Predator (John McTiernan, 1987)
Stick around.
This might sound corny, but it's true - the first time I saw Karl I knew that I liked him and wanted to be his friend. He was easy to notice, a tall man, 6'5. But it wasn't just that, he had a real aura to him, a glow, something welcoming. If you knew him then you'll know exactly what I'm talking about.
This was at school, he was 13 and I was 14 - he fell in with an extended gang that I hung out with and one day the two of us found ourselves walking home, in the same direction - our first one-one-one conversation together.
Because I'm a film guy (you may have noticed this already) my questions to him were all film related, starting with - What's your favourite film? His answer was a film that he'd seen recently and that he just couldn't stop thinking about: Predator. Although I'd seen a lot of other Arnie films at this point, I hadn't seen Predator, so I didn't have much to say about it, and because I was very much into horror films at the time I asked him what his favourite horror film was - he thought for a second, and then started laughing: Predator. The conversation continued, and I kept asking film questions, but the only film he could think of at any point was Predator, and he laughed that big laugh he had. It was kind of like that moment on Family Fortunes where the contestant keeps giving the answer 'turkey' to every question.
Eventually I did see Predator; and Arnie films, and saying things in the inimitable tones of Arnold Schwarzenegger became a big part of our lives - not just me and Karl, but all of us, and there were many of us.
The years went on and Karl and I grew closer - his younger brother became best friends with my younger brother, and eventually ended up becoming a good friend of mine too, his family and my family became intertwined, he had his hardships, and I had mine. And we were always there for each other. Karl and I ended up living together, working together, going on holidays together. Our bond went deep. Often I feel that different people require us to wear a different 'mask' for whatever the social norms of a given situation are, but Karl was one of those people who allowed you to be comfortable, remove your mask, and just be yourself when you were in his company.
Earlier this year I met up with some of the gang, and Karl. It was the first time we'd all seen each other in an age. I had recently got back from a filmmaking project in Nepal and was on a bit of a high - I couldn't stop thinking and talking about it: the lessons I'd learned, the things I'd seen, how very lucky we were in the UK, but also how blinkered we were in the UK to so many aspects of life that we seem to have forgotten about. Karl seemed delighted by this. He laughed that big laugh, asked a lot of questions, it was a great evening out for all of us. Truly.
The next morning I received a text message from Karl's brother saying that after we'd all left Karl had started crying, and he didn't know what was wrong. But it wasn't too long before we all learned.
Karl had been diagnosed with cancer - stage 4. He knew at the time, but obviously didn't feel the occasion was right to bring it up there and then. Perhaps he wanted one last night with all of us, the way it had always been, the way it would never be again. I don't know. Later he called us all up, one-by-one, to tell us over the phone. It was so hard for him, but he needed to tell us by speaking - he couldn't write it down. Jesus, that must have been tough for him.
There was optimism to begin with, good signs, positive meetings, but this was slowly replaced with gnawing dread as the cancer spread through him, and his treatments, one-by-one, seemed to have little impact. I kept in touch over the phone (Karl was too immuno-compromised to visit in person in 2020) , but I was conscious that I didn't want to take up too much of his energy, or his time. Karl had recently-ish become a Father, and I wanted him to spend as much energy and time as he had remaining with his daughter.
That time and energy ended at approximately 21:20, on the 9th of October, 2020. He was 44.
Karl's passing hit me hard. Very hard. It in no way felt like I'd lost a friend, it felt like I'd lost a family member, or a piece of my own body. Jesus, I miss him.
On the 6th of November I attended Karl's funeral, and I stood up and spoke briefly to the room, but with the benefit of hindsight I think it would have been nice to focus on some of the positive times I spent with Karl, some of the fun stories, some of the more intimate details, so here are four - there are thousands to choose from, but these will have to do:
And now he's gone, and I continue. And I'm left with this question of why some people go, and others remain. Is my role in all this to be a witness? To see, and understand, and appreciate these people - to remember them for the rest of the time I have left? Is there a point to any of this? I don't know. I really don't.
God damn it. I miss you Karl. I wish you could read this, and I wish you had stuck around longer. But I'm so grateful for the time we had together. I could continue talking about you for years, and I will, but at some point this article has to end, and I simply don't know how to close this paragraph - and perhaps that in itself gets close to the point.
This might sound corny, but it's true - the first time I saw Karl I knew that I liked him and wanted to be his friend. He was easy to notice, a tall man, 6'5. But it wasn't just that, he had a real aura to him, a glow, something welcoming. If you knew him then you'll know exactly what I'm talking about.
This was at school, he was 13 and I was 14 - he fell in with an extended gang that I hung out with and one day the two of us found ourselves walking home, in the same direction - our first one-one-one conversation together.
Because I'm a film guy (you may have noticed this already) my questions to him were all film related, starting with - What's your favourite film? His answer was a film that he'd seen recently and that he just couldn't stop thinking about: Predator. Although I'd seen a lot of other Arnie films at this point, I hadn't seen Predator, so I didn't have much to say about it, and because I was very much into horror films at the time I asked him what his favourite horror film was - he thought for a second, and then started laughing: Predator. The conversation continued, and I kept asking film questions, but the only film he could think of at any point was Predator, and he laughed that big laugh he had. It was kind of like that moment on Family Fortunes where the contestant keeps giving the answer 'turkey' to every question.
Eventually I did see Predator; and Arnie films, and saying things in the inimitable tones of Arnold Schwarzenegger became a big part of our lives - not just me and Karl, but all of us, and there were many of us.
The years went on and Karl and I grew closer - his younger brother became best friends with my younger brother, and eventually ended up becoming a good friend of mine too, his family and my family became intertwined, he had his hardships, and I had mine. And we were always there for each other. Karl and I ended up living together, working together, going on holidays together. Our bond went deep. Often I feel that different people require us to wear a different 'mask' for whatever the social norms of a given situation are, but Karl was one of those people who allowed you to be comfortable, remove your mask, and just be yourself when you were in his company.
Earlier this year I met up with some of the gang, and Karl. It was the first time we'd all seen each other in an age. I had recently got back from a filmmaking project in Nepal and was on a bit of a high - I couldn't stop thinking and talking about it: the lessons I'd learned, the things I'd seen, how very lucky we were in the UK, but also how blinkered we were in the UK to so many aspects of life that we seem to have forgotten about. Karl seemed delighted by this. He laughed that big laugh, asked a lot of questions, it was a great evening out for all of us. Truly.
The next morning I received a text message from Karl's brother saying that after we'd all left Karl had started crying, and he didn't know what was wrong. But it wasn't too long before we all learned.
Karl had been diagnosed with cancer - stage 4. He knew at the time, but obviously didn't feel the occasion was right to bring it up there and then. Perhaps he wanted one last night with all of us, the way it had always been, the way it would never be again. I don't know. Later he called us all up, one-by-one, to tell us over the phone. It was so hard for him, but he needed to tell us by speaking - he couldn't write it down. Jesus, that must have been tough for him.
There was optimism to begin with, good signs, positive meetings, but this was slowly replaced with gnawing dread as the cancer spread through him, and his treatments, one-by-one, seemed to have little impact. I kept in touch over the phone (Karl was too immuno-compromised to visit in person in 2020) , but I was conscious that I didn't want to take up too much of his energy, or his time. Karl had recently-ish become a Father, and I wanted him to spend as much energy and time as he had remaining with his daughter.
That time and energy ended at approximately 21:20, on the 9th of October, 2020. He was 44.
Karl's passing hit me hard. Very hard. It in no way felt like I'd lost a friend, it felt like I'd lost a family member, or a piece of my own body. Jesus, I miss him.
On the 6th of November I attended Karl's funeral, and I stood up and spoke briefly to the room, but with the benefit of hindsight I think it would have been nice to focus on some of the positive times I spent with Karl, some of the fun stories, some of the more intimate details, so here are four - there are thousands to choose from, but these will have to do:
- Karl and I wandering around Paddington, and seeing the actor Edward Woodward. He was best known to us from a television show called The Equalizer and, being that we were wastrels with nothing better to do, we decided to follow Edward Woodward around for a while - like spies. He went to a bank, then to a cafe, where he had a meeting with two men in suits. Then he went around the shops. Karl and I found it hilarious that he never spotted us. Eventually we got bored and went home.
- Karl and I decorating a room together, completely not sober. Like some kind of addled version of Laurel & Hardy. We painted and wallpapered a room - but there was a problem: a huge hole in one of the walls. We spent time cunningly building a mesh to cover the hole, covered this with a mass of plaster mixed with paper to give it strength, and somehow stuck it to the inside of the hole in the wall - and then wallpapered over the whole hot mess. Once we had finished we stood back to appreciate our handiwork - only to hear the slow, steady schlump of our bonged construction sliding down into the wall cavity.
- New Year's Eve - there were many of us, and we were not sober. We were playing pool in a pub, and were so addled that the only way we could make some of the shots we wanted to make was by climbing onto the pool table. The bar staff repeatedly reprimanding us for doing so, us climbing down, apologising, waiting for them to be out of sight, and then climbing back up. Karl, all 6'5 of him, twisting and turning on the table, like a giant insect creature, bathed in a pool of light from the overhead lamp above the table, desperately trying to focus his eyes on the cue ball.
- Karl and I in the pub together. I was holding an intervention of sorts - I was worried that aspects of Karl's life were moving in the wrong direction and had decided that the best course of action was to say something, to do something. Karl could have told me to shut up, he could have become angry, he could have stood up and walked out, but he didn't - because that wasn't a part of him. He listened, and he understood, and for the rest of the years we were friends this conversation allowed us to tap into a shorthand way of communicating in secret - whenever things were looking bad for Karl.
And now he's gone, and I continue. And I'm left with this question of why some people go, and others remain. Is my role in all this to be a witness? To see, and understand, and appreciate these people - to remember them for the rest of the time I have left? Is there a point to any of this? I don't know. I really don't.
God damn it. I miss you Karl. I wish you could read this, and I wish you had stuck around longer. But I'm so grateful for the time we had together. I could continue talking about you for years, and I will, but at some point this article has to end, and I simply don't know how to close this paragraph - and perhaps that in itself gets close to the point.