COMMENT: Matthew Perry's death hurts, and we shouldn't be embarrassed by it

CHANDLER Bing saved me from a naked landlady. Or he granted a temporary reprieve at least, when my girlfriend brought home a VHS collection of the Friends’ series. Yes, it was the 1990s. No, my girlfriend wasn’t the naked landlady.

But we lived with one. We shared a room in a Toa Payoh flat with a formidable member of the Pioneer Generation. In truth, she was a member of the Avengers generation. Her special power was being stripped to the waist whilst washing her clothes in the kitchen sink. Historians claim that the Spanish Inquisition created the most horrific instruments of human torture. Historians never met my Toa Payoh landlady.

She scolded me. She swore at me. She even scolded and swore at me whilst stripped to the waist. The only escape was to retreat to the bedroom, lock the door and watch Chandler Bing make a fool of himself in Friends.

Chandler Bing was always the one. He overcompensated for his insecurities by being self-deprecating at every opportunity (sounds familiar). The other Friends were cuter, perhaps, but Chandler Bing was the only character who knew he was being funny. Humour was his safety valve (still sounds familiar.)

So Matthew Perry’s death hurt. Just as Bobby Charlton’s passing hit a nerve. They died a few days apart, but they were generations and worlds apart. One was a Hollywood actor who struggled with addictions throughout a troubled life. The other was a Manchester United football legend who survived a devastating tragedy to live an austere, humbling life.

But they were both the same to me. They were personalised time portals. That’s the real legacy of celebrities, athletes, actors, musicians and artists. They transport us to pivotal moments, good and bad. They don’t have a choice and nor do we. That’s the pact made between the celebrity and the rest of us. They play tour guides for strangers' lives. Forever.

Parasocial relationships provide escape from mundane

Mention the name “Bobby Charlton” and I’m 11 years old again, standing on a frozen pitch in East London, as my PE teacher goes on one of his mazy dribbles. He was a grown man against prepubescent boys still waiting for their balls to drop. But he was Bobby Charlton, in his own head. As he lined up a long-range strike, he screamed the man’s name, providing commentary as he mimicked a genius.

My father did the same. Men of a certain vintage often evoked one man’s name when smacking a goal-bound shot. Bobby Charlton. The name meant a thunderbolt was coming. The name meant class. And those memories are warm, recalling my Dad lining up another long-range left-footer. Father and son moments like those were rare. Bobby Charlton made them easier to remember.

So we mourn men like Charlton. And Perry. And we feel a bit daft for mourning them. I’m a middle-aged man who didn’t know either of them. I’m not a kid counting down the days until Taylor Swift annexes the National Stadium. But is there a difference? If a personal connection is made, then loss is loss.

The grief feels real because the relationship is real, albeit a one-sided one. It’s even got a name. According to psychotherapists, a parasocial relationship involves only one party being entirely invested, in terms of emotion, interest and time. And the other party has no idea, obviously. It’s an entirely one-way setup with no reciprocal payoff, in a literal sense.

But in an emotional sense, the parasocial relationship can be enriching (as long as it isn’t taken to stalker-ish extremes. My sister once stalked Donnie Wahlberg for days when she heard New Kids on the Block were staying in a London hotel. She wore my favourite top throughout her manhunt without telling me. It’s still a sore point.)

But the celebrity can provide a silent sounding board, an aspiration, a pathway, an escape from the mundane or even a soundtrack to a person’s daily life and emotional state.

Maintaining the illusion of perfect companion

At home, Harry Styles has never let my daughter down. Whether it was a dodgy exam or a dodgy Dad going on about Mandarin being the vital linguistic tool of the 21st Century, Styles was always waiting for her, back in her bedroom (not literally. I’m not that liberal.)

But he was there, spiritually, in his flared trousers, warbling on about watermelon sugar and sushi restaurants and sound-tracking childhood memories to be stored now and recalled later with a smile. In this regard, celebrities are a blank canvas, allowing us to project onto them whatever emotional needs are required at the time.

These parasocial relationships shouldn’t be patronisingly dismissed as a meaningless by-product of puberty. Charlton conjures images of fathers and sons being together. Perry made it OK to be a walking paradox, to be both funny and insecure. Styles taught my daughter to treat people with kindness, in a way that a parent never could. These relationships are impactful. They provide joy and hope and can help with anxiety and depression. There is nothing fake about them.

In fact, the real thing can be a disappointment. I’d always wanted to meet Han Solo and Indiana Jones, but I ended up with a bored, irritable Harrison Ford instead. We barely exchanged pleasantries during our interview when he was threatening to smash my head in the hotel piano (he was going for a strained analogy, I think). And that’s fine. The man is under no obligation to uphold the myth foisted upon him by others.

That’s why parasocial relationships work for so many. They maintain the illusion of the perfect, uncomplaining companion. They only end, to a degree, with the celebrity’s physical death. So of course there’s a mourning period for many. It’s healthy. Suppressing such feelings is unhealthy. Acknowledge the profound impact that the person’s work and influence had on your life and feel sad. When the author Sue Townsend died, I was devastated. I’d never met her. But without her books, I wouldn’t have written mine.

But the relationship only ends physically. As there is no physical element to a parasocial relationship, it endures. Sue Townsend’s books are still on my shelf, waiting to be reread. Friends has been trending on Netflix for two weeks. Charlton’s goals are all over YouTube. And The Beatles’ last single has gone to No.1 in the UK.

That’s the real beauty of parasocial relationships. Death is only an interlude. Our chosen icons are still here to watch, read, listen and admire. Like proper friends, they’ll still be there for you.

Neil Humphreys is an award-winning football writer and a best-selling author, who has covered the English Premier League since 2000 and has written 28 books.

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