My funeral By Charles Roberts

 

          Look at ‘em all, gathered round my grave like wasps round an open jam jar.  Fifty per-cent I either didn’t know or hated their guts, the other fifty per-cent hated my guts, but one of those bastards murdered me, stopped me from breathing, bumped me off, finished my life, suddenly and completely; well not suddenly, but slowly, a bit at a time.  Was it in my early morning tea?  My breakfast?  If it was then it must have been that gold digging bitch of a wife of mine.  My drink of tea at work? Slowly poisoning me over time.

          No subtlety in it, no treading softly least they crushed my dreams.  Just stetting out to rid the world of my earthly body the best way they could without bringing suspicion on themselves.

And as for that eulogy, the bitch must have hired some out of work hack of an actor to spout all that bullshit about me; because I’d never seen him before, and he had certainly never seen me, I don’t know who wrote his script but he made a right balls up of it.  I even saw the old cow wince at one point when he went wrong.

          I must admit that whoever did for me got their timing right, mid-July during a non-typical English summer seventy degrees and not a cloud to be seen.  All the women out in their light summer dresses and sandals, and the men in their light-weight suits.  Why couldn’t it have been a normal English summer’s day so that the clouds could open and drown the lot of ‘em?

          I just wish I knew who it was who killed me, then I could haunt the living daylights out of them, make their life a living hell for finishing me off, snuffing me out.  And that ruddy coffin!  She didn’t splurge out on that, it must have been the cheapest in the room, it looks like they used old floorboards and stained them to look something like.

          I wonder what they’re doing or where they are going for the meal, I’ll bet the cow skimped on that as well.  British rail sandwiches all curled up at the edges, Scotch eggs, and sausage rolls, washed down with cheap plonk.  Boy will they get a shock when the will is read out, she might be getting the house and her car, but the rest is going to charities.  The kids can whistle if they think that I’ve left anything to those two scroungers, oh they’ll have their cars, but that’s all.  It’s about time that they learned that you have to work if you want anything in this world, well their world now, seeing as some bastard has seen to it that I’ve left it.  Ah well I suppose that it’s time to move on, I’ve seen enough.