Roger's dead dad
Roger's dad was great. Then he died. Poor Roger's dad. We were invited to his funeral, and we turned up - a whole crowd of family friends - at the appointed time and date at Bracknell Crematorium.

We were ushered in by some flunky and the service started. There was, however, no sign of Roger, who we surmised was probably going to be a pall-bearer. He wasn't. He couldn't possibly miss his own dad's funeral, could he?

"Call her mum, gran, or just plain Shirley..." said the vicar.

"Oh bollocks!" said one of our party.

As a hymn started we made a dash for it, but fell foul of those square cushions the faithful leave lying around churches. Down we all went, like a pack of cards.

The Lord’s my Shepherd, I’ll not want - "Get your foot out of my face"
He makes me down to lie - "You bastard, that hurts!"
In pastures green; He leadeth me - "And you can get your hand off my arse for a start"
The quiet waters by. - "Christ on a bike, who's farted?"

Outside, we met Roger.

"Oh. Didn't I tell you we'd put it back to three o'clock?"

Shirley - we're really, really sorry.

The full 12" version HERE, or you could just hang on a month and read it in me new book, eh?
( Scaryduck LIKES EGG, Thu 11 May 2006, 19:32, Reply)