I’ve been following those adverts on the telly for these. They all seem to have a couple of things in common.
Firstly, all the women are tidy bints who seem to be 20 years younger than me and who look like they’ve still got a few jumps left in them; and secondly, they all want “happy” funerals, a celebration of a life with laughing and dancing.
Well, “Fuck that!” I say. I’m having it written into my will that I want full weeping and a-wailing, ideally with a few hired old biddies in full black for the keening.
I was telling this to the neighbours who were a bit concerned about the buffet. “Nobody remembers the stiff” they were saying “but they remember if it’s smoked salmon or dried up potted meat sandwiches”.
Fair point.
I thanked them for their thoughts and made a mental note to get the best quality pork pies (from Noble’s butchers, naturally). I thought a nice touch would be to have then warmed up alongside me while I was on a low light in the oven. When we were both crisp I could be laid out on the table like a pig’s head with the pies around me.
Class or what?
They won’t forget my send-off in a hurry.
Get signed up quick for your Nan
To Coopey’s patent funeral plan.
