So where've I been? Grieving of course. A close unnamed source recently died and I bin grivvin man. He was into that whole champagne enema scene - you know the one. His ahem special friend for the night was new to that scene, she was a novice, inexperienced, didn't really want to, or know how to do what she was doing, or at least that was the role she was playing. She didn't realise that cork removal comes before, he starts bleeding, and she struggles to staunch the flow of blood using the first thing that came to hand as an internal plaster. Luckily it happened to be an internal plaster, but unluckily the bleeding was too profuse. He dies, the room turns red, she bolts, half in fear, half in anxiety. Who gets the call to go to the funeral, sit there and grieve? Muggins here, that's 'oo.
It's not that I didn't like him (I didn't), it's not that I don't believe in a need for collective grief (I don't), it's not that I'm shamelessly apathetic and would much rather wallow in squalor and mouth ulcers (actually that's exactly it: pain and suffering are what separates us from happy people; we should relish our wallowing). ...But some funny way for people to blackmail me exists, so off I toddled to his funeral. As far as funerals go, it wasn't that bad: the food was good (Thai), and the clown they hired (I could name him, but I just don't want to) to entertain the children and divert them away from the finality of death was a nice touch. Further bloodshed was so nearly on the cards when a young and slightly inebriated pair of young lovers knocked the clown unconscious with a near-full bowl of rice and green curry, and then attempted to recreate our esteemed dead friend's last - and some say greatest - moment. I say nearly on the cards, cos a) there weren't any cards, real or metaphorical, and b) b..b...because their rude interruption was so rudely interrupted by that novice ahem chick.
A cliffhanger like that deserves a new paragraph, and as if art imitates life, a rather confused and lacklustre conclusion to not a very dramatic moment. So confused was she that she came bursting in screaming (quite literally, although not entirely literally to be labelled either screaming or literally screaming) that she knew of a lawful impediment why he should not be buried. Apparently, or so I say she said, he wasn't really dead. A doctor was called out, as is customary in these circumstances, who gave him the once over and her the thrice over, proclaiming him to be dead and her to be acting half out of fear and half out of duty. He (doctor, not dead guy. I realise pronouns can be confusing, but it's usually easier than making up fake names for people who really exist and don't really exist anymore. Cos they're dead, y'see?) then launched into some scathing polemic. His words to us all (well, just her, the couple, the kids and me, cos we're the only ones who turned up - the clown was still unconscious. And deaf):
"If we were to consider the twenty most important decisions that either we have made or our mothers have maden [his words exactly, no matter how retarded he may sound, or to put it another way, sic] on our behalf, the vast majority can be shown to be made out of guilt and/or duty. If one throws fear and dogma into the ring, then, to use yet another baseball metaphor, the White Sox need to trade their second string shortstop for a dynamic first baseman in order to mount a sustained bid for the pennant."
Denouement? We buried him. It don't get more final than that. (Doctor, not the dead guy).