I’ve just come home after attending a wake. Her Ladyship and myself recently lost a great friend, an ex-submariner known to his ship-mates as Knocker John. (All sub-mariners are nick-named “Knocker”, they were taught to knock on the hull of their submarine when it foundered so that diver’s could locate them).
We all gathered together in his pub – my pub too - to pay tribute to a great friend. We hired a DJ to play Knocker’s favourite music, we drank Knocker’s favourite drink – Port & Brandy – and danced to his favourite group, would you believe it, The Village People singing “In the Navy”.
We danced, we laughed, we cried. We wore black (wow, that is so sexy!), we wore colours. We remembered Knocker’s jokes, we re-called his abysmal general knowledge at the Monday night quiz.
You know what? Knocker’s memory is good enough for me. I thought the world of him and will miss him sorely, but no way do I want him resurrected! We’ve said our good-byes properly, I don’t want them miminised.
Now, ain’t that healthy?
Englishman.