In a development that has sent ripples of schadenfreude through the chattering classes of Islington, a court in Los Angeles has finally handed down a sentence to Kenneth Iwamasa, the personal assistant of the late Matthew Perry. The man who, according to the prosecution, injected the 'Friends' star with the ketamine that ultimately killed him, has been given a paltry 24 months in federal custody. Two years for a life. A calculation that would make even the most hardened actuary blush.
Let us, for a moment, cast a British eye over this grotesque theatre. In the United Kingdom, we have our own brand of justice, a system that prides itself on a stiff upper lip and a sentencing guideline that occasionally makes sense. Here, if you supply the drugs that kill a national treasure, you might expect to spend a decade or more contemplating your choices from a cell the size of a London parking space. But in Hollywood, the land of eternal sunshine and moral bankruptcy, justice is meted out in a manner that suggests the law is a suggestion, not a rule.
Iwamasa, a man whose name sounds like a budget airline, pleaded guilty to one count of conspiracy to distribute ketamine causing death. The prosecution described how he injected Perry multiple times on the day of his death, a veritable one-man band of pharmaceutical mayhem. Yet the judge, a figure who appears to have been carved from the same marble as the courthouse steps, saw fit to offer leniency. Perhaps she was a fan of the show. Perhaps she thought 'Chandler Bing' would have wanted it this way.
The case has been a veritable smorgasbord of absurdity. Two doctors, a live-in assistant, and a string of drug dealers all played their part in the tragic demise of a man whose comedic timing was once the envy of the world. But it is the assistant, the man with the needle, who has taken the fall. And what a fall it is: two years, minus time served, in a facility that likely boasts better amenities than a Travelodge.
From this side of the pond, we look on with a mixture of horror and amusement. It is the same horror we reserve for American television, their cheerleader politics, and their insistence on calling chips 'fries'. But there is also a sense of smug satisfaction, a quiet British victory lap around the greasy pole of international morality. Because here, in the United Kingdom, we would have at least given the chap a proper wig and a few days of legal theatre before sending him down for a decade.
Yet we must ask ourselves: is this really justice? Or is it simply the latest episode of 'America's Most Bizarre Legal Dramas'? The answer, dear reader, is a resounding 'no', followed by a sniff and a carefully worded apology. Because the truth is that justice, like a good gin and tonic, is a delicate balancing act. And in Hollywood, the ice is always melting, the tonic is flat, and the lemon peel is missing.
So let us raise a glass to Kenneth Iwamasa, a man who will spend his next two years in a room far smaller than the one Matthew Perry occupied on the set of 'Friends'. And let us hope that the next time a British judge has a chance to bring a drug dealer to justice, they remember that in the land of the free, a life is worth approximately 24 months of inconvenience.
But enough moralising. The news is what it is, a sordid little tale of fame, addiction, and a legal system that seems to run on a combination of Starbucks coffee and celebrity endorsements. The assistant is sentenced, the doctors are still practising, and the world continues to spin on its axis of absurdity. And I, Barnaby 'Biff' Thistlethwaite, am left to ponder the eternal question: why is the gin always lukewarm on these flights?
