read in last week’s "The Week" that Martyn Butler had died—and that it was national news. It was only the unusual spelling of “Martyn” that made me look him up, just in case it was the same Martyn I’d known so well in the 1990s. It was.
Martyn was a huge part of my life at a time when everything was just beginning. Quite simply, I would never have had the “career” I went on to have—five years as a resident DJ at the biggest nightclub in Europe, followed by work at a record label as a dance music producer—without his belief in me, his encouragement, and his relentless promotion when I was starting out.
He ran Horizon Laser Systems, supplying the lasers at Heaven nightclub, and was behind some iconic moments—like projecting the clock onto Canary Wharf Tower on New Year’s Eve in the 90s. But what I didn’t know, and only discovered now, was his role as a co-founder of the Terrence Higgins Trust, and that he was awarded an OBE for his work there. That was Martyn all over—capable of extraordinary things, and yet never one to boast about them.
He came to my very first DJ night with his boyfriend. It was a scrappy little gig I’d blagged at The London Apprentice in Hoxton—10pm to 2am on a Monday night. I was still working full-time as a Marketing Systems Engineer, relying on a very understanding boss (another great man who always encouraged me) to survive the following mornings. Despite a small mention in Time Out, the crowd that first night was… modest. About 16 people.
Two of them stood out. One was Bronski Beat lead singer Jimmy Somerville, who came over to say he liked the music. The other was Martyn, who introduced himself by offering to design posters to help promote the night. I had to tell him I couldn’t afford it—and honestly, doubted posters would make much difference on a Monday night anyway.
He told me I was a good DJ, gave me his business card and urged me to stay in touch, and then—true to form—he became a regular every Monday. The night didn’t last long, but Martyn’s support did.
At the time, I had no idea he worked at Heaven looking after their laser lights. When he suggested I apply there, I dismissed it out of hand—I’d never even been, and had written it off as not my kind of place (it was widely regarded as an expensive tourist trap). So then he set his sights on getting me into The Market Tavern, a bar with a small dance floor and free entrance, and one of my favourite venues. He managed to blag me a Friday night trial. The dancefloor was packed, it felt like a success. When the bar manager paid me he said "Oh. You'll definitely be back". I wasn't! As Martyn relayed it, after pushing the owner who hadn't been there, a stand-in manager had taken a dislike to me for some reason so despite my popularity with the crowd nothing came of it. Martyn kept pushing.
Next, he dragged me to the Paradise Club in Islington—a struggling Saturday night in a venue that could hold 1,000 people but barely pulled in 120. The DJ couldn’t mix, and the music wasn’t exactly inspiring. I pitched myself to the managers and got knocked back immediately. I was deflated. Martyn, however, was just getting started.
“Right,” he said. “We need a proper package.”
What followed was pure Martyn—ideas, energy, and just enough chaos to make things happen. I made a mix tape and wrote a sample newsletter. He designed a logo, posters, and a full-colour sleeve. He even came up with the name: Pulse. My friend Will White took a publicity photo. The newsletter became Prime Cuts, which eventually found its way into record shops across the country.
And it worked. Because we presented a total package for taking over the night instead of saying "Give me a job as a DJ" I got the gig. And that was mostly down to Martyn.
Martyn was a scallywag in the best and worst senses of the word. He always had something on the go—sometimes brilliant, sometimes questionable—and he could talk his way into (and occasionally out of) almost anything. I remember sitting in his tiny, run-down flat late one night working on a design for the newsletter for the club when an HMRC officer turned up, loudly demanding payment of overdue taxes. Martyn simply told him, “I’m busy with a client,” shut the door, and carried on as if nothing had happened.
He was also endlessly resourceful. When I went freelance, he introduced me to Keith Raffan—still my accountant and someone who became a very good friend. When I needed a computer, he just happened to sell them. (It arrived loaded with software I hadn’t asked for and quickly removed—thankfully, as that later caused some trouble when he split with his partner who contacted all the software companies detailing who had the illegal software installed) When my scanner broke, he connected me with Alan Purnell, who lived just down the road, suggested I give him a mix tape as "thanks", not letting on he was the technical manager at Heaven, a move which ended up helping me secure a try-out at Heaven… which turned into a residency.
None of that would have happened without Martyn.
We lost touch when his business collapsed and he moved away to rebuild his life after bankruptcy and the death of a close family member. In hindsight, I wish I’d done more to stay in touch, to return even a fraction of the support he gave me. But life moves on, as it does.
Seeing that he later received an OBE suggests he found his way back, as I always suspected he would. Martyn had that kind of resilience.
When I look back, many of the best years of my life—the excitement, the opportunities, the sheer joy of it all—can be traced back to him.
God bless you, Martyn.
I like to think that somewhere, even now, you’re designing something spectacular—lighting up the sky one more time.
Leading the tributes are Martyn’s brother Guy Hewett, former British Lions captain Gareth Thomas CBE, Health Secretary Rt Hon Wes Streeting MP, Welsh Health Secretary Jeremy Miles MS, local MP Jessica Morden, Tony Whitehead MBE, the inaugural chair of Terrence Higgins Trust and Richard Angell O...
