The thing about black comedy is that it seems wrong but somehow you just can’t help sniggering. Just the title of this blog episode has probably conjured up a scenario to many of you who, I’ll bet, are half wincing but with a smile on your face.
Those
who know me will be aware that, via my day job, I am surrounded by death on a
daily basis and one has to find a coping mechanism; for me it’s humour. If I allowed myself to feel the grief every
time I was advised of a clients passing then I’d be permanently in the depths
of depression and ready to swing from the nearest tree.
So,
with what seems like a season ticket to the crematorium, I get to attend more
funerals than most (lucky old me) but I have to say that there is usually
something that happens to cause a giggle. This has been especially noticeable
at funerals within my family (which may not come as a total surprise to some).
Firstly,
there was an Uncle, a practical joker in his lifetime and also apparently
afterwards. My family are spread around
the country and we had all gathered at the house, having made combined journeys
of several hundred miles which meant that none of us were familiar with the
local geography. The Undertakers had
provided two cars which led the procession through the main town, but sadly got
separated from the convoy at a set of traffic lights. The lead car tried to follow but the hearses
were out of sight, so instead he simply followed the signs for the
cemetery. This resembled something out
of Transylvania, with the graveyard being fit to burst with tombs, moss covered
crosses and broken headstones. The road
became a lane and then a tracks which began winding between the plots themselves. A graveworker, with a look of astonishment at
the posse of cars, pointed out that this was the old cemetery and it was
the new one where all burials and services took place. Imagine if you will, the
sight of half a dozen motors trying to do 3 point turns in a tightly packed graveyard
and then heading for the new cemetery at speeds more befitting of a mercy
dash. I think the speedo hit 60mph as
the cars raced down the long church drive, eventually confronted by the sight
of the sweating and straining pall-bearers, coffin in place on shoulders, who
had been waiting patiently outside the door for the mourners to arrive for at
least 10 minutes. We were sure my Uncle
had “arranged” that little incident and was probably looking down on us,
laughing his head off.
Then
there was the funeral of an Aunt (sister to the aforementioned Uncle) who lived
in a small village which had a tiny Baptist church. The funeral service had been booked in the
big Cathedral in the town which was a Catholic church, and the Priest had
rather bizarrely requested the assistance of the Vicar of the Baptist church
(my Aunt was Catholic but never attended either church anyway). This was a
mistake. The Priest delivered his opening address and prayer, which ended with
the line “May God be with you” to which the Vicar, who was a double for Benny
Hill’s small, bald sidekick, bellowed “AND WITH YOU!” at a volume that made
everyone jump out of their skin. From
then it went from bad to worse. Every
statement or sentence made by the Priest was repeated half a second behind by
his helper, a bit like an echo. A request for the incense burner led to some
comedic indecision from the Vicar that wouldn’t have been out of place in a
Laurel and Hardy film before a bit of helpful direction enabled the vicar to finally
bring the burner to the Priest. “No, I
wanted something in it” the Priest said patiently and this was the cue for many
of the mourners to cover their faces with tissues and handkerchiefs, trying to
make their tears of laughter appear to be the more acceptable tears of grief.
But
it was a recent event that inspired this episode. Last month, I had to sadly arrange the
funeral of a man who no-one knew very much about. His family had disowned him back in the
1980’s (no-one had a clue how to contact them or even what their names were)
and he had spent the last 15 years of his life absolutely convinced he was
going to die imminently. He had basically given up on life, refused to
communicate and confined himself to bed, his only occasional visitors being
ex-neighbours plus a friend and her husband who had also taken on the role of being
his Attorneys in his lifetime. I was his
Executor and had to register the death but no-one for certain even knew what
his occupation was. The Minister did a
sterling job of the service considering that the only information we could give
him was that he had once built his own house and hated everybody and everything
except Country & Western. The funeral congregation numbered seven (me, the
ex-neighbours, the attorneys and their adult children), plus a gentleman who sneaked
in at the last minute and sat at the back and who, I had assumed, would be
operating the piped music. After the
service - which was amazing considering
there was so little to work with - we went to look at the flowers and after a
minute or so, the Minister came rushing across with this “extra” gentleman who had
been sitting at the back. He then announced
that he thought he had worked with the deceased up until the early 1990’s. He had seen the notice in the paper and
thought that it must be the same person (it wasn’t a very common name but it
was more the initials he remembered). For
a few minutes he regaled us with tales of the deceased’s life and provided much
more personal information than we had ever had before, which prompted much
“oooing” and “aaahing”. Then he
mentioned something that made the ex-neighbour look quizzical… noticing this, a
thought suddenly occurred to me and I asked “What did this chap look
like?” The description he had given us
was nothing like the deceased at all and it then became clear that not only had
we had been discussing completely the wrong person but he had taken an
afternoon out to attend the funeral of someone he had never met. At such a sad occasion, when there was a fair
amount of guilt that perhaps no-one did more to try and make the last few years
more enjoyable for him (although it’s very difficult to help someone who so
clearly doesn’t want to be helped), this provided a moment of light relief and
hilarity for all concerned.
I’ll
bet that the old boy wouldn’t in his wildest dreams imagine he would be the
subject of a blog post read by a few hundred people. In fact, he probably didn’t even know what a
blog or even the internet was. But if it
wasn’t for him, then this incident wouldn’t have put a smile on my face and
neither would I have been able to share it with you all, so many thanks to him
for that.
