For You

This morning was starting like any other Monday when the ground fell out from beneath me. 

An old friend was calling me, here in Adelaide, from our home town in the UK. I assumed it was an accidental call, they often are because my name begins with A and is at the top of many contact lists. I declined it and rubbed the sleep from my eyes, getting ready to get out of bed. What time was it in the UK anyway? 11pm? Must be around 11pm. But they called again and slowly my brain registered that there is no good reason for a persistent call like this, there is never a good reason for a late night/early morning unexpected call with this kind of perseverance. Sadly I have known this feeling previously in the last 12 months. It is a distinctly unnerving and baffling and sickening realisation that something is dreadfully wrong, and whilst you do not want to answer this call and surrender to the pain it likely contains, you absolutely must.

I answered it. 

Gilo. John. Stretch. The names you go by. I cannot bring myself to say ‘went’. Not yet.

I know I am in shock. I had to drive 5 minutes down the road this morning, directly after receiving the news, I cannot remember getting in the car, let alone the journey. I can’t keep my mind on anything, you were 41 and you deserved so much better than this. I am forever thankful to our mutual friend in the UK who diligently called those that you were close to and broke the hideous news first hand and listened to me make guttural noises of horror and said comforting things while he was also in shock, having found you, having had to process a scene none of us should have to see. Then I had to break the news to my oldest, bestest friend who is also here in Australia and see the shock and horror register with her too.

I am writing because it is the only way I know to process shock and pain and you understand that, I know you do, because you have a keen appreciation for the written word. You have often talked to me about my blog, my writing, and you took my entire library of classic literature, acquired over many years, off my hands when I moved to Australia, determined to give them a good home - you were delighted to take ownership of a curated and treasured collection and I was equally happy to entrust them to your care. I wonder how many you had read.

It is fair to say I am angry. Angry at the world because the COVID situation right now allowed you to slip away unnoticed for days, angry at you because you clearly were not looking after yourself and so many of us saw that you needed to and tried to encourage that, and failed (which makes me angry at myself). Angry that for the second time in a month the physical distance and global fucking pandemic will prevent me saying a proper goodbye to someone who mattered and had influence on my life. You mattered very much, and I wish I had told you that more often.

I met you when I was a rambunctious teenager, around 1997. You were part of the group I fell in with during sixth form college and you were memorable from the start. Mainly because you are so much taller than me, at least a foot and a half. That is why there is a whole raft of people who know you as Stretch. I have always known you as Gilo, a name you allegedly acquired due to a jacket you wore in primary school which somehow spawned a completely random nickname that stuck, in the way that random childhood nicknames often do with your school friends. I have never called you John.

There was a moment, cemented in the early history of our friendship, which we often laughed about as adults and could never quite forget. I have no idea now what nonsense led to it, but you are literally the only person in my life who has (quasi-accidentally) knocked me clean out with a perfect six inch punch to the jaw. And you were horrified about it, absolutely mortified, though I thought it was hilarious - and I never missed an opportunity to rib you about it in the many years since. It is ironic as you are, in fact, one of the most pacifistic and gentle people I have ever known, a genuine gentle giant. You care far too much about everyone around you and gave tirelessly to coaching kids (who clearly adored you) in trampolining, in your free time, for years. You gave your time and energy willingly and without a second thought to all of your friends. You helped me move house on more than one occasion and have been a shoulder to cry on through all kinds of drama over the years. I know that whatever I asked of you, you would have given - and there are many people in my life and in my various circles for whom I cannot say that with any certainty.

Social media has helped me today to look at photos from across the 23 years that you have been in my life; of parties, weddings, New Years Eve and Christmases, multiple occasions where we have drunk and danced and reminisced and laughed. You never think it will be the last time you say goodbye to someone important until it already was. I am so incredibly thankful that I saw you in February, when you met me for a drink despite the fact you had had two major bereavements in the space of a week, that I got to hug and comfort you for a change. In recent years you had remained part of an increasingly smaller circle of people that we always catch up with when back in the UK and I hope you know that is because you mattered. 

It meant so very much to Stu and I that you attended his Dad, your work colleague’s, funeral in late 2016. On a personal note, your quiet strength and the calm that you brought were incredibly welcome on such a difficult day and it resonated with us that you made the effort, not just to support us but to pay your own respects. I remember you holding me up, physically and emotionally, at the wake, when the gravity of the situation became too much - stepping in without being asked, to provide comfort and reassurance, because that’s what you do. It is simply second nature for you to catch people when they fall and I am so sorry that nobody was there to catch you when you really, really needed it. 

Grief is a heartless and relentless master and one with whom we all dance increasingly often as we get older. I am not sure any of us get better at dealing with it, we just become more resolved to the fact it is unavoidable. I know you were dancing your own tango with her when you left, and if I can take any comfort whatsoever from this deeply sad situation it is that you are released from it. 

Know that you mattered and will never be forgotten, know that people are reeling at your loss and treasuring their memories of you and who you were and all you gave to your friends and family. That in a year of absolutely dreadful events and sustained heartache, globally, you leaving is equally significant and still sending ripples across the fabric of those who loved you, such was the depth of your influence. May you truly rest in the peace you deserve, my friend.