We lost one of the greats this weekend - Sir Henry Hot. If you’ve ever had your face blown off at Arcadia; shat your pants as the fireball shockwave slams – then you go way back with him. He was a gentleman to all that knew him, a legend to thousands and completely mad in all the best ways. Unassumingly brilliant, quietly subversive and a fiery supernova, Henry always had the naughtiest of twinkles in his eye. A rebel to his bones, he channeled that anarchic half smile of his into full throttle creative mayhem. He wasn't a flame guy, he wasn't an SFX guy, he wasn't the guy local cows needed sunglasses to look directly at... No, he was Sir Henry Hot and damn did he own that title. No doubt he's at the Pearly Gates right now - St Peter offering him an upgrade from Sir Henry to St. Henry... as long as he builds Heaven a flame system that'll make Hell look like a stuttering Zippo. We knew him as a genius, a brother in arms, a mentor and a rock. No-one who’s been within 5 miles of the Glastonbury festival in the last 10 years will forget the visceral rush of his flames. Neither will fire chiefs in cities across the world – each having fought, then come to terms with the precision safety of his thunderous explosions. Our love goes out to his family – to his wife Barbara and his crew, Bernd and Klaus. Next time you see a shooting star – that’ll be Henry showing the universe how it’s done. RIP Hinrich Joachims. AKA Sir Henry Hot. 1954 - 2021