ROCHELLE
Cockney, 35-ish, passive woman, dressed in cheap youthful clothes. Adores her older brother, Frankie, thinks he’s a genius. Chews gum.
My Mum died on Tuesday. She went the way she would ov wanted; waving a whiskey bottle at horse-racing on the telly. It would uv have bin better if ‘Shergar’s Ghost’ hadn’t come last in the 3.40 at Sandown though.
‘I’ve lost a monkey!’ Mum screams – and drops down dead.
I went straight up the pub with my mate, Kylie. Don’t get me wrong, I fort Mum was just pissed.
When we come back, Mum’s face is stuck – Botox in reverse, Frankie says. He says, she’s died of a coronation tombola, Rosh.
Frankie’s the clever one, I’m the illegitimate one. Mum said my Dad’s Boris, cos I talk posh and ave short legs. Why couldn’t she have copped off with George Clooney?
Frankie puts his foot on Mum’s chest – e’s in danger of losing it between her
bosoms, she’s a big woman. E’s trying to get the whiskey bottle off of her; I could uv told him it was a waste of time. As usual, Mum’s got it in a death grip clutched to her heart. Er uvva arm is pointed at the ceiling.
Me and Kylie pull him off her and Frankie limps down the Butcher’s Arms empty-handed. E’s in a right temper.
Me and Kylie stay behind to turn Mum into a beautiful corpse.
Kylie’s a beautician. She pads out Mum’s cheeks with my cotton-wool balls. It’s so’s people can’t see Mum ain’t got er teeth in.
I think she’s overdone it, Mum looks as if she’s foaming at the maouf.
My Mum’s only 52, but she’s had a hard life. A bus driver on the 339 asked to see her pensioner’s pass last Monday. She bit him. He’s still in hospital having her dentures removed. Surgically.
Mum laughed so much when she heard she wet erself, and had to ave a fag to dry off outside Lidl.
I am upset when we can’t get Mum’s best dress on, over the Nazi salute. We lay her out as she is – sigh. For decency, I stick Mum’s shortie nightie to her with Duck Tape.
Everyone at Paradise flats knows our Mum, ‘cept the Indians at number 11. They keep themselves to themselves, since someone shot the head off the Buddha on their balcony. Naming no names (taps her nose)
Frankie’s been to Bollywood and India. That’s what give im the idea for Mum’s funeral.
In India, they burn their old people – when they’re dead . Frankie said they do it by a river, so they can chuck the ashes in. Pity Kylie can’t go there, she’s had an awful time trying to scatter her cousin in McDonalds at Poplar.
Me and Coral, from across the landing, go down the crem to check the price of having an expert burn Mum, but Rob the Grave says it’ll cost a fortune to hincinerate her. He says he can’t get Mum in the furnace in one go, what with being big and her arm sticking up like that.
Anyway the whiskey’s a fire-hazard.
Frankie says Right! We’ll burn Mum in the courtyard of the flats.
Not near the bins! The other side, near the children’s play area, it’s nicer.
Saves us scattering the ashes far too – Mum never stepped outside Stepney.
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People on our landing are all for it – anything for a knees-up!
Never sin so many flowers. Our yard looks like Columbia Road. To be fair, most of the flowers woz nicked from there. There’s even some cactuses.
We lose Mum for a while, then Frankie finds her under a lorry-load of lilies. Mum’s covered in orange pollen. Good job she’s dead, it would’ve set off her hay-fever.
The pollen won’t come off her face, even with a green pan scrubber – she looks like Donald Trump.
Me and Lauren stack wreaths round the builder’s pallets, while Les from number 4 is hammering the nails flat. He says he don’t want Sharon getting splinters – he always had a soft spot for my Mum. I lay Mum’s best red satin sheets over the wood – really classy.
Frankie and Les are lowering Mum down on ropes from our balcony –the lifts are rank and always breaking down. She’s a funny bluish colour now and looks like the Statue of Liberties.
Around the third floor, Mum’s arm snags the ropes – she only goes and turns upside down! Everyone looks away, ‘cept Les. Good job I duct-taped her knees together.
When Mum lands on to the pallet, Doreen from number 10 goes to get her firelighters. Tel come back from the Butchers Arms with a box full of fireworks. Frankie gets uptight – says it ain’t Duvali! – so Tel hurriedly dumps the box and makes himself scarce.
I sprinkle sugar over Mum’s nightie – helps things burn. We do ave a back-up can of petrol, but I’ve just sprayed Mum with Chanel number five from the market, her favourite. We don’t want her smelling like a gas station.
Everyone stands quiet while Frankie and Les do the honours, with two battery lighters. [Tel can’t, cos he’s got previous for arson.] There’s a nice breeze, the fire flares up some’ink lovely.
Albert, the caretaker, only starts agitating about elf and safety! Miserable old bugger. Darren has to have a word wiv im about his elf and safety. Albert is drowned out cos Les starts banging out Chas and Dave on an old pianer from the lock-up. The oldies dance together in the street, Roger the Lodger throws up – but might ave been the jellied eels. Coral’s already Brahms and Lizt – she does a pirouette and falls in one of the bins.
Frankie asks me and Lauren to do some chanting, to finish the sooty. We look at Coral snoring happily and sing ‘Pass Out’. We like Tinie Tempah.
Half-way through our encore, Mum’s whiskey only explodes!
Flames and glass shoot up to our gaff on the fifth floor.
Fire blows sideways and the fireworks go up!
Fan-bloody-tastic, better than the Olympics!
Everyone’s screaming and laughing, bangers going off, rockets zooming about – Frankie starts bellowing for a 2-minute silence for Mum.
Bloody Albert only rings for back-up.
It’s like a film. Sirens screaming down Mile End Road. Nothing new there, but they skid to a stop outside the flats. Three police vans, two fire-engines – you’d think we was Al-Queda!
Frankie didn’t arf let that sergeant ave it!
‘It’s police harangement!’ Frankie said! ‘We’re trying to give our old Mum a good send-off. Show respect!’
The Filth look round at the flowers and the ashes, and arrest Albert for wasting police time. Everyone cheers as they troop off.
The community officer – ‘Call me Steve’ – is round now. Paradise estate’s never bin so popular. He’s giving it all that [tap fingers and thumb together] about illegal barbeques.
Me and Doreen are trying to keep a straight face. We can see Coral’s nephew through the window nicking the wheels off Steve’s car.
The Indians are friendly now, innit – they think we’re Hindus!
They got us to scatter Mum’s ashes on the Thames. She used to talk a lot about going to see her sister in Gravesend, well now she will.
AND she won’t be asked for her bus-pass.
Sick!
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