|
|
Flumcake On-Line takes a short break this week from our on-going investigation into the murder of our Editor, Douglas Robertson, to bring you a report on his funeral. We hope that this will put to rest the rumours going about which claim that he's not really dead, he's only pretending in a bid to add some much needed inspiration to a tired and unoriginal humourous web-site. Have you people no shame?
The funeral happened last Thursday and was a very emotional affair. The service began at Parkview avenue and terminated close to the church which was really handy for us becuase all of Flumcakes miniscule resources where being used to keep the rent up on Flumcake Towers so we couldn't really afford to hire a hearse. Anyway, we man-handled his coffin onto the bus and placed it on the backseat. After a brief argument with the conductor of a philosophical nature as to whether we should pay for a ticket for Douglas, what with him being dead and all, which we lost, disaster struck. The bus broke sharply and the coffin almost fell off the seat. Fortunately this was real life so nothing silly happened like the coffin opening and the body falling out and rolling down the bus, knocking down the passengers coming on. We at Flumcake have more style than that. Realising that what with Gods being what they were it was best not to tempt fate so we put a massive big padlock and chain over the coffin to stop things like that happening.
Alas, what we thought was a foolproof plan was nothing of the sort. At the next stop an old woman came on with a small dog. She came and sat at the back and informed us that she was 82, she had bunions, she fought in the war for us lot, she was 89, she didn't know what was wrong with the youth of today, her Herbert wouldn't stand for it, she was 121, aren't post office queues long these days, it's not fair what with her being 145. We paid little attention to her, being more interested in the fact that her dog was pissing on Douglas' coffin. Before we could comment on this amazing lack of ettiquette the bus stopped at another stop with a sharp bump, the coffin fell down and this time the lid fell open, Douglas fell out, rolled down the bus and knocked down all the passengers coming on. The old lady said that "it was the fault of video games and the internet, her War wouldn't stand for it. It fought in the Herbert for us lot.". We just ignored her and concentrated on getting Douglas back into his position of restitude.
Thanks to the dog pissing on the padlock and rusting the chain to buggery we were severely embarrased, although the passengers seemed to be having a good laugh. Quite frankly we should have expected it. Being the cheapskates we are, we were trying to find a cheap way of getting the funeral done so as we scoured lists of garbage disposal experts we noticed a small ad for "Mr Titbottoms' Funeral Services" who, according to their advert "put the fun into funeral!". As they were cheap we decided just to go for them. The only provision was that we allow them to film the service, for possible use on either You've Been Framed or any ITV sitcom. This seemed to be the first of their amusing escapades for our funeral procession.
Anyway, going back to the plot/telling of a real life occurence/load of tosh (depending on your point of view) we arrived at the bus stop to be met by our coffin bearers, contrary to popular tradition they weren't close members of Mr Robertsons family but were in fact popular comedians the Chuckle Brothers, the world's tallest man, a dwarf, a clown (who we later found out was called Binky) and the front half of a pantomime horse. They came on to the bus and helped us take the coffin off. We got off just as the bus was leaving and the coffin bearers positioned themselves. First of all the Chuckle Brothers tried to take it between the two of them and they did their world famous "To Me, To You" routine as they moved the coffin towards each other. The result, as the more astute of you may have worked out in advance, thus rendering my telling worthless, was that the cofin opened up once more and Douglas rolled out and headed down the hill. We all ran after the body in an amusing speeded up Beny Hill fashion which involved at one point Douglas rolling up the hill away from us and the pantomime horse spending most of it's time going in the worng way. After our unenjoyable half hour of exertion we finally got him into the coffin again and promptly set about kicking seven bells out of the Chuckle Brothers for their lack of respect.
After that rather enjoyable bit of exertion we sent the Chuckle Brothers home with a note to their parents (later on we realised that that was a bit of a stupid idea as the Chuckle Brothers don't haev parents, what with them being the spawn of Satan and all) and tried to get the coffin bearers organised again. This time the worlds tallest man and the dwarf elected to carry the coffin. Unfortunately as Flumcake is a completely Politically Correct organisation we felt that it would be sizeist of us to point out the fact that one of them waas massive and one of them was tiny. On consideration we realised that while it may have been sizeist of us to point that out, it was bloody stupid of us not to point this out as was confirmed when the coffin lid opened up for the third time and the body fell out and rolled down the hill. Again. The Teletubbies would have been proud of our speeded up running around as we tried to get the body back into the coffin.
As we got the rather worse for wear corpse into it's coffin, the front of the pantomime horse and the clown asked if it was their turn now. We gave this due consideration and decided not to bother as that would be far, far too silly, and besides, this rather poor joke has gone on to long as it is. Instead we fitted wheels onto the coffin and pushed it down towards the church as that was a much more sensible idea.
We decided against trying to get the coffin into the church as we could see the poorly disguised tripwire at the door. No doubt another attempt to get the coffin to open up. Fortunately we were too intelligent for them and decided to leave the coffin outside. Realising the problem that there was now no body to display inside the church we found a dead bird with which to signify the corpse. We went into the church and placed the bird down on a silk cloth and took our seats at the front and listened to the minister who was, oddly enough, already in full flow. "...and do you, Emelia Periwhistle Smandoline take this man...". As we listened we realised that we had made a hideous mistake, we had arrived a little to early. With mounting horror we looked at the silk cloth we had placed the bird on. Panic set in slightly at that point so we stood up, quicklly picked the bird up off of the Brides' train and ran out of the church. We noticed a cameraman at the back of the church who gave us a big thumbs up.
We got back outside and discovered that despite us only being in the church for five minutes, somebody had come in and stolen the wheels off of the coffin. Fortunately the lid was still closed so we sat down on it and waited for the wedding party to finish. Time passed and we eventually got back inside (running short of ideas? Me? Nah.), the bird was returned to it's stand at the front of the church and we sat down for the funeral service proper. We waited for what seemed like ages. The other patrons, most of whom we thought knew Douglas in some way or other (it later turned out that they owed him money), began to get restless. Feet began to stamp and a chorus of "Why are We Waiting" had just begun when suddenly the lights dimmed. A deep bass chord began and rumbled around the church. A column of light suddenly appeared in the middle of the pulpit and a man dressed in a blue sequined suit and a dog collar appeared. He walked up to the lectern and said "Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to the funeral of Douglas Robertson." As he spoke the chords gained treble and a picture of the dead bird appeared on giant video screens suspended at the back of the church. As the image appeared a general mummering broke out among the congregation, the main topic of conversation that he'd lost a lot of weight and that he didn't really have the family nose.
All conversation stopped as a multi-coloured laser light show was projected onto the back of the church and a drumbeat kicked into the background music. "I am Mr Titbottom" said the man in the spangly suit, a small titter broke out among the congregation. Mr Titbottom wisely ignored it. "I am here to compere the funeral of Douglas Robertson," he continued, "a man cut down in his prime by persons or persons unknown. But before we get into the eulogy crap I'd like to introduce a friend of mine, Billy the Banjo player who will sing Hymn number 6125 When I'm cleaning Windows." The music abruptly cut out, the laser light show stopped leaving after images in the eyes of the congregation and all the lights came on. A young man dressed in a suit as beloved of Chris Evans during his Don't Forget Your Toothbrush phase. He had more teeth than was strictly speaking nessicary for one person. He was indeed clutching a banjo. Which he began playing with gusto. We all rose, sang the hymn and sat down again.
The same chords and lighting system as before started up and Mr Titbottom returned to the pulpit. "Now, before we get on to the eulogies I'd just like to say that this funeral has been organised by Mr Titbottoms' Funeral Service who put the fun into funeral. The reason we do this is that my name is considered by some to be mildly amusing, my wife, Fanny, and I cannot work out why this is so but nevertheless it is true. As a result, our original funeral service, which was a real proper funeral parlour, was never taken seriously. When we changed to our slightly more humourous service we found we got more and more bookings. You too can make a booking by phoning 0898 696969 or by speaking to me after the service. Thank you.", Mr Titbottom paused and looked at his watch, "Ah, no time for the eulogies, suffice to say he was probably a wonderful person. They always are once they're dead, heaven must be full if people only spoke the truth at funerals. Right, if you'll follow me we'll go and bury the git."
The music and lights stopped again. As we walked towards the plot which had been dug for him I struck up a brief conversation with Mr Titbottom. I asked him how long he'd been a vicar for and whether it was normal for vicars to run their own funeral services. He gave me £20 and told me to "keep schtum if I knew what was good for me.", I left the strange man and went back to give them a hand lugging the coffin up to the plot.
As we arrived at the plot, knackered from pulling the coffin behind us, we realised that the lid had fallen open once more and the corpse was once more enjoying the benefits of being free from the shackles of wood. We went back and found him lying in the mud. Lugging him back to the plot we put him back in the coffin and quickly pushed the coffin into the hole. Mr Titbottom stood at one end of the grave and scattered some earth over the coffin. "Ashes to Ashes... Funk to Funky..."
A voice piped up from the back of the congregation, "Christ! Surely you can do better than that. That jokes ancient". A general mummer of agreement moved round the grave.
"OK, OK" said Mr Titbottom, "I couldn't resist it. How about Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dusty"
"Now that", piped up another member of the congregation, "is just freely ripped off from a Robert Rankin book, get some jokes of your own"
"Why you little bastard" shouted Mr Titbottom and he dived across the grave to try and hit the mocking member. Unfortunately he misjudged his jump and landed in the grave on top of the coffin. At this point the grave diggers decided it was time to start filling in the grave so showers of earth began to land on Mr Titbottom. The contract was fulfilled and it was time to leave. I turned around and paused only to look at the headstone. I hadn't chosen the headstone, that honour ahd gone to his family. I was hoping that it would comment upon what a great man he was and maybe make a mention of his unique sense of humour. His parents seemed to have decided against that approach. Instead the message that they decided to leave to remind the world of their son was "Joanne Carentol, 1927-1997. A wonderful mother and grandmother. God bless you Gammy Cupkis". With a heavy heart I turned around and walked away.
By HP Wolverine, Acting Editor
Comments? Suggestions? Mail them to us at flumcake@geocities.com and we'll treat them with the respect they deserve. No, really we will.
| Previous | Index | Next |
©1997 Killing Lambda Productions
