Wednesday, September 25, 2024
Vale Paul Tebbutt
It’s the 1980s and Paul was one of five in a classic, shared house, not unlike those portrayed in numerous books, films and TV series. This house was special to all who lived there, not only was it a beautiful, free-standing Paddington terrace in Sydney’s eastern suburbs – it housed five hard-working, and even harder partying young adults whose friendships survived the decades.
In this setting, all six foot six inches of an Englishman, Paul was king of the kids. Paul's master bedroom setting was home to the amazing, break-through technology of a huge TV and VHS video player. His room was quite simply, fun central, where he generously played host to his many flatmates and friends with nights of shared pizzas, laughter and movie-watching.
Paul’s lived philosophy was firmly based on the learnings of his fellow Englishmen, though rather than stern Charles Dickens’ – "These were the best of times and the worst of times," Paul took to heart the hilarious insights of Monty Python; "He’s not the Messiah – he’s a very naughty boy" resonated deeply for Paul.
“Blessed are the cheesemakers” Paul would often reply to me with a blessing-like wave in my general direction to any serious statement or question I may have asked him.
As for our beautiful, shared house, Paul would often remind us in his one person, two-character, kitchen skits, “A house? We are so lucky to live in a house! I used to live in one room, all hundred and twenty-six of us, with no furniture. Half the floor was missing; we were all huddled together in one corner for fear of falling”.
“You were lucky to have a room. We used to have to live in a corridor,” his second character would reply.
“Oh! we used to dream of living in a corridor! Woulda’ been a palace to us. We used to live in an old water tank on a rubbish tip.” And on & on he would go, quoting the genius of Monty Python in his best Yorkshire accent.
It’s fair to say we bonded over a shared love of the ridiculous, and Paul will forever remain for me, as one of the funniest men I have ever known – and there were plenty of opportunities for that humour to shine in that shared house in the heady eighties when greed was deemed good and good times really were fabulous.
Messing with flatmates’ phone messages to the point you thought the police were making enquiries about you was fair game to Paul, as were editing & correcting notes left on a kitchen blackboard were endless sources of amusement as he graded our scrawls as a teacher would with red chalk.
Stealing a flatmate’s food could be justified by Paul as he reasoned it tastier than anything he could have personally purchased. He somehow managed to effortlessly avoid any shared household chores as we all knew that he worked such long hours and made up for it with his many acts of generosity – he lent money in hard times, and he could always be counted on for a lift or in my case, to borrow his suitably big, loud car.
Paul worked extremely hard, with daily double shifts in the grind of a commercial city kitchen. Between those shifts, he eked out as much hilarity as he could. One day I came home from work to the sight of Paul and a famous radio comedian both sprawled on the living room floor, stoned and teaching my cat to fetch – which she did! He also taught my cat to box like a kangaroo, but the other side of Paul was him finding good homes for each of the five kittens my cat had – something that didn’t occur to me to arrange.
I left to live overseas for almost a decade and lost touch with Paul. But when we did reconnect, it was unsurprisingly wonderful. Paul had an extraordinary memory, and we shared many a laugh as we reminisced over that special time, a time that rightfully belongs in the past, in one’s youth. But Paul’s sense of humour bought all that silliness and sense of fun back so easily.
As most of us who knew Paul would attest to, Paul was the definition of a gentle giant. His love of his three dogs illustrates this sensitive side to this oversized man. When my dog died, Paul was unfailingly kind and understanding. I knew that he dreaded the thought of losing his dogs.
Ultimately though, Charles Dickens was right; life really is composed of the best of times and the worst of times. But Paul preferred to laser-like focus on the best of times, and that’s how I choose to remember him, a very tall, very naughty boy who, when at his best – personified English humour, gentleness and kindness.
My deepest condolences to Lisa, Paul's children, Liam, Lachlan and Emma and his wider family and friends...
Tracey Hordern
