Death Rattle

How undertakers should look

This is going to make me sound like a bring-back-national-service kind of kraken but it’s getting on my tits so must be said. Funerals: what the frig goes through the minds of those who attend them wearing jeans?

In the last year I’ve been to two funerals, noteable not for their terrible circumstances or wailing relatives but for their being heavily populated by Levis. And just last week our local rag had pics of the particularly tragic send-off of a child, again displaying a denim-clad congregation. What in the world of funereal fuck is going on? What makes anyone go to a funeral in their jeans? Are these people terminally disrespectful or is it just that digging out something sombre and fluff-free is just too great a task even on the rare occasion that someone they know pops off?

The first of my skirmishes with funereal skinny fits was at a mate’s cremation. She’d requested lots of colour while she was ill which seemed to give the mourners carte blanche to turn up in all manner of get-ups. Colours, fine, but in the form of scruffy fleeces, torn denims and filthy trainers? I thought I’d mistakenly turned up at a dog walking convention. I’ve never seen so many people who looked as if they just couldn’t be twatted. But it was a funeral, you gimpwalds! What were you thinking? That it just wasn’t a big enough deal to warrant a face wash?

My second skirmish with deathly boot cuts was even worse. Some people looked as if they’d come in their pyjamas and there was a worrying parade of Ugg boots and, get this, slippers. Yes, one 20-something woman wore Tesco slippers (I know what they were. A mate has a pair). There were puffa jackets, leggings, football shirts, hoodies...It was the most astounding display of disrespect I’ve ever seen without Molotov cocktails being flung through the air. I swear, the best dressed person there was the corpse.

Why, you miserable bunch of feckless imbeciles? Why couldn’t you just make an effort? I mean, how many fucking funerals do you go to in any one year? It’s hardly as if your mourning dress is in the wash. And yes, should the departed request a colourful final hurrah, you can wear something bright without it being polyester/ branded/ motheaten. At what point did you throw on what you wore to the pub last night, check yourself in the mirror and think, “Looking good, me ole mukka, looking good!” before consoling broken-hearted children and spouses during one of the worst days of their lives?

I’ve requested a colourful cheerio upon my demise but I’ll be fucked if I want anyone to attend my funeral as if they were nipping to the pub. And believe me, after 18 months of suicidal tendencies I’ve given this plenty of thought. I’m willing to forego my place at Satan’s side just to haunt anyone who even briefly considered slinging on jeans to see me off. You’ve been warned and I’ve got the rattling chains to see this promise through. Er, whoo-ooo-ooo....