I rang home this morning as soon as I read about the death of Geoffrey Perkins. Silly really. I didn’t know him at all and yet still news of the comedy producer and writer’s death did rather hit home.
Maybe it’s because I move in the media world – albeit on the periphery – that such departures do hit home. I scower the credits at the end of the programmes I watch to find out who’s involved. Once names start becoming familiar, it almost feels like you know them. I don’t, obviously. Nor do I pretend to either.
Like Tommy Pearson on One More Take, I recall many programmes where Perkins’ name cropped up with unsurprising regularity. Spitting Image, Catherine Tate, Game On. These were all programmes which appealed to me and had the same characteristics in terms of production. It made perfect sense that the utterly brilliant comedy Benidorm had his name associated with it.
It’s the shockingly banal nature of his departure which saddens me the most. To be involved in a road traffic accident in an area of London I often pedal down, makes his death so utterly unexpected, normal and saddening all at the same time.
Treat every day as though it’s your last.