This is the last post before next week, probably Wednesday, where they may or may not be a bumper entry involving the sidesplitting antics at granddad’s funeral.
I should be careful how I discuss this, my flippant sense of ‘humour’ has already upset mum, the ‘we’re giving granddad up for Lent’ didn’t go down well and something I said about him fucking granny in heaven went down even worse.
The comments were made when I wasn’t firing on all cylinders in fairness to myself. I was a bit pissed at not feeling particularly cheery when mum called the day after news of his exit. Combine this with my oft-mentioned auxiliary nurse experience, which has left a bitter streak as wide as Cheddar Gorge for anything with dentures, I’ve become heartlessly practical about ‘dying old’ and was far more concerned to learn if he was full of Morphine when he slipped his moorings leaving the whole tact-thing convulsing in A&E.
Despite this mum insisted I go up to Yorkshire with my sister and bro to meet her and dad for dinner the night before the funeral, which takes place 1pm on Monday. The selfish side of me is a bit pissed off my weekend has been sliced in twain but, of course, I’m going.
I’ve even been conscientious enough to buy a new suit. My current black uniform was purchased in a hurry a couple of years ago and makes me look like an upended isosceles triangle with hairy ball balanced on top. So yesterday morning following a meeting in the plush offices of a well know record label I found myself in Moss in Kensington.
As soon as I stepped in I remembered why the old black suit had been purchased in such haste. The instinct to run away from cardboard-stiff salesmen contemptuously analysing your attire is only vaguely eclipsed by the desire to wave ones manhood at the staff whilst screaming hymns. I was forced into some £200 (on sale) monster that made me look like I was starring at the funeral rather than merely attending and after almost succumbing to the coos of praise from Edwin managed to escape with my 200 quid still in my wallet.
I took the tube to Oxford Street and walked out the station and right into Top Shop opposite. The good thing about these sorts of places is that the quaffed, poofed sales-yoof don’t give a tinkers cuss if you buy stuff or not allowing you to browse in your own time without hassle. After 10 mins I’d amassed a bunch of reasonably priced togs, which I furtively tried on in their cavernous dressing rooms. To my astonishment their hip, slim, and much-advertised Whistle fitted me like a Featherlite condom. Fully aware I’m way too old to be dressed like Johnny fucking Borrell I rushed to the counter, grabbing a sickeningly hip slim black tie on the way and paid (£110 the lot) trying not to laugh and punch the air in a cloud of smug serendipity and quite possibly, a vile and deluded perception of my physical self. I’m so happy with the bloody thing I’d wear it out under non-funeral circumstances which also makes me feel rather guilty for some weird reason, not to mention an utter, utter cunt.
Oh, don’t go to the Absolut Ice bar. I managed to get a pair of free tickets (with complementary drinks) for it last night, IC and I were supposed to be there by 6.30 but we were a little late (7.45) and they wouldn’t let us in. I hope all the staff get pneumonia and the fucking place melts into a pretentious stagnant puddle not fit to be slurped at by the fetid black tongues of consumptive mongrels.
Have a nice day.