Tales of a Funeral: Donald Where's Yer Troosers and the Straight Cavalier

'Donald, Where's Yer Troosers?' By Andy Stewart finished the service just the way he would have liked, the only point Bro and I could recognise as something connected with our father. It was surreal, as if we had somehow wandered into the funeral of a stranger. Perhaps the family thought so too; throughout the service our existence in Dad's life as a historical fact was politely marginalised, mentioned once and never referred to again. Everything else was about how devoted he was to his second wife and second daughter.

We had, however, been given some time alone with the coffin at the house. The casket was closed. Personally, if it is practical, I think open casket is better, because it really is the most undeniable finality; sight of the body makes one's animal self accept what the mind and emotions may resist. Still, it would have been a nightmare for our half-sister assuming she could make it out at all. She is 21 now and severely disabled with cerebral palsy, learning difficulties, walking difficulties, near blindness...she cried at the bouquet covered coffin as it was.

Bro had chosen our flowers, deep blue blooms, white roses and lilies, purple cabbages. 'Give 'em hell! XXX' was the message devised by Bro, a wee jokule that Dad might have appreciated, though it was his day for the last laugh. Before any of this was known or dreamed of, Bro and Dad's final exchange was on my facebook wall, arguing over the name of a pub that Dad liked, the one-time Gay Cavalier (Devizes was a parliamentary stronghold in the Civil War, and Roundway Hill is not only the site of a royalist victory but one of the places in Blighty where phantom battles are still heard.) Anyhoo, The Gay Cavalier was changed to The Cavalier after, in Dad's words,'The Gays stole the word,' cue Bro's instant riposte about the word 'Gay,' always being associated with homosexual behaviour, etc, etc... Naturally the wake was held at The Cavalier which, by the way, is a terrible pub.

I did get to see the kind old oak in Hillworth Park, and the little house we finally settled after returning to Blighty from Singapore. It was a little sad. Then we drove back to the lighter, less oppressive atmosphere of Her Satanic Majesty, the City of London. There is definitely a story in the past and in Devizes, and at some point I may go back to find it. But right now is about appreciating my life, and life in general. Time to laugh again. And thanks for a final giggle, Dad.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4yw0bLHTOb0

He cannot be left alone...

I knew it.

Deep down in my heart I knew it would happen, and I still left the wake, like a fricking idiot. Maybe if I had stayed this wouldn't have happened, or the tone could have been changed, or something, anything other than some absurd carnybarny.

My bro is angry about some things, and he is right to be angry about them, but a wake is not the place. What am I talking about? Of course a wake is the place. It's the very best place. The coffin's meant to be present so that everyone has something to rest their pints on while the fight enthralls the seated, excepting those who use their seats as weapons natch.

Fortunately this pent-up aggression manifested as nothing more than some daft drunken verbals between Bro and those who were homophobic dicks towards him way back when. First, he decides he wants a private word with taciturn uncle B. Uncle B is speaking to someone, Bro dismisses the someone. Uncle B says he was rude to do so. They have ding-dong number 1 over this. Then Uncle B asks Bro when he took up smoking. Bro tells Uncle B that it was in his 30s. Uncle B tells Bro that it was a stupid thing to do. Bro loses the plot, announces to Uncle B that he is a)not stupid, b)a genius and c) when Uncle B earns [insert amount] as much as Bro does, then he can call him stupid.

On to Aunt J, who needs her medication. Who can blame her, given the entertainment? Bro asks her what the problem is, she tells him it's her heart. He remarks that he's surprised the doctors found one. She eyeballs him and says she's a Gallagher by marriage, not blood. Touche!

Good news passed around the room: DNA tests have proven that the two Liverpudlian lads claimed to be Dad's sons are not. His second wife breathes a sigh of relief, Bro is saddened by the fact that we don't have more relatives. More? He can't be civil to the ones we've got!

Bro didn't offend everybody, indeed, he was getting on well with Cousin B, and hopes we can all get together for a meal at his place. I have just pointed out that as Bro has gone out of his way to insult Cousin B's mother and father, the invitation is unlikely to be received well. Bro thinks that if Cousin B is 'any kind of man' he should be able to rise above this sort of thing. I am invited, and of course I'll go; like I said, I'm a fricking idiot.