On dying

On dying

"You're funny, Scary. Ever thought of doing stand-up?"

I'll tell you a story instead.

When I were but a lad, I went off with the Air Cadets for a summer camp on an RAF base.

While we were there, we found that the building we were using for training also had an auditorium with a stage. Why not, then, put of a show?

We put on a show.

And, thinking I was funny, I roped a bunch of mates into doing the Monty Python self-defence class sketch.



We had spent days under the thumb of a sadistic PE instructor, and thought it would be a total scream to take the mick out of him in front of all the officers and some 80 fellow cadets.

The curtain went up.

We did the sketch.

Not a titter.

Not even a smile.

Somebody coughed.

Weed tumbled across the auditorium.

Only the comment from one of my former pals as we crept off to deafening silence: "You dick, Scary."

So: "Hey Scary, why don't you try stand-up. You're funny."

No thank you. I cannot. I have already died.