must get it repaired again: it’s over two months,
now. In return, they do these little jobbies for
me. Handicrafts, felt toys last month. And now
Christmas crackers, in due season.
They seem to be getting on reasonably well. Of
course, I can’t expect Mrs Stanton and George to
do very much. But the important thing for them is
that it is there in front of them to be done if they
do wake up or otherwise become capable of doing
it. That really is the important thing, we all agree.
All the books agree. I give
Mrs Stanton about three weeks, and George could
pop off any minute.
But I must get down to my work, too. Here, Ralphie!
Come and lie comfortingly on
my feet while I work on my accounts.
Have to be careful with these, no names, no initials
either, or at least not the right ones.
Frederick, first names will do. Do I
need to keep accounts? Yes, for my own benefit.
Frederick, then, 350 boxes filled with felt toy bits,
how much, at fivepence a box, five hundred pence a
hundred boxes, a fiver a hundred boxes, three-and-a-
half fivers are seventeen pounds and a half, fifty
pence. So. That he still
owes me. When will he be round with another lot?
Can’t tell. It’s that sort of business. He must be
on some big purchase tax fiddle. Income tax, too,
I shouldn’t wonder.
Then there was the penicillin. Lump sum for
altering that lot. Twenty pounds. Shipped abroad,
no doubt, as something or other that it isn’t. But
that’s none of my business, it doesn’t worry me,
either. My job is to keep my friends happy, and,
if it makes money, then so much the better. Do
you not agree, friend? Oh, again, do not think
I have to justify myself!
Seventeen plastic ashtrays: one pound exactly,
a job lot. Contacts are all-important
in this business. It is not enough just to ad-
vertise in the trade papers. I must write to a
number, a large number, of likely sources of
employment. I must point out to them the unique
advantages of my methods of outworking. This
should – Ah, Charlie, my old trusty, I can tell
when you have that lost look on your face that
you are not puzzling over some problem of
philosophy, or even of filling those bottles, but
merely and genteelly trying to fart without Sarah
or anyone else noticing. Charlie.
Ralphie warm on my feet.
What you do not understand, I think,
friend, is that what we imagine they want for them-
selves is not actually what they do want. I do
not know what they want, either. But I do know
that they are certainly not as we are, and that
therefore by definition they do not want what we
want. How does anyone know
what anyone else really wants? Multiply
that by the diffusing effect of time, friend,
which alters with every day, every minute,
virtually! When I was eight I wanted to be a fairy
in a ballet, ho ho ho! he he he! ha ha ha! heh!
heh! heh! and similar printers’ straitjackets for
the gusty, exploding liberation of laughter.
But I forget myself. Where was I?
Yes, the Divisional Officer asked me whether I
would like to undertake a week’s exchange with
a seaside House. Really, I said to him, don’t
you think that would be rather absurd with my
group of friends? Besides (though I didn’t tell
him this) I had my Stationery Goods quota to
meet that week. Which reminds me: how many
sets of pens and rulers was it he still owes
me for? Look it up.
Yes, 230. I’ll have to mention that to
him when he comes, whenever. Can’t be too careful.
That shows the value of keeping accounts.
It’s certain he wouldn’t have remembered it, conveniently,
unless I’d mentioned it.
Don’t think I do this for the money, friend. The
Council takes all their pensions and allows them
back one pound each for their personal expenditure.
That is too much, to my way of thinking. They have
no need of that much pocket money. No, friend,
not for their money: you can see there is little
chance here of the quick oncer.
Ah, Charlie has nearly finished. He’ll be asking
me about corks soon. I’ll go down now.
The rest might as well finish now, too.
Right now, everyone. You can finish now. You’ve
done a good session of work, and so now you
deserve to play. But let’s clear up first,
shall we? Ivy, please collect the boxes for
us. Descend from my throne.
Charlie, yes, I knew you’d ask. You’ve got corks
from the ones which were full, haven’t you?
Good. Then here’s
some more for the others, just stand the boxes
in the corner if you will, please, afterwards.
Ralphie! Come away from that! You all right,
Mrs Stanton? Right as she’ll ever be. Done no
work at all. George, you’ve just been
daydreaming! And screwing up the bits of
paper and getting the bleeding glue all over the
place! Ugh! Still, what
did I expect?
How about you, Mrs Bowen? You’ve been working
with Ivy and Ron, have you? Very nicely, too
You’ve done a lot between you. Yes, yes.
And greedy old Mrs Ridge,
you haven’t done any! Don’t you cheek
me or you’ll get another taste of the twitcher, the
twitcher! Now then!
Very good, Sarah, my old trusty, what a lovely job
you’ve made of those! I’m very pleased with you,
very pleased indeed. Yes, and you, Charlie.
Now let’s have some relaxation. Attention please,
everyone! Stay where you are,
sitting round the long table, and we’re going to
play Pass the Parcel. You pass the parcel from
one to another, and when the music stops whoever
has it tries to open it. When the music starts
again, the parcel must be passed on. And so on.
And what a lovely surprise the last one’s going to
get, the winner! Here we go then. You start off
with the music, Sarah. Off we go!
Music on.
Stop
at Mrs Ridge.
On again.
Music stopped at Sarah. Give her
a treat, she’s worked well, give her a bit of ex-
citement. On again.
Oh my darlings, how I love you!
Pass it on, Mrs Ridge! While the music’s playing it . . .
I should think so. Stop the music.
Who’s won, then? Yes, it’s Ron! Ron’s the lucky winner!
You’re right, Ron, first time. It’s SHIT!
But whose shit is it? That’s the question! I’ll sing it
for you: Pass the parcel, pass the parcel.
See what comes from RALPHIE’S arsehole!
How disgusting! you must be saying to yourself,
friend, and I cannot but agree. But think a bit
harder, friend: why do I disgust t
hem?
I disgust them in order that they may not be
disgusted with themselves. I am disgusting to them
in order to objectify their disgust, to direct it to
something outside themselves, something harmless.
Some of them still believe in God: what would
happen if they were to turn their disgust on God
for taking away control over their own sphincter
muscles, for instance, and think, naturally enough,
that He must be vile to be responsible for such
a thing? Far better for them to think
handling and smelling and seeing doggie’s turd is
disgusting! Do you not agree?
Right, everyone! Attention please! The game is
over and now it’s our Travel Time. It’s so
much more tasteful an expression than Exercise,
don’t you think, friend? Travel Time. Yes, I
know your old bones protest, but you know it’s good
for you. Those of you who can walk push round those
in wheelchairs, those in wheelchairs move everything
you can move as you go. Off we go now!
There are worse conditions and worse places, friend.
I have worked in geriatric wards where the stench of
urine and masturbation was relieved only by the odd
gangrenous limb or advanced carcinoma. Where confused
patients ate each other’s puke. Where I have seen a
nurse spray a patient’s privates with an aerosol
lavatory deodorant. Even worse, people like
these can be put away in mental wards and homes
when they are perfectly sane, simply because they
are old: they don’t stay perfectly sane long.
They are stripped of their spectacles, false teeth,
everything personal to them. They are shut away,
visits are rare and discouraged anyway, no one cares;
they are forgotten and wholly in the power of nurses
who have been known to make them alter their wills,
to scatter the ward’s pills for everyone to scramble
for, and to put Largactil in the tea unmeasured.
This is a happy House, friend, a holiday camp,
compared. Here I give them constant occupation, and,
most important, a framework within which to establish
– indeed, to possess – their own special personalities.
Here we respect their petty possessions, so important
to them but rubbish to us.
This is the time when the bearing surfaces of the
joints begin to wear seriously, when the walls of the
veins and arteries harden, when the nervous system
loses much of its subtlety. It has always been so.
Today we can give them more time, by nylon balls and
sockets, drugs to thin the blood, Largactil to lift
nervous depression: but ultimately these are nothing.
You should understand the
simple fact that they are all approaching death very
quickly; and one must help them to do so in the right
spirit. It is what used to be called a holy duty. I
did not invent this system: I inherited it. And in
the end death will come to me too, probably.
There. They enjoy it. Sometimes for a change I
have them doing Travel in the form of bizarre sexual
antics. As-if-sexual, that is, in the case of some
friends. And now I give you – SPORT!
Yes, it’s Tourney Time again, friends! Remember how
you enjoyed the last Tourney we had?
Of course you do! Get the wet mops, Ivy, please. And
Charlie, you wheel Mrs Bowen to one corner, and
you, Sarah, wheel George to the opposite corner.
That’s it. One mop each,
Ivy, thank you.
On the word, then, steeds and knights, you thunder
at top speed towards each other, never flinching,
like bold and parfait gentil knights, and try to
lance each other. No stopping! Straight on, turn,
and back for another joust. Ready then? And may the
best knight win! One! Two! Three!
Well done. Mrs Bowen! A palpable hit!
One more time, then. Off you go!
Another hit for Mrs Bowen! Sarah, see if George is
still awake, will you? He doesn’t seem to be trying
very hard. Last joust, then. Away you go!
At various times in the past we
have had Balloon Races, Polo, Folk Dancing and Archery.
Mrs Bowen the Winner! Back to the table, now. The
Knobbly Knee Competition was very popular, too.
So after all our exertions let’s just have a quiet
discussion session, shall we? And as always our
subject is HOW I WANT TO GO and its related topics MY CHOICE
OF COFFIN or WHAT I WANT DONE WITH MY EARTHLY
REMAINS. First of all, let us remember first principles.
Death may be seen as the price paid for what the body
is – that is, the very biological functioning of
the body, its very nature, inherently implies and
contains death; this debt is paid in instalments;
and the period of old age is that in which all
arrears must be settled. Death indeed may often be a lot
less painful than life: the actual dying, that is.
There are various ways of facing this death. Whether you
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 liv
e 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-
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