I walked down Upper Gardner Street in Brighton on Saturday and it reminded me of Harry Cowley who used to run the street market there.

It’s 50 years since Harry’s death and one of the biggest funerals ever held in Brighton.

Upper Gardner Street has been largely untouched by the extravagant eccentricity that has become a trademark of the North Laine area.

It is still slightly drab and the Saturday market has some secondhand clothes for sale that you would only consider buying if you were really hard up.

Harry sold used furniture there in the 1920s. Although the market was owned by Brighton Council, in practice it was a free for all with traders fighting each other to secure the best pitches.

Fed up with this commercial anarchy, Harry persuaded the council to issue fixed pitches and it delegated the task to him. For many years Harry ran the market in a tough but honest way and few traders dared to cross him.

Harry was a curious figure in the town. He never belonged to either of the main political parties or became a councillor and he simply fought for the principles he thought were right.

He did a lot of good in Brighton but he was no angel. He got involved in fights, sometimes took money for himself and dispensed justice which was often rough.

A chimney sweep by trade, he was instantly recognisable by the bowler hat he wore on most occasions. People called him the Guvnor because had a natural air of authority.

It was hard to define, but this working class man with no credentials was a powerful figure with surprising charisma. If you listened to Harry you would learn a lot.

As a young man, Harry fought in the First World War. Like many colleagues, he was told they would have homes fit for heroes once the conflict ended. When it became clear that far from being awarded these special houses, they would often get nothing at all, many men accepted it with a resigned shrug.

But Harry was outraged on their behalf. He assembled a fearsome body of men called the Vigilantes and known as his boys. They forced their way into empty council houses and installed homeless families in them.

When even the police started to turn a blind eye to this practice, Harry had won the first of his famous battles.

His rallying cry was: “It don’t come right to me.” It was uttered every time he spotted an injustice.

He was on the side of the underdog during the cruel years between the world wars when families often came close to starving. By staging popular events and concerts, he was usually able to help in the worst cases and ensure every child received a much needed Christmas present.

Later he turned his attention to pensioners, believing they were the hidden victims of poverty.

Harry was a fast mover and often completed his missions before the targets realised anything had happened. People asked him why he didn’t look before he leaped. His reply was: “While I’m looking I’m losing...”

His wife Harriet was deeply involved in his crusading as well as holding down a full-time job and looking after their modest home.

Fascists were active in Brighton between the wars, especially the Blackshirts led by Sir Oswald Mosley. Harry was severely beaten up, once breaking a leg so badly he was off work for eight months. His house was also attacked and stoned.

But he got his own back. With other anti-Fascists including Councillor Lewis Cohen, he secreted two boys into the Dome concert hall before Mosley was due to speak there. As Mosley reached the conclusion of his speech, the boys drowned out his voice with loud music. Harry was not afraid to take on big issues.

He was concerned when three men were found guilty of murdering a retired chemist. The men lost their appeal but two days before they were due to be hanged they were reprieved. It was widely believed in Brighton that Harry’s intervention had saved their lives but unusually no one was ever willing to talk about it.

The Vigilantes were reformed briefly after he Second World War but generally Harry’s influence declined as most people became more prosperous.

Harry joined the Liberals for a time but found them too effete for his liking. The last time I saw him was at a meeting of modern day squatters in the Sixties and he knew he had nothing in common with them. Only a few weeks later he died.

The funeral was huge and many members of the great and good attended even though they had not always been on the same side as him.

On the coffin was a set of sweeps’ brushes in flowers and a bowler hat. And we all knew that we would never see his like again.