Yippee! Steve's Hosting A Funeral!

I’ve been pondering death lately – I’ve even been working on a play about it called, aptly, Death Play. At least that’s what the file on my laptop is called. I suspect I’ll come up with something a bit more poncey or obscure when I finish it: ‘Single-Seater Fluge’ for example. I’ve no idea what a fluge is or if they make them as single-seaters, but a play’s title should work as a hook to draw the audience in. That’s what I’m always telling my students, anyway.

Working along those lines and with an eye on increasing audience numbers it might be worth re-thinking a play’s title and adapting it to suit potential audiences. I know that’s what the U.S film industry does. So, let’s say I’m lucky enough to get Death Play produced. And let’s also say that the opening night is a Saturday night in any one of a number of towns where the weekend entertainment includes lager, chicken madras and a late night ride in the back of a meat wagon. ‘Death Play’ or Single-Seater Fluge, as it now is, wouldn’t cause much of a stir among the beer-swilling, curry-noshing violence-doing local populace. But what if it was called: Curry my Lager you Fat Slag! I’m guessing the audience would swell considerably.

Of course, should my play make it to the West End it would have to have another name change, something along the lines of: Joseph and his Amazing Phantom of The Opera Meets Starlight Express, Evita and Jesus Christ, on Sunset Boulevard Whilst out Walking His Cats. Or: JAHAPOTOMSEEAJCOSBWOWHC as it would become known to gazillions of ardent theatregoers.

Anyway, back to death and thoughts on it. I've discovered that death often crops up in my day-to-day musings. I think about it more often than I’d be prepared to admit (even though I have just admitted it).
Over the past few years I’ve been giving much thought to my funeral and I’ve come up with what I think is the perfect funereal experience.

Picture this: the crematorium is crammed to the rafters with weeping mourners all of whom are absolutely inconsolable since hearing of my untimely exit from Planet Earth. I haven’t figured out how I’d like to go yet but I’m thinking along the lines of a KFC bargain-bucket-related food eating scandal of some kind.

So, there you all are, dressed as Tarts and Vicars when the chief mourner – a giant Samoan lady wearing a gold lamay jumpsuit and six inch sling-backs – appears at the back of the crowd on a litter carried by seven dwarves dressed as seventies pop legends, The Village People. Ok, so, there were only five Village People, but I’m going to add two more. One will be dressed as a Tory MP, complete with a Satsuma jammed in his mouth and a fishnet stocking over his head, and the other one will be a Judy Garland looky-likey.

Following on behind the chief mourner will be my coffin which will be made of recycled cardboard, bits of string, paper, tin foil and egg boxes. It will make its way to the rolling platform at the front of the crematorium apparently unaided but will in fact be on tiny wheels, which are fixed at each corner of the coffin and driven (ably) by a man at the back of the room who has a first class honours degree in remote control car driving. His name will be Melvin Scrote, although I’m not sure how I know this to be so. TO BE CONTINUED...