Phil Parslow
I first met Guy in 1991. My house mate had been out at Razor Club, and dragged a few people back to our digs in Nth Fitzroy. When I saw a nightclub-weary Guy in my lounge room that morning, I reckon a smile of recognition must have crept on to my face. That smile you get when you intuit something good, that you are meeting someone who is going to be an important person in your life. We quickly became friends, and developed a trusting, caring and adventurous bond. We sparred intellectually, shared passion for film and the arts, drank within many different circles and supported each other through times of weeping. We were all shades of ourselves with each other. We started a conversation then and it kept going for 30 years.
It must have been about 91 or 92. Pretty sure it was hot, most likely a summer. And Guy and I were invited to lunch at Doug Salek’s. We were greeted by Douglas in full chef’s outfit, making Pernod Prawns, with one dash for the prawns and one swig for him. He had been out and about the night before and was having the hair of the dog. Lunch was superb, French style from entrée to a perfect Crème Caramel for dessert. Guy and I left with it as a parting gift. We had been drinking and took the chance of driving back to Rowena parade with the crème caramel along Punt Road.
It was a warm Sunday afternoon, and the chances of a breatho were remote. What was unforeseen though, or just not considered, was the lack of petrol in my car. We managed to get it up the hill before it ran out of gas and then had to roll and eventually push it to a petrol station. We managed to get a few bucks worth of petrol to get us home and avoided any enquiries from a passing police car, and enjoyed the still perfect Crème caramel a la Doug.
August 17th 1995
It was a Thursday night, and Guy and I were drinking at the London Tavern. The crowd was thin that night. Chocy was waiting patiently outside for the ritual back alley walk home, and the murmurs and mumbles of the quiet Richmond barflies were silenced when Eddie Maguire solemnly announced the passing of Victorian and Football icon Ted Whitten. The Footy Show ended with teary, emotional tributes from EJ’s friends and the pub TV faded to silence as the locals shed solemn tears for the larrikin cult figure. There was a respectful but private silence in the tavern, as the Footy Show logo faded to news headlines.
The first report that came up was news that China had tested another underground nuclear bomb, it’s second test in three months. As moistened eyes, began to refocus on the half full glasses of amber ale, and the half-cut locals began to summon up their favourite Ted Whitten memories, Guy, like a jack in the box, leaps on to the bar, and with the conviction of a auctioneer, shouts out ‘Fucking China. Everyone gets on their high horse about France testing bombs, but no one gives a shit about fucking China.’
Nice way to segue the mood Guy. It was a special skill he had, to command a room, to be just enough controversial without directly offending anyone, to provoke a discussion and jolt people to an opinion they may not have previously thought they had. Perhaps that was Guy summoning the larrikin spirit, doing his own EJ impersonation, of ‘We stuck it right up ‘em!….fuckin China’.
I eventually shared digs with Guy in 1998-99. We had a great Melbourne place in Fordham Court Richmond. Guy had been there for a few years already before I moved in. It was during this time that we got to collaborate on a project together. A short film I was making for my M.A. Kate who dragged Guy back from Razor Club to Nth Fitzroy and into my life also worked on the film as a performer, Guy was DOP and I directed and wrote it. It was a serendipitous moment, when we all seemed to journey back to a time and place for the making of it.
Some of my fondest memories with Guy, were lying on the lounge room floor at Fordham Court watching the rushes. Getting his analysis, and insight, having him critique the edits I did, consulting with him about music, and always going to our favourite film composer, Morricone for inspiration. We practically wore out a VHS documentary about Morricone. Now the VHS of our film, a dodgy dvd copy and stills, along with the memories, are what remains of that project.
Living with Guy was at times difficult. He carried a deep sadness, that was hard for him to overcome. And he had several processes in his routine to help him manage it.
The day I was the best friend I could be to him, was when I drove him to a house in East Melbourne, where he was to deliver a letter. Due to changes in the Victorian law, he had been able to obtain some information about his biological mother, and had located her name and address. Ironically, she resided only a street or so away from where Guy grew up with his adoption parents. The letter he had written was to ask to meet her. I sat in the car and watched as he walked to the front door. He slid the letter under it, and as he was leaving caught a glimpse of a lady in the corridor, walking toward him. He didn’t stay and say hello, rather choosing to allow her to respond to his letter in her own time.
She never did. This wounded Guy in ways we could never comprehend. Being his friend became difficult because of the chasm in understanding the pain and being unable to apply a soothing balm to his wound, despite the best efforts and intentions.
I had always admired Guy’s fight, his prize fighter tenacity, and to see him deflated and beaten was heartbreaking.
However, It was around this time, that I witnessed a remarkable quality in Guy and have an enduring life lesson from him. There was a homeless man in Richmond. He was almost non-verbal. He made sound but to most of us he was incoherent. Guy tried to protect him. Guy brought him into our house, gave him a couch to sleep on, bought him food and gave him money. And when this man died, Guy sought out any family and organised a funeral. It was one of the most selfless, kind and humane things I have experienced. It was a powerful experience to see this unconditional love for a man who had lost practically everything.
