Deathly Days at the Funeral Parlour

What a plethora of fascinating tales I have to tell. Yes, instead of filing mail (courteous nod to Mr. Reid, who recently got me off court charges of indecent exposure after I bared my nake dface in public) or stacking CDs in Virgin (courteous sneer to random inept individual, who will never represent anything but ever-so-slightly higher prices than HMV) I decided to undertake - apologies for the first of many bad, intentional puns - a job of importance and dignity. Yes, sir. I became assistant funeral director at Co-operative Funeral Services.

There are a number of curious perks to this commitment. The snappy suit, comprised of black tie, blazer and top hat; the luxurious lunch break, in which I carry my trade soley to HMV - ha ha ha - and purchase classic horror films like Village of the Damned upon a regular basis; the chance to meet interesting new people, the good the bad and the dead; the delirious prospect of pounds and pounds of paper work; and lastly, being able to get up close and personal (and maybe enjoy a sip of Cliff's imported soya milk) with the grimy, disturbing underbelly of York City.

I have seen more than a few deeply memorable sights in the last few days - most, quite oddly, revolving around cadavers - which I'm sure I will carry to my own watery grave. I positively demand it be filled with water. Once you've seen the process of cremation first hand, one becomes a good deal less eager about being incinerated after death. It's undignified, messy and resembles the most fiery pits of Hell! Sparks fly off the coffin as it whizzes on in. There are also little peep holes by which one might inspect the body's current state of disrepair. I was told that that stubborn pile of grey ash on the slab was a brain flaking away. Me, oh my... There is also an extremely large barrel filled with metal hip replacements and other such arcana. They've been filling it since December, and it's only half full. What a dreadful pity. I really feel for these people.

There was also the stimulating prospect of measuring bodies at York Hospice. It may look innocent enough from outside, with all that grass and care and Christian love, but it does come equipped with the traditional fridges stuffed with dead people. And somebody had to measure them up for their personalised caskets. Well... (cue Cheestrings advert). And speaking of cheese: most of the bodies we inspected had been properly shrouded. They were completely hidden from view, so nobody would immediately recognise old Mrs. Goggins from the post office. It was a little unpleasant to see some large, slightly yellowing feet protruding from the wrappings of one poor lady. But Mr. Francis carried on like the pro he is.

I have also had the rare pleasure to attend a Humanist funeral service. First of all, I accompanied the hearse to the home of the deceased and collected the coffin. Then I rode along next to it. This was just plain, honest-to-goodness fun. Just one big drama exercise (Mrs. Grace would be so proud). All you had to do was look solemn and grim whilst you eyeballed people passing in their cars and on the street. Most perplexing was when an All Saints girl gave me a bizarre sort of salute as she walked by. I stared her damn cold, I did, and she fled.

Well, actually the hearse just drove off. But in my mind she fled. Into oncoming traffic. But taht's another blog entry entirely ("The day I ran over a mad girl from the posh school - now with live webcam link to the courtcase, wherein Cameron Reid shreds paper with passion.")

Humanist ceremonies focus on the deceased person alone, with zero religious content. This made a refreshing change from hearing about the wild and wacky reasons the dead individual was going to Hell, and was probably slightly less heartwrenching as a result. And (for some inane clunker of a maddening reason that I shall never understand as long as I live) Rock Around the Clock blared out of the speakers at the end. I'd have surely demanded my money back, quickly rising from the grave and claiming my inheritance. I later met the woman who performed the service. After putting on this incredible facade of gentle, understanding love and tra-la-la, whoop-dee-dee sentimentality, it was amusing to see how utterly unaffected she had been by the service. These people stay reamarkably strong on a mental level, guarding themselves against depression through the blackest, most morbid humour. The most appalling puns about time share/cardboard coffins fire around the office at the rate of hundreds a day.

It is an exceedingly pleasant and comforting working environment and I simply can't wait to return. I'll let you know more as events unfold. Goodnight.