Matthew Perry, the Man I Never Knew

When I was asked to write about the life and death of Matthew Perry, one question struck me:

Who was Matthew Perry?

He was an actor. He was a writer. He was a son. He was an addict.

He was a man.

He was born in Massachusetts — like so many other people — in a little place called Williamstown.

Perhaps now they will rename it Matthewstown. By God, they should.

Somehow, he always felt like a friend. Even if you didn’t know him. Even if you’d never met him. Even if you’d never spoken to him. Even if you’d barely watched him.

That’s just who he was.

We all loved him in Friends. I’m not sure who my favourite character was, but Chandler was definitely in the top six.

Among the leading men of Friends, he sort of reminded me of myself — by which I mean I know I’m not handsome and charismatic like Joey, and I hope I’m not a whiny little bitch like Ross.

Yet Perry had a dark side. “How you doin’?” That’s what Joey used to say on Friends. But did we ever stop to think about how the actors were doing?

It was disturbing to see Perry in the Friends reunion in 2021. He looked almost twenty years older than he had done when the series had finished in 2004.

Perry in happier times, when he was alive

I don’t know a lot about addiction. I’ve never been addicted to anything, I don’t know any addicts well and I’m not aux fait with the relevant literature. Still, I know life can be hard for tortured geniuses caught up in the whirlwind of fame. I should do — I’ve used the words “tortured genius caught up in the whirlwind of fame” in articles about everyone from Truman Capote, to Kurt Cobain, to Mark from SMart.

In his time, Perry was addicted to alcohol, Vicodin, methadone, amphetamines and ketamine. Once, he was so ill that his colon burst. I’m mentioning the burst colon to illustrate the scale of his addiction and not because “burst colon” sounds so damn sensational, by the way.

Perry died as he often lived — in a hot tub. But what else had been bubbling in his life?

Had he relapsed? We cannot know. We can only laboriously insinuate.

Perhaps he didn’t love himself enough. Or perhaps he just loved drugs too much. Or perhaps drugs were a replacement for the love that someone else didn’t give him? Either way, I’m sure that love was involved. And drugs.

Could I be any more sad to see him go?

He was only 54 — 23 years below the average male lifespan in the USA. Still, it’s the double of lifespan of people in the 27 Club. So that’s something at least.

If he’s up there, I’m sure he’s looking down with a twinkle his eye — and I bet he’s raising a coffee mug as well.

Ben Sixsmith’s new memoir Beer and Back Pain: My Wacky Life As A Geriatric Millennial was called “rollicking good fun” by a reviewer in this newspaper.