believe in God or not, there is still the possibility
he or she will be there waiting for you after death: those
of you wishing for a coin to be placed in your mouths or
victuals to be provided for a postulated journey have only
to let us know. Again, you may see death as the ex-
change of individual life for biological improvement
and conservation as part of a scheme for higher ful-
filment on the part of some life force. Or you can
simply see yourselves as potentially a heap of rather
superior manure: there is, in fact, no dishonour in
that. However you look at it, someone has to decide what
to do with what you leave behind you, and as this is a
democratic institution we give you this opportunity to
decide, for yourselves, between burial, cremation, acid
bath, remote moorland exposure, or whatever.
No replies. Never are. I just hand them over to an
undertaker who probably uses them for meat pies, anyway.
And now at last what you have all been waiting for:
Entertainment! Up on the stage for this, so that
they can see better.
Here’s one you’ll all enjoy. A little girl, let’s
call her Dottie, was sitting on her grandad’s knee
and said: “Grandad, were you in the Ark?” “No, of
course I wasn’t!” said the Grandad, somewhat taken
aback. “Then why,” said delightful little Dottie,
“weren’t you drownded?” Isn’t
that a funny one? Laugh, you stupid old twats!
Here’s another one, even better.
Most of you are at the metallic stage of your lives:
silver in your hair, gold in your teeth, and, in the
case of the men, lead in your trousers!
Laugh!
I’ll give them just one more. There was a
very old couple. The husband was ninety-eight and
the wife was ninety-five. One day their son died,
aged seventy-two. The husband consoled his grief-
stricken wife by saying: “There, there, dear, we never
did think we’d live to see him grow up.”
All right, so it’s
a rotten joke. What do you expect, professional comics?
But I must just tell you this last one. A man lying
on his deathbed was asked if he had made his peace
with God. “I didn’t know we had ever had a row,”
said the man, wittily.
Isn’t that screamingly funny?
Mind you, he didn’t get into heaven either.
A slight laugh. How curious that
heaven does concern some of them in the way — Ivy!
How dare you read a book during Entertainment! Who
do you think you are? How dare you?
I should think so too! You’d
all better watch now, it’s the Piece de Resistance.
Turn on the sexy music. Ralphie!
Here, boy. Here we go, then, sway, that’s
it, just right, slowly unbutton my overall, so they
can see I have only a bra
then only tights underneath
cast off the overall over Ralphie. Up
on the table slowly down with my stocking
tights one leg the other I can
see you’re enjoying this! All watching, except
Mrs Stanton, asleep or dead — does it matter? Now
my bra, tantalise by appearing to have difficulty.
Wouldn’t they all rather be dead?
Ah, friend, that is where we make a mistake! For
they would all rather be alive! All! Tights,
gossamer, off stand! And the music swells to
an early climax. Here, Ralphie! Up on the table
with Mummy! That’s it, you know what to do with
your long probing red Borzoi tongue, don’t you, Ralphie!
Lovely!
oooooh!
that’s it!
Oh, Ralphie! Faster! we’re getting near the
end of the page, Ralphie! oooooh! oh!
iiiiiihl! oooooh! nearly! YES!
There! Wasn’t that wonderful!
I know you too have your little feels in the
toilets. Good luck to you! I hope you enjoy
them as much as I do. And now we must be
in just the mood to sing the Jubilate before we
all vanish up our own orifices.
All together now! One Two Three!
Death comes to all, no matter who,
No matter what we bloody do:
Despite lacrosse, P.E. and gym,
Our lights at last will surely dim.
For this we should stand up and cheer
And please ourselves while we are here:
Death comes to all, no matter who,
No matter what you bloody do!
And here you see, friend, I am about to step
outside the convention, the framework of twenty-
one pages per person. Thus you see I too am the
puppet or concoction of a writer (you always knew
there was a writer behind it all? Ah, there’s
no fooling you readers!), a writer who has me at
present standing in the post-orgasmic nude but
who still expects me to be his words without
embarrassment or personal comfort. So
you see this is from his skull. It is a diagram
of certain aspects of the inside of his skull!
What a laugh!
Still, I’ll finish off for him, about the sadness,
the need to go farther better to appreciate the
nearer, what you have now: if you are not like
our friends, friend, laugh now, prepare, accept,
worse times are a-coming, nothing is more sure.
But here’s something he found in the Montgomeryshire
Collections and thought you might like to have
for yourself, friend:
F for Francis
I for Chances
N for Nicholas
I for Tickle us
S for Sammy the
Salt Box
About the Author
B. S. Johnson was born in 1933 at Hammersmith and (apart from the war, during which he was an evacuee) lived in London most of his life. He read English at King’s College, London, and was married with two children. His other novels include Travelling People, which won the Gregory Award for 1962, Alberi Angelo (1964), Trawl, which won the Somerset Maugham Award for 1967, The Unfortunates (1969), Christie Malry’s Own Double-Entry