Matthew Perry was a Friend to all, known the world over as Chandler Bing, always seconds away from a great wisecrack and a show-stopping grin. But he was also an addict. That was the “big, terrible thing” Perry referenced in the title of his memoir last year, giving it equal weighting with the TV series that made him an indelible celebrity, long after he had largely retreated from screens.

I read Friends, Lovers, and the Big Terrible Thing last year and found it a jarring, often uncomfortable experience. It was one part juicy celebrity memoir, enlivened by the flashes of humour and winning self-deprecation that Perry (by his own admission) shared with his defining character; and one part harrowing account of a man intent on his own destruction.

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Perry characterised himself as a ready-made, just-add-water addict: an alcoholic with his first drink at the age of 14, and hooked on painkillers with his first pill, prescribed after a jetski accident. High, he drove a red Mustang convertible across the desert, feeling “complete and utter euphoria”: “I remember thinking, ‘If this doesn’t kill me, I’m doing this again.’” It didn’t then.

Nearly a year to the day after Friends, Lovers, and the Big Terrible Thing was published, Perry was found dead at his Los Angeles home in an apparent drowning. He was 54. Tributes from his friends and fans have rightly focused on Perry’s character and talent, with actors Morgan Fairchild (who played Perry’s on-screen mother) mourning “the loss of such a brilliant young actor” and Mira Sorvino of his “singular wit”. Even the Canadian prime minister, Justin Trudeau, (who knew Perry as a boy, and whom Perry claimed in his memoir to have beaten up) paid tribute to the “schoolyard games we used to play … Thanks for all the laughs, Matthew”.

Indeed, though Perry’s career never took off beyond Friends, he was arguably the standout performer in a talented cast of six. Any good-looking guy can be the smart-aleck, cracking jokes in the corner, but Perry imbued Chandler with energy and emotional depth.

Though defined by his deadpan delivery – Perry is right, when he wrote “that Chandler Bing transformed the way that America spoke” – he also had exceptional comic timing, and was a great physical performer. No one else has so effectively communicated combined dating anxiety and needing to pee. The fact that Perry managed to more or less keep it together over 10 seasons and 236 episodes, often while juggling ferocious substance abuse, is only further testament to his talent.

The success of Friends – not to mention the support from his castmates, his real-life friends – was what helped him to survive, Perry wrote. “There was no way I could have been a journeyman actor. I wouldn’t have stayed sober for that; it was not worth not doing heroin for that … When you’re earning $1m a week, you can’t afford to have the 17th drink.”

Perry also had a tricky part to play within the ensemble, in taking a platonic friendship between two cynics into a heartfelt romance. Chandler and Monica was Friend’s central love story, with none of the cushioning contrivances and strategic “breaks” of the series’ other pairings. In TV, as well as life, it’s harder to make yourself vulnerable and offer love steadily than it is to give in to doubt and run hot-and-cool: Perry showed that the smart guy, even the mean guy, could also be the nice guy you’d do well to marry.

In a series that has otherwise aged fairly poorly, Chandler and Monica are still an aspirational model for an equal partnership. As a teenager, I found it sweet when Chandler told Monica: “They can say that you’re high maintenance, but it’s OK, because I like … maintaining you.” As a far-from-easygoing, thirtysomething single woman, it is perhaps the most desirable declaration of love I’ve ever seen.

It is no wonder Perry was so beloved for his character. “For the longest time,” he wrote, he experienced it as a burden, though he had lately reached some kind of peace with Friends as his legacy. “If you’re going to be typecast, that’s the way to do it.” But at the widespread shock at his death, as the world woke up to the news on Sunday morning, you can picture Perry raising one quizzical eyebrow. As he wrote himself: “I didn’t stand a fucking chance.”

Perry might not have risked 17 drinks on set – but he would certainly try for 16. Especially during the later seasons of Friends, he was routinely drunk, high or hungover on set, prompting concern from Jennifer Aniston. (“‘We can smell it,’ she said, in a kind of weird but loving way.”) Even a “sober companion” to shadow him at work proved insufficient safeguard: when a read-through was cut short by Perry’s incoherence, the entire cast staged an intervention. When The One With Monica and Chandler’s Wedding aired, in May 2001, Perry was living in rehab.

For all Perry’s amusing celebrity anecdotes and determined good cheer, Friends, Lovers and the Big Terrible Thing reads primarily as an addiction memoir without an ending. Indeed, it read as though it had almost been written in real time: Perry’s colon had exploded in July 2019, only three years before its publication, and in January 2022 he underwent his 14th surgery relating to his drug addiction. “I finally have rock-hard abs, but they aren’t from sit-ups,” he wrote, perkily.

Perry described, often, the reward he drew from supporting other addicts: “The best thing about me, bar none, is that … I can help a desperate man get sober.” Nonetheless, I was struck while reading it that the more recent timeline of Perry’s using and abusing was somewhat opaque. It felt somewhat strategic: an attempt to obscure his current reality and lend heft to the suggestion that the worst of his troubles were behind him. But even Perry himself – no doubt encouraged to come to a positive conclusion – could not find a more upbeat note with which to end on than the fact that he was alive at all.

For all its gestures to sobriety, “looking forward” and moving into the future, the final chapter reads like Perry speaking from beyond the grave, reflecting on the faces of his loved ones as if he has already passed on.

The world might be shocked at his untimely death, but Perry knew that his addiction was going to kill him; he told us in print a year ago, in a book that reached six figures in sales. Indeed, he wrote, his most surprising takeaway was that it hadn’t already.

“There are two kinds of drug addicts,” Perry wrote of his preference for opiates over cocaine. “The ones who want to go up, and the ones who want to go down … I wanted to melt into my couch and feel wonderful.” You can only hope that, now, he is as close to happiness as he felt that morning in the red Mustang.