You are allowed to enjoy this…

So today was the funeral of Jim Sims (from Leyton) – I am spelling his name just in case any of his children search for him in future and want to know what happened to their father. Funerals aren’t for the dead, but for the living and even though this is my third funeral, they don’t get any easier to attend. The religious symbolism and structure of the proceedings always jars me as an atheist though I impressed myself for remembering the Lord’s Prayer word for word – something we were trained to do by rote as kids. I knew it would come in useful one day.
The service was modest, only five people attending: myself, the Missus, my mother and Jim’s ex-landlady and her son, who had known him for almost as long as we had. I was a little upset that his eldest son didn’t attend (for whatever reason) – we had tried to trace him and passed on messages to his mother, but who knows the whys and wherefores of why people act they way they do? This is why I am posting this, in that anyone who knew of Jim Sims (born in Dunbarton in 1947) can get in touch and I will tell them the story.
It’s hard not to shed a tear, it’s hard not to feel emotions at these things. I am an emotional kind of guy – probably too emotional, feeling too much love, anger, sadness, euphoria – but the church was so cold my nose started running immediately the Vic asked us to bow our heads in quiet contemplations. So there I dabbing my nose like an idiot with my hankie before the waterworks even came on. Pathetic!
I was disappointed that my father-in-law didn’t make up the numbers and disappointed that the few people in the village who said that they’d pay their respects didn’t bother either. But hey, moving to this rat hole has been peppered with bitter disappointment, misery and woe.
Afterwards, the Vic approached me, visibly excited to talk to me. He was enthusiastic about my singular choice of the three tunes played at the service. I had chose Vaughan Williams’ “The Lark Ascending” for the contemplative part of the service – mainly because I though it was more than suitable, and it was one of Verity’s favourites and because Jim appreciated my own appreciation of all kinds of music. Listening the track and the expanse of blue sky and clouds it projects into your mind’s eye, you can almost imagine the soul (if there is a soul) dancing across the sky ascending to the hereafter. We spoke to the Vic and told them our plans and explained our rationale and how God had sent that car to me for a particular reason.
Then it was done and we came away and retreated to an old faithful for a spot of lunch and a pint.
Of course, the funeral is for the living because it places you at a point in time and makes you question your own mortality and says: “This is it…” We fill our lives with the inconsequential in a desperate attempt to disguise and obscure the true nature of life and death, the thin tightrope between the beating heart, the quicksilver thoughts running through our brains and the cold release of the morticians slab.
I realised that if I dropped dead right now, there would be even fewer people at my funeral – probably just the Missus and my mother. Only the kids and the dog would miss me and the world would carry on without me – my efforts for nought. That’s the brutality and honesty of life.
If only…eh?

Over the past two months, I’ve had the “pleasure” of watching a man waste away before my eyes. My mother’s long-term partner was diagnosed with terminal cancer in August and being the person I am, we invited him to our home to pass away his last weeks.
In the past I never got on with him because his chronic alcoholism frightened me and turned him into a spiteful monster. I never really got to know the real person until my mother nearly died during the Winter 2007 and he came and lived with us and helped a great deal. By then the alcohol took second stage, he couldn’t drink anymore. If he did he’d fall over and another fall would finish him.
We joked he had more lives than a bus load of black cats – surviving falls, broken bones, near-fatal blood loss (he used to go into hospital regularly to have his blood “topped up”) and having more surgery then I’ve had kebabs for dinner. Logic said he should have died a decade ago – but he fought on. Someone up there wanted him here – probably to teach me a life lesson, I imagine.
But in the last three years, the booze subsided and the kind, generous man appeared. He died in August, but they injected his heart with adrenalin and brought him back for one last encore. So we bought him here and we’ve been keeping him comfortable and entertained. I’ve been gambling on the horses via the Internet for him and generally having a fun time.
Last night, we cooked him a dinner but he couldn’t eat it – suddenly violent stomach pains emerged, and it was revealed that he hadn’t taken his medication to keep him regular for about four days. Doctors were called, ambulances arrived and he was taken away in the early hours in agony, but still conscious. I thought he’d pull off another recovery, I really did, but it wasn’t to be.
At about 8.10am we got a call from the hospital to come quickly, but he died shortly after the call. His bowels were blocked, possibly ruptured and an infection had poisoned his bloodstream. Well that’s what the doctor said – though the real cause of death will never be known because his terminal condition means that they will just put “advanced cancer” on the death certificate.
It has affected me because I wanted to get us all back. I didn’t want to leave anyone behind, but I feel I failed. We were only days away from his birthday (and we were going to make it special) and our intention was to keep him alive for Christmas. I couldn’t even get that right.
The worst part was I completely fudged the situation with Verity. Jim and Verity were firm friends, he made a real impression on her and vice verse. She knew he was ill and knew about his hospital visits. She understood. But this morning when I told her nanny and mum were coming back from the hospital she asked: “With Jim?” and I tried my best to explain about his illness and him not coming back and she replied:
“Jim doesn’t want to see me anymore.”
And that broke my heart in two…
Good night Jim, wherever you are. I hope your horses come in for you.

I don’t write much about our political situation at the moment because it is so woeful and I am sick of all the poor, disabled and old Conservative voters whinging about how “they never expected that nice Mr Cameron to stop my benefits”. It’s like the oppressive reign of Thatcher never happened. The cretins.
Anyhoo, there’s a new voice who has come forward to basically express my thoughts on the current cuts and the same old Tory ethos steering our political system. (And let’s not forget those morally bankrupt Yellow Tories sitting next to them in the House of Commons). Surprisingly it is Paul O’Grady and he did it on his TV show last Friday. Go get them, Paul!

The death of Simon MacCorkindale was announced today which is a great shame. I have fond memories of “Manimal” and he was co-producer of Anthony Phillips’ “Tarka” album from the 1988. Here’s the opening from “Manimal” as a tribute.