I’m Getting Buried In The Morning

I woke to the noise of the radio news announcing I was to be buried today. ‘My God’, I thought, as my brain pained into wakefulness, ‘I’ve been dead for a week and no-one’s had the decency to tell me’.

I poured myself a stiff drink (well, no harm if I'm dead) and my memory began to piece itself back together.

My death had been reported a few days previously. My ex-wife Mona had called round in one of her panicky tithers. "Oh Brian, you're not dead," she said.

"You called round specially to tell me that? I could have worked it out for myself given time."

"They're saying you died. There's an obituary in the Guardian."

"Ooh, I'll have a read of that. Is it a good one?"

"I didn't read it Brian, I've been trying to get hold of you. I tried phoning you'd left your phone at the club."

"Ah, I was wondering about that."

As we were talking there was another ring at the door.

"Seems I'm more popular dead than I ever was when I was alive."  I opened the door to Strop, and his current husband, whose name I'd never bothered learning.

"You're alive," he said, always a master of the blatantly obvious, its why his songs fare so well in the pop charts.

"Never trust the Guardian, dear boy," I said. "They get paid extra for every lie they write."

"I thought I'd better call round and check. No point phoning, as you'd left it at your club." He took my phone out of his pocket and waved it at me.

"We'd better tell the press," said Mona, "Let everyone know Brian's alive and well. People will be worried."

"We could do that," said Strop. "I was talking to Beryl (Strop and I share an agent) and we thought we might delay a rapid response. It won't take long to phone around friends to reassure them, but I don't see the need to hurry the information to the press. Death isn't a bad thing marketing wise."

"Ah, you money-mad swine," I said. "You're thinking about record sales."

"We thought we could use the funeral as a photo shoot for the greatest hits album due out this year. Get plenty of pre-publicity."

"Funeral dear boy?  You remember I'm not actually dead?"

"Not a real funeral Damage, a staged one. Invite some photographer friends who can be trusted not to leak the story, make a show of it."

xxx

And so it came to pass. My death was not officially denied and a 'funeral' was arranged with Strop's PR people making a big song and dance about my career.

On the day of my funeral Skins was the first to arrive at my flat, covered in mud and dripping wet, some people have no respect.

"You chose a miserable day to get buried, Damage, it's pissing down. I've been helping dig your grave, an absolute waste of time, the ground's so muddy we shouldn't need to dig a hole, you could swim your way six feet under."

"Don't be a fool dear boy, you know I never swim, I didn't get so much as my school certificate for the hundred yards manic flapping."

"This has to be one of Strop's most idiotic ideas. I mean, do a big reveal that you're still alive, that's a story, a nice dry piece in an indoor setting, but no, Strop announces a big outdoor funeral without bothering to check to check the weather."

"I'm rather looking forward to it," I said. It will be nice to be there to hear all the accolades, see the mass hordes of my fan base, and with Strop arranging it should be a dignified send off."

"It'll be a bloody mud bath, about as dignified as an all-hippo wresting contest."

Strop arrived with his entourage of press, photographers, PR people and friends.  Beryl was with them, the first time I've seen her since that time she begged me to stop doing interviews.

"Brian," she said. "Sales are through the roof and I've had more requests for interviews since you died than I ever did when you were alive."

"But I am alive, dear gal," I said.

"Shush, don't tell anyone until we have to. Your death is the best thing that every happened to you."  She always was a charmer was our Beryl.

Strop had arranged everything, including a hearse and mourners. I climbed in the back of the hearse where there was even a real coffin waiting for me.

"You hired a coffin?"

"Bought it, I couldn't find anywhere that hired them out, most people tend to need coffins for long-term-use. You can keep it for the real event when we're done with the photo-shoot."

"You think of everything, dear boy. When I'm about to die I'll just climb inside and save everyone the trouble."

The entourage set off to the idyllic churchyard where my funeral was to be staged. We arrived to what looked like a scene from the battle of the Somme, all mud and mist.

The coffin was dragged to the recently-dug hole at the rear of the churchyard, which was already filled with rain and mud, in spite of a badly-draped tarpaulin.

"If you could lie in the coffin before we lower it in," Strop said, "We'll get some photos."

The photographers duly snapped away through the rain and mist. All done, the lid was place on the coffin, which was lowered into the 'grave' for a second round of snaps.

"If you stand aside Damage," Strop said, "It's not going to look like your coffin if you're standing next to the grave."

I went to move away from my graveside, but it was so wet with mud and rain that I slipped, and tumbled into my own grave.

"Typical Damage," said Skins, "He can't even keep out of trouble when he's dead."

"I'm not dead," I shouted from my grave, "Just buried. Get me out of here."

Strop had brought along a rope which was flung into my grave. After much swearing and cursing I managed to clamber up the side, only to lose my footing just as I'd removed myself, and I tumbled back into my grave.

Eventually I was rescued a second time and stumbled to safely.

"Are you all right Brian?" Mona said.

"I'm wet, muddy, twice buried, but nothing a quick brandy down the Dog and Ferret won't cure. We can toast my death, and my good health."

An unenthusiastic consensus followed and Mona, Strop and Skins joined me for an impromptu wake, while the press, photographers and general hangers-on dispersed.

"We should have a toast," someone said once the drinks were served, probably me.

"To Damage," Skins suggested. "Dead and buried but still drinking too much."

The wake lasted a couple of hours, until all enthusiasm for watching me get drunk was exhausted. 

Skins gave me a lift home, my hearse haven't moved on to the next job.

I couldn’t face sleep just yet so I switched the telly on.  The late night newsreader was blathering on about the value of the pound and a cow that could milk itself.  Nothing about my funeral though, clearly my death was no longer news in spite of Strop's best efforts. What a fickle world we inhabit, with its fleeting five minutes of fame and five decades of the void fame leaves after it passes.