Mike Lockley: Wife wants a conga at my funeral

Aug 15 2010

I DON’T want my funeral to be a sad occasion.

“Don’t worry, it won’t,” flashed my wife.

I want laughter.

“A conga chain, perhaps?” asked Julie. “We could all sing ‘You put his left leg in…’ as they place you in the coffin.”

I want it to be a celebration of my achievements.

“You’re not on about the 1971 St Andrew’s finger-football tournament again?” she enquired.

Perhaps a minute of spontaneous applause in the church.

“Not round the deathbed?” asked my wife, looking crestfallen.

Last week’s funeral put things into perspective, got me thinking about my own mortality. The wife and I are at an age when relatives and acquaintances are passing away with increasing regularity.

That’s why we’ve developed a morbid fascination in the evening newspaper death columns.

“You’ll never guess who’s died?” shouted my wife. “Mr Green who ran the line-dancing classes.”

“Really?” I gasped. “Where are they holding the achy, breaky wakey?”

Fantastic. Another one I outlived. And he was teetotal.

The wife and I wouldn’t mind being stuffed when we ‘go’. A taxidermist said it’s possible, but we’d have to have badgers’ eyes.

Sealed

“Mounted?” he asked.

“Just holding hands will be fine,” I assured the man.

It’s radical, but borne out of a fear of cremation. If that has to be the final scenario, I’ve worked out a precise guide, based on height and weight, to how long cremation needs to take.

The formula, handed in a sealed envelop to my wife, announces: “Place in a pre-heated over, gas mark 5, and leave for 50 minutes, turning occasionally.” It’s loosely based on an old turkey recipe. I just left out the roast potatoes.