This has been such a sad time thinking about Sean, who died too soon this month at the age of 51.
My memories of him are a mixed bag of happiness and frustration, jumbled up in a pint glass of nostalgia and fun. It's hard to pin down my feelings about Sean - he was a uniquely frustrating yet exquisitely endearing companion.
I first met him in the early 2000's when I produced his BBC3 music show, Inside Tracks with Sean Hughes. Like most younger people kicking around in the 1990's, I was aware of Sean from his time on Never Mind the Buzzcocks, where he invariably came across on screen as a sharp-witted and charming rogue. The Sean I got to know was exactly that, but his cheeky, boyish persona was just one aspect of a far more complex man.
On a personal level I found him charming. But Sean, bless him, was a tricky little bugger when it came to work. I don't have space to write a novel so let's just say he was a world-class moaner.
Difficult, yes. High-maintenance, absolutely. But Sean was rarely unthoughtful. And in the many years I knew him he often showed a particularly gentle side.
"Take care" he used to say as his goodbye. And he meant it.
Free from potential conflict, it was in the more solitary pursuit of stand-up that he could really shine. It's not so hard for a happy person to make others happy. But alone on that stage, Sean's undoubted talent enabled him to quite brilliantly turn his private pain into other people's pleasure.
Away from work, I had always bloody loved the guy. Whenever we got together for an evening on the town, I would see Sean light up with a look in his eyes spelling 'Uh Oh: Here Comes Trouble.' And I adored seeing that look and encouraging a lighter side to him, because, while he had his moments, Sean's default setting was sombre.
At heart, Sean was a vulnerable, introspective and deeply sensitive soul, disposed to feeling profoundly disappointed with life's imperfections and stung with an intellect that disabled him from enjoying the more mundane and superficial.
But I guess Sean's troubled make-up was precisely why I enjoyed his company so much - in some kind of weird role-reversal, I relished making Sean laugh, knowing he was more inclined to sadness than joy.
He was a challenge, and the rewards to see him smile were so much greater.
Certainly, Sean had his darker moments and would despair at any perceived mediocrity, both in myself and in others. Music, comedy, Crystal Palace FC and his beloved dog Bill gave him solace, but I would often struggle to keep him from feeling disaffected.
I remember after staying at his home in Crouch End, Sean sweetly walked me to the tube station with Bill in tow. And as we left his huge house I felt a guilty sigh of relief that I could go back to my shitty little flat to be on my own, but still feel happy with my lot.
Back then Sean had a string of casual girlfriends and would constantly worry about his inability to settle down. He would always quiz me about my own chaotic love-life, and express dread at growing old alone.
A couple of years after we'd finished working together we arranged a drinking session in Soho where, on seeing me reply to a text, Sean asked me how many close friends I had.
"I dunno", I replied. "About 20."
"That's too many", he said. "You should only have five."
As I've become older I don't think he was too far off the mark, but at the time I found his words unsettling. Sean went on to tell me how he culled people from his phone, purging those who he considered to have fallen short.
"Dead wood" he called them, and I shivered. Sean was so uncompromising and his standards set so impossibly high that I knew I couldn't fail to eventually disappoint him.
I had little contact with him for a few years and then called him.
"Who's this?" he asked.
I too had become one of the deleted. Sean insisted I was not, but he was just being kind. Fair play, I would've probably deleted me back then.
I still met up with him at the Edinburgh Fringe. It was 2009. A long time had passed and I was a little shocked to see that the thin, gangly Sean I had known from the early years had developed a noticeably bloated stomach and tired, puffy eyes. He seemed weary and downbeat but threw me a smile.
I looked at Sean, saw all his foibles and then kissed him on the cheek and thought to myself, 'Fuck you Sean, I can't believe I'm always so happy to see you.'
But instead I just said, "Pint of Guinness?"