- by Peter McDonald
When I was walking home from my office job the other day I noticed a hearse, a big silver one. I happened to be looking in that direction, but when I set my eyes upon it I was immediately thrown into a state of etiquette related confusion that I have not felt since I was forced to beg for a light from the Queen in the gents of "The Fallen Women" (a disreputable but accurately named establishment in London's Soho area). I was unsure of what to do with my eyes. I did not want to appear to be voyeuristic or even interested in the contents of the vehicle, because I believe that death is a private subject, and we bystanders should not pry into the grief of the families involved.
To reassure those near the hearse of my good Christian intentions, I helpfully screamed "I don't even care WHO you've got in your stupid hearse!", and grinned a little to cheer them up. Well, it certainly stopped some of the crying, and I felt myself to have done my 'good deed' for the day.
As I continued home, however, I realised that to consolidate my good actions into something more helpful to the relatives of the deceased, I should probably attend the funeral. Of course, I did not know where it was to be held; and so in a moment of pure inspiration, I decided to follow the hearse. It had only been five minutes since I had left the families climbing into the cars that were presumably headed to the place of the service. I am reasonably fit for my age of 18, and so ran at full speed to where I had previously been. Because God is an ultimately benevolent creature, being as he is a white, middle-class, carnivore, I was lucky enough to arrive just as the mourners were departing, and I quickly grabbed onto the back of the last car in the train. I lay diagonally on top of the boot, and though I was hungry, I relaxed safe in the knowledge that this family obviously had one less mouth to feed and would therefore be able to feed me up after my efforts on their behalf.
We arrived at the cemetery, and I discreetly leaped from the rear of the car, laughing in a welcoming and magnanimous manner, to show that I did not mind the discomforts involved in showing my support in this sad time. Wiping the foam from my mouth, I joined the back of the group, strumming the 6" ukulele (which I never fail to carry with me) to the tune of 'Brown Sugar' by the Rolling Stones, a popular tune from the 1960s. Every now and then I would give a short yelp to represent the chorus - I can't sing for toffee, and wouldn't have wanted to embarrass these wonderful people!
I waited outside the church for the service itself, because vicars in confined spaces make me nervous and boy! was that guy in a dog collar a vicar!
When the congregation came out, having survived the emanations of the man of god, I rejoined them as they clustered around the pit where the coffin was to be lowered. With the steam still rising from him, the vicar began to speak. Then I decided - maybe I should get a good look at the man who would be sent on his way to the kingdom of heaven. I quickly darted into the pit, swiftly swung the lid open, and grabbed the corpse by the scruff of its shroud. I ran off with it quickly, wondering why the undertakers were not attempting to apprehend me. The guidelines in 'Being an Undertaker' (1633) distinctly state that it is the duty of undertakers to apprehend those attempting to abduct the corpse. But then I remembered that the 'Honourable and Righteous Path to take when Obtaining them and those that attempt the Dishonest and Heinous Nicking of Bodies' (1845) had gone out of date and had not been reprinted since 'The Beginners Guide to Grave-Robbing' (1844 - first editions came with free spade) had been withdrawn due to objections from the 'Grave Robber's Union', who had claimed it would flood the market with cheap imitators, and stop the public from being guaranteed a professional corpse violating service.
Even though the art of apprehending grave robbers may have been lost, I realised I did not have long before the grieving relatives would at least begin to tentatively question my motives. Therefore I ran as speedily as my age of 25 would allow me, juggling the corpse so as to keep it fresh and supple. I had not reckoned on the spikes upon the locked gates, I will admit, and had to resort to mashing bits of the corpse onto some of them to act as cushions when I leapt from the tree that allowed me over the fence and back into the wider part of the city. Deciding that I would make my aquaintence with this no longer living fellow brief, because I knew he had the obligation of his funeral to fulfil at some point, I decided to take him to Riley's because the food was cheaper and faster than most other cafes.
When we found a good table for two, a table such as a 46 year old and his corpse might meet at for a quick chat, I asked him about his life with tact, and dedicated myself to understanding his responses exactly.
"So, how the devil are you then, guy?" I asked, as charmingly as I could.
He gave me an icy stare, the like of which I have not seen since I begged Prince Phillip for some cheap thrills in a Japanese hotel called "The Greek Fool".
"Erm…", I stalled, being put off by his attitude so far "would you like a cake? The battenburg is quite good here. Well, it's not good, exactly, but it's easier overall than the Dundee cake."
This time he stared at me with a penetrative ease, his pupils reminding me of collapsed sun systems. I got him a slice of battenburg.
"How's the old WIFE?" I asked, with roguish charm.
My corpse looked back it me with melancholic sadness.
"Oh, I am sorry." I bellowed. "Shall I take you home then?"
"Yes," said the corpse. Well, he didn't say it with his voice, but I knew that's what he was communicating to me with his pleadingly hopeful stare.
Zooming back to the cemetery with the speed that can only be expected of 97 year olds such as myself, swinging the corpse propeller like about my head, we got back quickly. The pit had been slowly been filling up in my absence, and as it was, when I hurled the body in, only half of him was buried, but the diggers shrugged in a "so?" kind of manner, the like of which I have not seen since I witnessed Margaret Thatcher defecate upon a statue of Winston Churchill in "The Houses of Parliament"; they then walked off. As did I.
When I returned home I put the kettle on, locked up, and then climbed into bed. It had been a long day, and I was very tired!
The Strokes - Is This It? - 6/10