We had to find a slot in the schedule of the West London Crematorium where we could reserve an hour for the service. Usually, cremations are only allotted half-an-hour. The earliest available was Wednesday morning. Through talking with Freddie’s mother and father, I found out what time they would need for their religious services to be observed and it was arranged that Freddie’s body would be brought to Ladbroke Grove late on the Tuesday night where only close blood family would be permitted to attend.
While Freddie had been a public figure for the last twenty-five years, for the first twenty of his life he had belonged to his family. I felt it only right that his family be involved as much as possible with the arrangements for his funeral. It was, after all, the last chance they would have of reacquainting themselves.
It was a strange feeling, assuming the mantle of control at this extremely emotional time but someone had to be in control, as dispassionate and cool-headed as possible, considering the mass of press gathered outside in Logan Place who had been there in strength since the previous Friday evening when the spokesperson had issued a statement on Freddie’s behalf that he was suffering from Aids. For two weeks prior to that announcement, the press had been outside twenty-four hours a day. By day, there were about ten and by night, a minimum of three. However, at the time of his death, there must have been between thirty and forty.
The funeral had been arranged for Wednesday. The remainder of the Monday and all of Tuesday of that week, while we all walked around in a dreamlike state, we were kept busy by the non-stop ringing of the gate bell and the enormous amount of floral tributes arriving. Included in my job was the ringing round and arranging of who was to ride in which car to the funeral and every now and then increasing the number of the floral hearses as more and more flowers arrived. All the flowers went to the crematorium although, after the funeral, I arranged for all the suitable bouquets to be sent on to hospitals and hospices where more people could get some joy from them.
The day of the funeral, I felt that my whole world had stopped. For years Freddie and I had lived in each other’s pockets and so I felt that a part of me had died too.
My job was over. I knew that there was absolutely nothing more that I could physically have done for Freddie. It had been his decision to bring his life to a close by refusing any further medication to keep him alive. He had never let the disease totally dictate his life and when he felt his control slipping, he made a conscious decision to retake it.
Ultimate control.
Quite simply, he got things done and those things were always done the way he wanted.
The day of the funeral, Wednesday, November 27, 1991, dawned. It was a dull damp, late autumn morning and everything in the garden would have looked drab except that the lawns at Garden Lodge were awash with unseasonal colours. The floral tributes to Freddie which had been arriving for the last three days were doubled up in some places. Inside Garden Lodge, a small group of Freddie’s friends had gathered to accompany him on his last outing. We left the house in a cortege of three limousines augmented by a couple of private cars in a procession which was led by five floral hearses. Freddie always liked things done in style.
I was in the car with Joe Fanelli and Jim Hutton. My mind was preoccupied with the course of events which had led up to this moment and for what was to happen over the next hour or so. I remember looking out of the car window and seeing people stop and stare as the cortege passed by and I wondered if they had any idea of whose funeral procession it was that they were witnessing. The column of cars arrived at the crematorium literally moments before the hearse bearing Freddie’s casket, on top of which was a small paper flower, a last gift to Uncle Freddie from his young niece, Natalie.
The timing of the hearse’s arrival at the crematorium chapel for the ten o’clock ceremony was immaculate, just like a military operation or, perhaps more appropriately, one of Freddie’s gigs. His body was carried into the chapel to the strains of Aretha Franklin’s ‘You’ve Got A Friend’ and the ensuing Zoroastrian service was a continuation of one that had begun at eight-thirty that morning by the two white-robed Parsee priests in the chapel of rest at the Funeral Directors John Nodes and Sons in Ladbroke Grove.
Several members of Freddie’s immediate family had attended this earlier ceremony and although Freddie himself had not been an adherent of any religion in his adult life, his wish to be cremated fitted in very well with the wishes of his family whose Zoroastrian faith he respected. Freddie had been far from being actively opposed to anyone’s religion or faith. The things that offended him were the trappings and hypocrisy involved in the various clerical and institutional aspects of established religion.
Gathered in the funeral chapel of the West London Crematorium were both branches of Freddie’s family, the one bound by ties of blood and the other bound by friendship. At the end of the service, Freddie’s body exited this world with Montserrat Caballe’s voice singing ‘D’amor Sull’ Ali Rosee’ from Verdi’s opera Il Trovatore. Freddie was never one to be conventional so I thought this was a fitting adieu and that Freddie would have approved.
While funerals are generally quiet, private affairs, the mass of press, photographers and onlookers on the bank opposite the chapel reminded us that the person to whom we had just said our final goodbyes had been no ordinary mortal.
Back at Garden Lodge, a small group of Freddie’s friends – the band, their consorts, Jim Beach, Gordon Atkinson, Graham Moyle, Terry Giddings, Mary, Jim, Joe, Dave Clark and I – who had attended the funeral, had gathered to celebrate his life with champagne. I felt he would have been proud of his send-off and that my discharging my last obligations had been up to his expectations. One of my jobs had been to always make sure he looked presentable whenever he left the house and I don’t think he would have complained this time.
Epilogue
Just for Freddie, there follows an up-dating of the cast featured in this book. To my knowledge, Freddie, this is reasonably accurate. I thought it might amuse you… without abusing too many sensitivities.
A
HRH The Prince Andrew Married and divorced, now deskbound in a dockyard.
Thor Arnold Still nursing. Now relocated in San Diego.
James Arthurs Still a businessman living in Connecticut.
Debbie Ash Still an actress.
Jane Asher Now huge in cakes, Mc Vitie’s biscuits and most branches of Sainsbury.
Gordon Atkinson Still generally practising. In Mayfair.
Mary Austin Single parent, mother of two. Currently still residing in Chaillot… sorry, Garden Lodge.
B
Tony Bastin Dead.
Jim and Claudia Beach Queen’s manager and his wife. Still. But also, now, one of Freddie’s two executors. Jim, that is and, therefore now, effectively, the fourth member of Queen. The succession was assured.
Rupert Bevan Still gilding picture frames and restoring furniture at Putney Bridge.
Stephanie Beacham Still actressing.
Martin Beisly Senior director at Christie’s specialising in Victorian pictures.
Debbie Bishop Acting and singing.
David Bowie Composer, musician and peformer. Now a public company.
Bryn Bridenthal Earth calling Bryn.
Dieter Briet Wind-surfed over the horizon.
Briony Brind I think she’s retired.
John Brough Probably a record producer by now.
Kim Brown Now a widow, working at EMI. Pete sadly died, like Freddie, far too young.
Michael Brown Still wardrobe master for the currently homeless Royal Ballet.
Jackie Brownell Sorry. Lost contact.
Bomi and Jer Bulsara More than ever his parents.
Jo Burt Jo, are you still strumming?
C
Carlos Caballe Still managing his expanding stable of talent.
Montserrat Caballe Still your own diva, Freddie.
Montsy Caballe Fine.
Piers Cameron Living happily with a long-time
friend of mine.
Rupert Cavendish Still ensconced in his Empire empire.
Annie Challis Rod Stewart’s assistant.
David Chambers Don’t know.
Charles the Canadian I hope you’re well, Charles.
John Christie I still get Christmas cards.
Dave Clark Still misses you.
Trevor Clarke Holding his own.
Roger and Kashmira Cooke Looking after your parents.
Carolyn Cowan Now a very good photographer.
D
Gordon Dalziel Blonder than ever.
Jo Dare Don’t know.
John Deacon Glad it’s all over.
Derek Deane Director of English National Ballet.
Denny Still cutting?
Jim Devenney Come in, Jim.
Richard Dick I hope he’s still around.
Anita Dobson As Elvis said, Taking Care of Business.
Rudi Dolezal Queen are a big loss.
E
Wayne Eagling Director of Dutch National Ballet.
Ken and Dolly East Gone down under.
Eduardo the Venezualan I still feel guilty.
Gordon Elsbury Don’t know.
Kenny Everett Dead.
F
Joe Fanelli Dead.
Pam Ferris She was wonderful in Roald Dahl’s Matilda.
Tony Fields Saw him in a movie the other day.
Michael Fish In deepest Brixton. No, not the prison.
Leslie Freestone Still working. Will never retire.
G
Brian Gazzard Now a very eminent authority on HIV Aids.
David Geffen Now makes films as well. As what.
Bob Geldof Just as famous as ever.
Boy George Has become a wonderful writer using that razor-sharp wit.
Terry, Sharon and Luke Giddings Alive and well. Terry now drives proper company directors.
Julie Glover Works full-time for Brian May now.
Harvey Goldsmith Still promoting. Now really, really famous.
Bruce Gowers Don’t know.
Richard Gray Looked happy and well at your photographic exhibition at the Royal Albert Hall.
H
Tony Hadley He really thought a lot of you.
Graham Hamilton Semper factotum.
Gary Hampshire Still with John Reid. Still.
Sarah Harrison Living in France with Gerard Manchon.
Stephen Hayter Dead.
Peter Hince (Ratty) Now a very, very good photographer.
Jennifer Holliday Probably somewhere on tour in the USA.
George Hurrell We think he’s still around.
Jim Hutton Alive and well and happy and living in Ireland.
Sally Hyatt Working now for Roger Taylor.
J
Michael Jackson Still touring. Taken to fatherhood like a duck to water.
Elton John Still touring. Now one of the outer knights.
Peter Jones Off the map.
K
Petre von Katze Yes…
Trip Khalaf Haven’t heard in a long time.
Tony King Now working with Prince Rupert Loewenstein.
Winnie Kirchberger Dead.
L
Debbie Leng Happy with Roger and Rufus Tiger and Tiger Lily.
Carl Lewis Now has a seriously wonderful collection of crystal.
John Libson Still accounting but now your second executor.
Sir Joseph Lockwood Dead.
M
Rheinhold Mack, Ingrid and John Frederick America didn’t quite work out.
David Mallet From what I know, he’s still directing.
Fred Mandel Not a dicky bird.
Diego Maradona Became the ‘hand of god’.
Brian May Can’t lose the recording bug.
Donald McKenzie Still bogged down with Joe’s estate.
Roxy Meade Got out. Happy with child.
Bhaskar Menon Gives a lot of interviews.
Robin Moore-Ede Who knows?
Mike and Linda Moran I don’t hear.
Peter Morgan Haven’t a clue. Care less.
Diana Moseley She’s still working hard.
Graham Moyle Still researching into HIV/Aids.
Russell Mulcahy Moved up a rung. Feature film director.
Nina Myskow Still in touch.
N
Anna Nicholas Still trouping.
Lee Nolan Happy, waitering in San Diego.
Gary Numan Occasional sightings.
David Nutter Does he direct the ‘X’ Files? Please inform.
O
Terry O’Neill Still snap-snapping away.
P
Elaine Page Conquered Broadway as Norma Desmond.
Rudi Patterson Alive and well.
Christopher Payne Often on the telly.
Yasmin Pettigrew Graduated a degree course.
Mary Pike Still around.
Tony Pike Still there.
Paul Prenter Dead.
R
Kurt Raab (Rebecca) Dead.
Bill Reid Last heard of was very sick.
John Reid Calmed down.
Tim Rice Now Our Lord. Oscar winner.
Cliff Richard Appeared as Heathcliff after upstaging Wimbledon.
Dave Richards Bought Mountain Studios.
Howard Rose Haven’t heard.
Hannes Rossacher Still hard at work.
S
Pino Sagliocco Presumably still gigging.
Amin Salih Presumably still doing sums.
Joe Scardilli Last time I saw him he was doing okay.
Jane Seymour Medicine woman.
Wayne Sleep Hoofing away.
Lord Snowdon Watch the birdie.
Gladys Spier Still with us.
Billy Squier Fine. Has become a script writer.
Rod Stewart Going for respectability in a very big way.
Gerry and Sylvia Stickells We’re looking forward to his photo book.
Peter Straker Still alive and Brel.
Phil Symes Once again doing Queen’s PR.
Barbara Szabo No know.
T
Gail Taphouse Still on pointe.
Mr Tavener Still the only gentleman builder.
Chris Taylor (Crystal) Alive and well and gardening in Australia.
Domique Taylor Still a very brave and beautiful lady.
Elizabeth Taylor She was a star at your Memorial and a true survivor.
Gavin Taylor No idea.
Roger Taylor Another one who can’t get rid of the recording bug.
Baroness Francesca von Thyssen Moved up a rung or two. Now an Arch-Duchess. Lovely as ever.
Douglas Trout Still crimping?
V
Barbara Valentin Life has never been the same.
Vince the Barman The one that got away. Lucky?
Paul Vincent I dunno.
W
Clodagh Wallace Still managing.
Misa Watanabe I wonder if she’s accrued the other half of Japan, yet?
David Wigg Still hacking for the Daily Distress.
Margie Winter Still about.
Stefan Wissnet Don’t know.
Carol Woods Back in NewYork.
Y
Susannah York Still lovely.
Richard Young Older and wiser. Oh, well, perhaps…
Z
Brian Zellis (Jobby) Alive and kicking but out of the business.
Freddie Mercury: An intimate memoir by the man who knew him best Page 31