Speech, speech

When I gave the same speech at my mum’s wedding as I had at my dad’s funeral, my uncle leapt across the podium and wrestled me to the ground. He was very supportive of mum, and was always looking for unique ways to prove it. However Dad was my hero, and I brimmed with barely concealed rage when I discovered she’d shacked up with our lawyer, who just happened to have executed my dad’s will. My mum married three months after Dad’s death and I wasn’t going to let politeness interfere with the need to make a stand.

Dad died in such a ridiculous way, so tragic and hilarious, it almost seemed fitting to be a comedian’s discarded joke. He was looking for the loo in Piccadilly Circus, stepped into the busy main street and was struck down by a sightseeing bus. His demise seemed so unfair for such a great man. I couldn’t overcome the humiliation.

‘This is a tragic day. We must try and forget it. Burn it from our memories, because it is unjust and horrific. What we need to do is remember what’s important; loyalty, faithfulness and justice.’
At the wedding my mum was in tears, her family tearing their napkins into pieces and mumbling furiously to each other; the same people who were nodding so piously at the wake. As my uncle grabbed hold of me by the neck he muttered, ‘You used to be such a nice boy.’