Rememberance of a Friend

Perhaps it is due to this current blue funk I find myself in as a result of a battle between good and evil being played out on/in my tonsils, but my mind turns today to the anniversary of a friends passing shortly before I left A-Town for Sin City those few years ago. I'm not a sentimental sort, and I have not the characteristics to dwell on these things annually. However, it does amuse me to recount the interesting folk who I have stumbled across in the past.

Christened with the name Phillip, Phil as he preferred to be known was introduced to me at a party being thrown by a friend of the brother of the uncle of the workmate of the plumber of my then on-off girlfriends hairdresser (but I can't be sure that I've got that completely right, it may have been her pedicurist). Phil was by his own confession "Bent as a $3 note" and proved the point by attending the party with his partner Frank, a humourless and dour Frenchman that Phil explained he found in a seedy bar outside Toulouse and swapped a pocketful of magic beans for.

To really describe Phil is an impossibility. Eccentric is one way. Mad is another. Probably one of the smartest and cleverest people I've ever met should also be thrown into the mix. He worked in the industry of finance, a surprising area of endeavour considering his character. To say he was financially wealthy was an understatement, but not obviously so. He and Frank lived in a small neat house, he drove a small neat car and usually could be found wearing old jeans and cheap t-shirts. Visiting his abode, it was inexpensively furnished. But there were tell-tale signs:

- He always wore an expensive suit to work. In fact, "expensive" doesn't quite explain it. As was revealed to me by Frank, the suits were handmade in Milan with the finest materials by a chap who only made suits for those he invited to the priviledge. It was suggested that for the price of each of these suits you could purchase a good car and he always seemed to have a healthy rotation of them.
- He was a regular traveller and I mean ridiculously regular, with adventures to far flung places occurring every few weeks. Snippets of information concerning what he accomplished on these journeys will hopefully someday be published.

Phil had peculiar habits. Every meal I attended at his house included his favourite side dish, a type of caramelised garlic turnip creation. I never really knew exactly what it was and wasn't terribly keen on it. He frequently proclaimed that no meal was complete without it. He also swore a lot. Now some may say this is a sign of a limited vocabulary, but his control upon diction was extraordinary. The result was a masterful use of vulgar language, intelligent and bitingly witty. The conclusion of these meals always ended with him drawing a tot of sherry from an amazing wooden cask perched upon a shelf in the kitchen. The cask was carved with intricate scene's of Greek mythology, beautiful workmanship. Attached to one side was a black metal sillhouette of a lady in what could only be described as a compromising position. The cask had been discovered on one of his trips to Germany and was apparently made by a man who is currently in an asylum.

Phil spoke French (for the purpose of insulting Frank mainly) and Latin (for the purpose of insulting humanity generally), but it was his grasp of the English language that enthralled me. He mercilessly tormented me on my feeble endeavours in romantic pursuits, clearly pointing out where I was going wrong and techniques to rescue particular situations, all designed to be useless and create hilarity. He in turn liked nothing better than to have people attempt to playfully insult him resulting in a comic banter that frequently would have me in stitches.

His ability to attract women was the stuff of legend. He told me he only once slept with a lady, and found the experience "simply not the cut of his jib". I always felt it was a little deceptive the way he flirted with women, and I'm sure many a heart was broken when they discovered the truth about his orientation. However, I hope also they enjoyed spending time with someone who ensured they were treated to princess-like standards when in his company.

There was a dark side however to my friend. Albeit privately, he was a drug user and I was constantly amazed at his ability to keep the negative affects of his addiction from interferring with his more impressive activities. I must admit, I've never been too fond of the drug culture and would generally choose not to spend much time with people who indulge heavily in the pastime. Phil perhaps represented the one exception.

I fell out of touch with him a few years before transiting across the border, and it was an email from Frank that had me seeing again my friend. The situation was a rather unhappy one, as Phil was in hospital. When I walked into his ward and found him, there lay a feeble and gaunt shadow of his former self. He was heavily drugged up but when I sat down he looked across and said, "Where the fuck have you been?" with a broad grin. It was difficult to have a discussion, as the drugs were making him rather incomprehensible. I asked him what the cause of his condition was and he answered, "Just a dose of death, Dan, nothing serious". Five days later the dose completed the task.

The funeral was a simple affair but well attended. I saw no sign of family, only friends. A distraught Frank explained his intentions to return to France and I've not seen nor heard of him since. Although there was much wailing and emotion, I find funerals a rather peaceful and solemn affair. I was certainly sad that I wouldn't get the chance to see Phil again and have him laugh at the details of my love life, but I was glad I had the opportunity to know him at all.

Phil passed away at the age of 43.