Clem Galea
remembered by Nathan Kelly



I first met Clem Galea in mid-2013, not long after he'd moved into the homeless shelter I was working for at the time. In those days the shelter was implementing a zero-tolerance alcohol policy, which meant that residents who enjoyed a drink would return to the shelter only when they were certain that staff were sufficiently distracted. Not Clem however. He sought me out to very solemnly admit that although he wasn't "that drunk," he'd just finished an entire bottle of Jack Daniels in an "approximately thirty-minute period." I didn't know what to say. He'd only just moved in. Would I really need to evict a 68-year-old man I'd literally just met, sending him back into the Perth winter to sleep in the shit-box hatchback he hadn't even had the time to unpack? Fortunately I didn't need to make any decision, as Clem was not drunk. He had in fact not had anything to drink at all, and had been sober for many years by that time, later telling me that the air itself was an intoxicant; one deep breath all the fuel he needed to approach life with a childlike mischievousness that he never seemed to outgrow. He'd been a radio engineer by trade, but the urge to make people laugh meant that he was always searching for new things; his enthusiasm for any endeavour seemingly dependent on how much it allowed him to meet new people and tell them one of his many jokes. At an age when most people slow down, Clem was attempting to organise a music festival¹ hosted at his family's Mundaring home, or was contacting the Australian Navy² to make an offer on the ship he'd just seen decommissioned on the TV news, or was nominating himself as a joke candidate in the 1989 WA State Election on a pro-drink-driving candidacy.³ This kind of good-time mayhem eventually led to the breakdown of his marriage and a subsequent period living in his car, which for a while suited him just fine. In his own words, there was something romantic about being able to sleep where he wanted, and waking up where the action was, and it wasn't until this lifestyle began worsening the symptoms of his COPD that he reached out to the homeless shelter for help.

Clem settled into the shelter very easily, finding a (mostly) keen audience. He organised karaoke nights, volunteered to drive residents to their appointments, and believing that grey hair was a barrier to re-entering the workforce, he ran an impromptu workshop on hair dyeing in the tiny shared bathroom that was provided. The ease at which he was able bring people into his quixotic schemes allowed many of his fellow residents to temporarily forget the troubles that had brought them there in the first place, making him a very well-liked man.

After a relatively brief stay, Clem was able to obtain a unit in Maylands through the Department of Housing, and with this stability his relationships with his family grew stronger than ever. Using his new-found savings, he purchased a black Saab convertible, and he busied himself with the karaoke scene, attending multiple events across the city each week. He was difficult to miss in the Saab - especially as he always tried his best to find the parking spot most visible from whichever venue he was visiting - which led to him becoming a somewhat recognisable gadabout and raconteur in both the Maylands and Northbridge areas.⁴ This was how I personally became reacquainted with him; a chance meeting on 8th Avenue in 2015 had him regaling me with the exploits of the few residents of the shelter he'd for a brief time remained in touch with; mostly the type of chaotic, forever-broke, low-level criminals whose danger Clem was unable to identify until they were deep into their Bali holiday, as Clem possessed a come-as-you-are naivety that saw only the best in everyone. Their trip sounded like a disaster; a tale of police detention, misspent child-support payments, and cryptic threats written on hotel stationary, with Clem apparently finding an escape route by posing as the "Groom-King" in what he believed to be a mock wedding that utilised traditional Balinese garb, the photos of which he proudly shared on his Facebook profile. It was the kind of stuff that a typical 70-year-old man would try to avoid, but Clem was not your typical 70-year-old. It was why I readily accepted his invitation to "join the table;" our subsequent, almost-ten-year friendship allowing me the pleasure of witnessing Clem's truly inspiring approach to aging, which included a few bizarre entrepreneurial endeavours⁵ in lieu of paid work he didn't need to perform anymore until he later shifted towards art, some of which has been featured in previous issues of this magazine. And, most importantly, I was able to witness Clem's effortless ability to find the opportunity for a good time in everything; an ability he maintained even after a period of poor health which led to the loss of his license and an involuntary move into a nursing home that denied him the freedom to come and go as he pleased. Clem partied until the end however, and although he was no longer driving himself, he still had his friends returning him home from karaoke well after midnight; high on nothing except caffeine and the elixir of the air, while singing the rock'n'roll that was forever playing in his brain. Clem lived a life of humour, adventure and generosity, and was one of my dearest friends. He will be sorely missed.

Notes:
1.^ Clem was inspired by the Bindoon Rock Festivals of the 1980s. These were organised by the Coffin Cheaters Motorcycle Club, whose only rules where no fighting and no fires.
2.^ He was subsequently visited by a member of the Federal Police, who soon determined that Clem was not a threat. According to Clem, they later went on a date.
3.^ Clem received 367 votes.
4.^ Clem was one of those lucky people who only needed a couple of hours sleep per night. He had a few regular Northbridge haunts he'd visit in the early hours to meet with his fellow night-owls.
5.^ Clem sold the SAAB for a White Van, which he planned to use as a "party-bus" in which he would drive and run the karaoke. He then spent time on plans for "mobile exorcism" and an "Our Lady of Guadalupe" shrine, which also would involve the van. None of these plans eventuated, as he wrote the van off when he drove it into the back of a police car on James Street.