Why is it that the older we get the more obsessed we become with death? Is it because it is fast approaching, or we just know more people who have died, are dying or we wish would hurry up and get on with it?

I was thinking about this and it reminded me of the conversations I used to have with my late Father, at least once a week. Him “Do you remember Eric Humplestoop” Me “No I don’t think so Dad”. “Yes you do, he lived out Wobblethorpe way, married that woman with the funny hand, had 11 children”. “No, I can’t place him” Him, getting more exasperated “Yes you do, he used to play dominoes in the Tit n Tantrum with Frank Bogglestrop, kept chickens in the bath” Me “I can’t remember him” Him, now with steam coming out of the top of his flat cap. “Course you do, had a tartan wheebarrow, you used to go to school with his Ermintrude, fat lass, had a wart, wore a monicle, you MUST remember that” Me “Oh yeah of course!” Lying through me teeth wanting to get it over with. Him, with satisfied smile, “Well he’s dead”

I learnt after about the 25th similar conversation (My Dad knew some peculiar folks) that this would always be the punch line, and the quicker we got it over with, the sooner we could move on to, when he died, what of, how much he left, how many people came to his funeral and the quality of the vol au vents at the wake. Well it was more likely to have been a pork pie spread, but you can dream.

“Yer, it was a bad do, poor Eric” Me, “really what happened”. Him “He got his finger caught in his new electric mangle” Me “ that’s not usually fatal is it?” Him “No, but he was picking his nose at the time”

Then the newspaper would come out and he would read the “In Memorium” section. “Here listen to this, his Wife Ethel wrote this (with her good hand supposedly) it’s lovely it is”

“God saw you looking weary,
He did what he thought best
He took you in his gentle arms
And laid you down to rest.

Me. “You what?” “You said she hated him, you used to tell me that she made him live in the coal shed after she caught him drinking her wart remover? Him “Yes, but you can’t speak ill of the dead can you?” Me “Why not? They can’t hear you”.

What I think is, never mind all the hypocrisy, what we should do is tell it like it was. Don’t hold back, get it off your chest.

What Ethel should have wrote in memory of Eric was this………

God saw you looking weary
He did what he thought best
He tripped you up when you were pissed
And choked you with your vest…………..

There’s more, but I’m afraid you might die laughing………………………….