Low life
Farewell, Ray
Jeremy Clarke
When Ray's wife died a couple of years ago, Ray lost the will to live. So at 56 he made a conscious decision to drink and smoke himself to death. You could go in the King Bill at any time between opening and closing time and there would he Ray, ragged, nicotine-stained beard, leather jacket. cowboy boots, occupying his own special slow suicide's stool beside the
Well, last week Ray finally achieved his ambition and went to join 'the missus', as he always referred to her, after suffering a fatal heart attack in bed. And for the best part of an hour last Friday morning the clientele of the King Bill assembled in the unlikely surroundings of the parish church to celebrate Ray's life'.
The King Bill is a druggies' pub, so it was more like a zoo, frankly, than a congregation. A good four fifths of the mourners were stoned. The rest — the usual suspects — had no money, and were anxiously scanning the other mourners for a soft touch from whom they could bum a smoke after the show. The church rang with coughing — in particular, that profound, bubbly, epileptic coughing that afflicts cannabis smokers, especially in November. The design of the pews made it impossible to lounge or sag, and it was odd to see so many stoned people sitting bolt upright in rows.
I sat beside Sharon, who was coughing with the best of them. (As she coughs, Sharon pokes her tongue out as far as it'll go and points the tip.) There'd been something nasty in the speed at the all-night party we'd left only an hour before. Whatever it was, it had given us both banging headaches and, in my case, a strong impression of being in hell. `Ray would have been proud of us, turning up in this state, said Sharon.
Ray's coffin was wheeled in, followed by a collection of Ray's relations, some of whom looked quite upset. There followed the type of funeral service the Church of England generously makes available, on request, to the relatives of those who livc and die without giving a hoot about what comes next. We sang 'All Things Bright And Beautiful' to kick off, then we heard a highly romanticised account of Ray's life from the lady vicar. If only half of what she said was true. Ray could be the first person ever admitted to heaven on personal merit alone.
Next we sang another platitudinous paean to Nature, 'Morning Has Broken', then we had to listen to a crackly old taperecording of Bob Dylan 'Knock Knock Knocking On Heaven's Door' that set the babies off crying again. We were listening to this, plus wailing baby ensemble, when Sharon had another coughing fit. Trevor, sitting immediately in front of her, turned around with a face like thunder and said, 'For f—'s sake!' Then he remembered where he was and giggled. It's these ludicrous volte-faces of his that make Trevor such a popular hard man.
After Bob Dylan, the lady vicar invited us to ponder in silence for a minute or two all that Ray meant to each of us personally. As we pondered, a dog somewhere outside started whining. It was the whine of a bored rather than a distressed dog, and the church acoustics were such that the dog's whining seemed to fill the church. A frisson of excitement electrified the bowed, stoned heads in front of us. These King Bill pothcads, hitherto entirely sceptical of everything they'd seen and heard, were simultaneously gripped by the idea that Ray had come back as a dog. And what was more, he was trying to tell them something. 'Yeeoo-oor went the dog. You could almost hear the mental encouragement rising up from the pews. 'Yeah, man! Far out! What ya trying to tell us, Ray, man? We're listening, dude! Go for it!'
The Bible reading was that one from Ecclesiastes about there being a time to reap and a time to sow, a time to hate and a time to fight, and about eternity being written in the hearts of men. It was the King James translation, and the potheads relaxed visibly as the passage was read out, mainly because the emphatic rhythm of the sentences reminded them of rap or dub reggae. I even saw a foot tapping.
Then we sang 'Jerusalem more feebly than I would have imagined was humanly possible, and after that we followed the coffin outside for a well-earned smoke. Shouting to make herself heard above the wind, the lady vicar said we had a choice. We could either follow the coffin to the town cemetery to see Ray's remains committed to the ground, or we could repair to the pub, where the landlord had promised to lay on sausage rolls and Cornish pasties. Sharon had no difficulty deciding which option was the best for us. 'Does the Pope wear a dress?' she said.
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