There is a brand of wall-eyed idiocy which, in my experience, exists only in Hendon and in Withnail and I. It is the product of people who have taken so many drugs and drunk so much booze that, even straight, they’re not straight.
A long, long time ago, back in the days pre electronic transfer, a family friend experiencing some financial embarrassment and a deficit of good sense, decided to rip off a local firm. Each Friday, as was common practice back then, the firm sent a clerk to the bank to pick up the wages for their staff. Come the day, our fellow lay in wait for his hapless mark, with a long iron bar concealed in a rolled-up copy of the Telegraph.
When the clerk bearing the swag came out of the bank, our manque robber swung the iron bar back to give the poor sod a clock over the head with it – the iron bar of course went flying out of the broadsheet at great speed behind him and rattled off up the street, and the crim delivered the staff member a brutal crack over the head with nothing but a rolled-up newspaper before running off, flame-cheeked and empty-handed, leaving the clerk baffled but unharmed.
I haven’t heard a piece of genius-level addle-headed fuckery come out of North-West-Four for some time, but this evening it transpires that another is about to unfold.
An acquaintance’s partner died. As a Pagan priest (at this point the first lurch of alarm ought to have gone off in your lower abdomen), he decided he wanted to conduct the funeral and all its arrangements himself. Consequently, he did not have his partner embalmed or in any way … sealed (I’m trying to be delicate). He intended to make a coffin for her himself, so he committed her body to the mortuary while he broke out his chisel and plane. Then there was a bank holiday. And then, presumably, he got a bit distracted.
Because that body has now been lying in the morgue – refrigerated only – for SIX WEEKS.
The morgue staff won’t touch it because at this point, presumably, she’s getting a little bit … fragile, and they aren’t insured against bits coming off. His plan is to wrestle this poor woman’s mortal remains, unassisted, into a people-carrier he has borrowed from a local band. Thence home and into a leaky coffin, then on to the funeral.
Hendon. I miss you.