I’VE hit administrative hurdle after administrative hurdle in my bid to be stuffed and mounted when called to meet my maker.
With burial space in our tiny parish church at a premium, I saw it as a goodwill gesture to those elderly residents who have spent restless nights wondering if they will be laid to rest in the village of their birth.
OK, they may well beat me to it - some, to be honest, look well settled in God’s waiting room. But who knows where the next bolt of lightning will strike, or upon whose plate the next rogue batch of prawns will fall?
Only yesterday I remarked to 87-year-old Mrs Goodfellow: “That sounds a terrible cough, Mrs Goodfellow.”
“I know,” she croaked, “I just can’t shake it off - it seems to be getting worse.”
“Never mind,” I told the sweet old bird, “you can have my burial plot.”
She thanked me, but hoped it was nothing more than a chesty cold.
“Old Tom had a chesty cold,” I told Mrs Goodfellow, casting a knowing glance.
Old Tom was hit by the community mini-bus, she pointed out.
“While blowing his nose, according to the inquest,” I added.
On the economic front, stuffing is four times cheaper than a funeral.
And you don’t actually lose loved ones: you can take them home and use them to scare off Mormons when they come round.
Just stick the stuffed family member in a chair, invite the American Bible bashers inside, wait for them to come out with the old chestnut, “would you like to be closer to the Kingdom of God?” and tell them, “you couldn’t get any closer than our Frank over there.”
After initial reticence, a local taxidermist has agreed to carry out the job. “I’ve never done anything bigger than a badger before,” he said, a tad concerned, “but it’s the same principle, really. How would you like to be mounted? How about on all fours sniffing a scattering of acorns.”
I was thinking more on the lines of in repose - reading the Times, perhaps?
“Really!” exclaimed the surprised stuffer. “Okay, I’ll give it a go. How about peering out of your sett with the Times spread on the ground before you?”
Urged him to forget about the whole badger thing, and work on a more human backcloth.
“Gotya. How about you - on all fours again - scavenging in an overturned dustbin?”
Now, both the environmental health department and police have voiced their concern over my hopes to be placed in the village’s only gentlemen’s public urinal, my left arm thrust forward, a finger pointing accusingly, my right hand clutching a large sign declaring: “Now wash your hands!”
“You’ll have drunken youths urinating on your trouser legs,” said PC Dixon. “Have you thought about that, Mike? Do you want your wife to witness something like that when you’re gone. Doesn’t that worry you?”
I’m more worried by news my wife might start hanging around gents’ toilets when I slip this mortal coil, frankly.
Environmental chiefs have also poo-pooed plans to place my stuffed remains in the window of Lee Longlands, reclining on a leather sofa under the banner slogan: “Get a three-piece-suite and really rest in peace.”
Pity, my kids could’ve done with the advertising revenue.
“Looks like you’re going to have to stick me in the hall of our house,” I told the wife. “Maybe you could use me as a novel hatstand.”
“Don’t talk about it,” said Julie, “it’s too horrible.”
“What, me not being here?”
No - being stuffed and placed in the hall. You’d clash with the wallpaper.”
THE Rev Ricky, our trendy, acoustic guitar-playing vicar, has written a missive in this month’s issue of ‘The Sandal’ imploring parishioners to think long and hard about those less fortunate.
That’s a toughie. Locally, I could only think of five: and when I say ‘locally’, I’m including Leicestershire and Oxfordshire.
Those five include a man in Warwick we call Mr Twirl who walks five paces, shouts then spins 360 degrees on his heels before walking five paces again.
If only he’d take up line-dancing, no one would be any the wiser.
He’s got a bigger house and better car than me, but the twirling would give me the edge in the eyes of any right-minded, independent judge, surely?
“You know, Mike,” said the Rev Ricky, beaming and gushing as if fronting some kiddies’ TV show, “I walked through Jephson Gardens on Christmas Eve and cast my eyes on poor lost souls, too drunk to stand after a day downing bottle after bottle, many still grimly clutching the alcohol that had scrambled their senses. I don’t mind admitting that I felt angry and, in some way, inadequate.”
“I know exactly what you mean, vicar,” I assured him. “I wish I had the money to get that drunk. Really makes me mad...”
Showed the startled cleric my list of ‘less fortunate’ individuals to prove I’d taken his New Year essay on board.”
“Come, come, Mike,” he tutted, “what on earth is Mr French at Number 42 doing on there?”
Shocked me, that did. “Well, the poor chap’s got very flaky skin and a nasal hair problem,” I told him, “and, let’s be honest, his wife’s no oil painting.”
Rev Ricky said I’d got his message all wrong: mistaken Christian care with one-up-manship.
“For instance,” he added, a tad sniffily, “what steps could you take to make Mr French’s life a little better, a little more complete?”
Dunno. Buy him a pair of nasal hair clippers, I suppose.
“For goodness sake, think of the bigger picture,” demanded the Rev. “Think of the toil and sacrifices that have been made by those individuals from far-off lands - how they have suffered and are still suffering.
“Are you talking about the Welsh?” I asked, a tad puzzled, “because around here there’s only Mr Davies - and he moved out of Prestatyn 40 years ago.”
Addicted to satellite TV’s documentary channels, even though every programme is about Adolf Hitler or sharks.
Someone should make ‘Hitler’s Sharks’ and save Sky a shedload of money. They could get a diver dressed as Adolf swimming with great whites.
Each night brings fresh interviews with people who have been bitten by great whites and spat out. Lucky escapes, but if a shark can’t stomach you, what chance have you got with the opposite sex?
Last night it was ‘Hitler’s Music’, a kind of Desert Island Discs for the Fuhrer, which started with the stark warning: “If you like any of the following pieces, you share your musical taste with Adolf Hitler.”
Thankfully, there was no ABBA or Suzi Quatro, just lots of Wagner. There was a distinct lack of sing-a-long material, to be honest - a real own-goal for someone who organised so many rallies. And nothing you’d want to try at a karaoke.
As an aid to relaxation, I’ve got a CD of whale noises: the eerie moans accompanied by haunting synthesizers. If he’d listened to that, Hitler would never have invaded Poland. I’m convinced of it.
The hour-long documentary concluded the Nazi was not much of a dancer. But, boy, could he teach today’s rappers a thing or two about hand movements.
OH joyous day - the thatcher cometh.
There’s something uplifting about watching the aged craftsman working patiently on the roof of our tiny hamlet’s most picturesque property - a flashback to an unhurried rural life, long forgotten.
He’s the last of a breed, he told me. “There are no more thatchers about?” I asked.
“No, there are a few, but I’m impotent,” he shouted. “My stepson learnt the trade, but decided to be a hairdresser. It’s the same, basic skill, but thatch doesn’t get nits. Or dandruff. And it’s best not to give someone a short back and sides with a sickle.”
His brother, now deceased, had tried to continue the family tradition, but didn’t have what it takes. He was allergic to reeds.
“Nice thatch,” I shouted as the worker chopped and teased the golden strips.
“Actually, it’s a weave,” he snapped.
“What’s the difference?” I asked.
“One’s a wig, the other isn’t,” he bellowed.
There’s no money in the skill nowadays, apparently, because householders don’t want straw roofs. Their loss. Exactly the same thing happened to cavity wall insulation, except they didn’t have cavity wall insulation salesmen in Tudor times. And cladding.
When our man hangs up his scythe, the nearest thatcher will be in East Anglia. “Yet,” recalled the worker, “I can remember a time when I could open my door and shout for a thatcher and at least three would answer, which was strange. I lived in a tower block.”
He’s enjoyed rich pickings in our community, however. The council even had the bus shelter thatched, which is a bonus for vandals. It used to take half-an-hour to torch the thing, now they can do it in 15 minutes.
The craft has also been shaken by a flood of synthetic thatch from Taiwan. “It’s electric orange and plays ‘Raindrops Are Falling On My Head’ in a storm, but apart from that you can’t tell the difference from the real stuff,” bemoaned the thatcher.
JUST discovered a K-Tel 'cut-as-you-comb' device in our attic. In theory, the 70s breakthrough clippers were intended to make barbers redundant. The gadgets sliced hair as you combed. In reality, they led to a score of youngsters being sent home from school with suspected mange. I used mine once and ended with a centre parting that would've won a young farmers' ploughing competition. As a hairdressing tool they were next to useless, but were absolutely mustard when it came to castrating ferrets, breeders have told me. K-Tel also produced a 'magic' brush which mopped-up fluff. Punters who believed fluff-collecting brushes were magic probably wet themselves - or dropped on their knees and prayed - when a plane flew overhead. My mate at school reckoned K-Tel employed former Third Reich scientists who defected to the company after the war. After slaving over heavy water, creating a comb that cuts hair must've been a breeze. | 
