BILLY R.I.P.

BILLY R.I.P.   We sang “All things Bright and beautiful” and “God made Little Robin” and heard readings from Spike Milligan’s ‘Puckoon.’ I was designated to read one of Spike’s poems:   “Mary Pugh was nearly two When she went out of doors She went out standing up she did And came back on all fours The moral of this story, Please meditate and pause Never send a baby out With loosely-waisted drawers”   The men smothered sniggers, the women looked horrified and the children fell about laughing. Right there in the crematorium. As Billy knew they would: any mention of knickers is a certain trigger for hilarity in children. I’m sure Billy would have been highly amused by this, though that’s more than could be said for the poor vicar who was not easily persuaded to allow the thing at all. I don’t suppose Billy’s comment about a possible eulogy helped. Billy had written: “…. And don’t let some sanctimonious old prawn say a few words about me on the strength of a ten-minute interview with [ha ha] my nearest and dearest. He doesn’t know me from Adam. And he knows bugger all worth knowing about him.”   I don’t suppose we should have been surprised at any of this. After all we all knew just how unconventional and, indeed, mischievous Billy Pritchard was – and there was no earthly reason to suggest he’d plan anything but a farce for his funeral. But the plans were there all right, penned in his beautiful italic handwriting in a little notebook and duly signed by the Macmillan nurse who was caring for him. None of us had even an inkling that Billy was ill, let alone dying of cancer in a hostel. I think most of us were just relieved that he’d failed to turn up at the last few family parties and barbeques.   This was, of course, extremely odd. Uncle Billy loved parties – Birthdays, Weddings, bog-standard barbeques, he didn’t care just so long as he had an outlet for his idiosyncratic sense of fun. Though I have to say that the fun was mostly on Billy’s side … for every other adult his presence was sheer purgatory. Bit by bit Billy got banned from family gatherings.   Weddings were the first. He almost always tried to touch up the bridesmaids .. or the bride’s mother if the bridesmaids proved to be too canny or too elusive. People dreaded his appearance at nuptials, but the last straw was at my cousin John’s marriage to Celia. I have to admit that Celia was, well, rather less than pretty – even when dressed in the full bride’s regalia which usually manage to transform the drab into something presentable. The trouble started after the traditional bride and groom waltz, when the Master of Ceremonies [fool!] announced that the bride was available for the next waltz, and that this would be a great opportunity to “kiss the new bride”. Billy couldn’t resist: “I’d rather kiss Grace’s arse!” he declared, too loudly to be ignored. Since Auntie Grace measured at least 65 inches across the hips this could not be taken as a compliment, most particularly not by John who felled the miscreant with a single well-aimed blow. Billy looked up at John and said, without a trace of animosity, “You did right, son, I was out of order. And that was one fucking ace uppercut!” Needless to say, Billy received no more wedding invitations.   He’d long been banned from birthdays, not least because his present-buying was whimsical in the extreme – he’d buy one child in a family a brand-new top-of-the-range mountain bike, and then turn up with a bag of popcorn for his sister’s party. Kids don’t understand whimsy when all they get is popcorn. Add to that the fact that every children’s party Billy attended ended in a food fight with Billy at the centre, and you begin to get the picture. The kids loved this bit, indeed the kids loved Billy [apart from the wayward presents] unreservedly. Billy swore constantly, told blue jokes and sang songs which would make a rugby club blush.   He was every kid’s favourite uncle – with one temporary exception which I’ll tell you about later. I don’t think it’s any accident that many of Billy antics involved food, which coincidentally also figures largely at parties. He was a butcher by trade, and very successful I’m told, because the customers returned again and again to sample his banter as much as his special recipe sausages. Ah! Sausages…   Billy would announce at barbeques that the sausages were ready, especially to the kids waiting with their rolls ready split, “Dog’s dicks … Who wants a dog’s dick?” The kids thought it was a hoot, though their parents were not so readily charmed.   Fruit wasn’t safe either. I remember when Billy sent my cousin Arthur with a banana and two plums to deliver to Auntie Blodwen. He also scribbled a note to go with them. Auntie Blod screamed heartrendingly as soon as she read this epistle, and was led weeping into the haven of the kitchen. I surreptitiously retrieved the note, hastily flung onto the grass and it read “May these foolish things remind you of me” It was rumoured that Blodwen had offered succour and comfort to Billy when his wife, Nora, had left him after a mere six months of marriage. Obviously not simply a platonic arrangement it seems. On another occasion, I remember, fresh figs were available – one of the ‘posher’ aunties – and Billy instinctively taking centre stage, held a split fig aloft and shouted loudly across to poor Blodwen [again!], “What does this remind you of, Blod? Ah Nora, dear Nora…” Blodwen turned scarlet and fled [again], the men tried hard not to laugh and the women looked scandalised. The kids, including me, were simply puzzled. Billy noting the quizzical frown on my face, beckoned me over, “If you want to know, read D. H. Lawrence … and I don’t just mean the dirty bits in Lady C’s Lover, but his first-rate poems. Start with ‘The Fig’ and you’ll get it,” he grinned.   Hidden depths … nobody knew Billy read poetry. Although they were all too readily aware that he had an endless supply of obscene doggerel – especially when it could be sung. He had a fine clear voice and I still know more verses of ‘The Ball of Kirriemuir’ than anybody else I’ve come across thanks to him. We kids howled to hear of the vicar in his shroud, swinging on the chandelier and … erm … urinating on the crowd, or the village butcher hatchet in hand, who swung it twice around his head and circumcised the band. As for the vicar’s wife … gosh! She must have been stacked. We were amazed how many verses there were to ‘Eskimo Nell’ though Billy was usually removed after about a dozen .. still singing of course. I have to state very firmly here that none of we kids were ever damaged by Billy’s scatological excesses, on the contrary we loved it and it afforded us a very entertaining variation on sex education.   The only time he possibly offended kids was when the young lasses reached puberty and were beginning to show the sweet swelling of young breasts. Billy would gaze at the phenomenon and say “I can see you’ll be a heartbreaker,” then shift his glance slightly sideways across the chest and add “and so will you.” Some of the young girls pretended to be upset, but you could tell that, really, they were so pleased that the signs of maturity had been noticed.   This particular peccadillo worked very much to my advantage at one party when twin cousins – who I hadn’t seen since they were small children – visited. They were distant cousins, and perhaps a year younger than I, then at the very mature age of seventeen or so. Billy said his piece – he never varied – and Gaynor and Tina, blushing furiously [but smiling I noticed] asked me if I’d heard what he said. I reassured them that Billy said that to all the girls. They looked at each other in that weird twin silent communication way and said, almost in unison, “Do you think he’s right?” Since I’d fancied these two delectable sweethearts from the moment they arrived, I said airily “I’d have to take a proper look,” indicating the partly obscured tree-house. Let’s just say that these two distant cousins became closer during the course of the afternoon, and a good deal more than ‘kissing cousins.’ Thanks Billy!   Yes we kids laughed at Billy’s songs, his execrable jokes and his colourful language … but none of these was his most notorious party trick. Billy suffered from what he described as ‘audible digestive disturbances’ – for all his extensive cuss vocabulary, I never heard Billy call a fart a fart. Billy would explode loudly, with evident delight and with great frequency especially after half an hour or so of supping ale. Far from trying to hide the fact that he was the guilty party – and don’t we all do that! – Billy would highlight the occasion with some lively quip or other:  “Better out than in, said the virgin,” was one. “Get out and walk, I’ve carried you far enough” was another. He always admitted he was at fault and when Blodwen foolishly expressed her disgust he retorted, “Well it couldn’t be you, could it? Your arse is so tight it whistles!” You’ve guessed it, Blodwen sought the safety of the kitchen yet again.   Still, makes you wonder how he knew …   So here we are, seeing him off. Surprisingly there are a good few tears, not least from the much-maligned Auntie Blodwen. The Gravestone is set in a wooded part of the Garden of Remembrance and is very simply inscribed  Wilberforce Tudor Pritchard, 1928 – 1998 and underneath that, by his instructions, Billy R.I.P. One of my grandchildren whispered something to me on reading these words and we burst into gales of laughter. We left the hallowed ground followed by glares from people disgusted at our evident disrespect. Nobody was amused, except maybe someone no longer with us.   What did my grandson say?   He said, “See those words. Billy R.I.P.? well … they’ve left a word out. It should read “Billy LET R.I.P.”