I have been considering my funeral in the aftermath of a Bridesmaids-type stomach bug. Let's face it, if you throw up enough; you definitely start hearing the heavenly choir. I'd have one of those if I could but I'd have to shuffle off this mortal coil in Hollywood.
I was most affected in my youth by a magnificent melodrama called Imitation of Life, featuring a beleaguered black maid, who lived a blameless, selfless existence, much like my own, nursing the pain of rejection by her mixed-race daughter, while cleaning up after Sandra Dee and Lana Turner. She took ill in MGM style,in which the sufferer is merely more beautiful (Love Story,Sweet November)or terribly lucid and capable of long speeches, with a faraway expression(Forrest Gump's ma, Frank Sinatra in From Here To Eternity).In my maid's case, she clearly subscribed to the Katherine-from-The-English-Patient school of thought; 'I've always had rather an elaborate funeral in mind. Particular hymns.'
I do like the idea of focusing on these rather than that old first dance at your wedding palaver. Every time some soap star released a ballad, Middle Sister used to declare; 'I'm definitely ditching 'We have all the time in the world' for Martine McCutcheon's 'Perfect Moment'. What does it matter when the result is an awkward prolonged shuffle ringed by embarrassed spectators, who have to invade the dance floor like Millwall fans, just to get to the end of the song? I decided years ago to make Middle Sister sing 'You were the wind beneath my wings'at my funeral, just for having such poor taste.
Back to Imitation of Life; Annie,the maid, had saved up all her life for a large funeral procession with plumed horse-drawn hearse;'I want the lawd to see me comin 'she breathed fervently on her death-bed; this I remember, it isn't in the memorable quotes section of IMDB. How is this oversight possible? Anyway, the daughter appeared, in floods, of course and threw herself onto the coffin, which is the type of thing that would never happen in real life. Or was. Until Whitney.
Whitney Houston's funeral was hands down the most entertaining show I've seen all year, including the Oscars, starring Angelina's sticky-out leg. When first I laid eyes on the Gospel choir, dressed in white and wearing sunglasses indoors, I was hopeful. I knew also that Aretha was in some way connected (there has always been confusion as to who exactly was Whitney's Godmother;Aretha, Dionne, Diana?) and was likely to sing. Sadly she was declared 'too ill' to attend but later picked herself up, dusted herself down etc. in order to appear on stage elsewhere that night, in a glittery kaftan.
No matter, as we had instead a magnificent-looking female, the Reverend Kim, an actual minister, who sang 'A Change is Gonna Come' with the lyrics all altered to include Whitney's name and demise, at regular intervals. At this point, hope turned to delight and the desire to cancel the plans for that Saturday night. I mean, we were only 45 minutes in, two numbers down(gospel songs have seemingly unlimited choruses)and we knew Kevin Costner was due on to do a eulogy.
Next came Alicia Keys with a blow dry, seated at the joanna, rambling about how Whitney used to phone her up just to ask how she was. I felt the need to start heckling; 'Everyone does that, you know! Is there nothin' else you can come up with about Whitney at a time like this?'but Alicia appeared most moved and there was frequent dabbing of eyes until, my favourite moment, a nurse in full white uniform, appeared and passed her a giant hanky.
I have found all this extremely inspiring. I am not sure if the Reverend Baillie of West Church has, as such, got soul, so I will be putting money aside for some sort of Mahalia Jackson tribute artist to lay low the attendees at me own funeral, with an excruciatingly long anthem referring to me as a 'chile of God' and whatnot.
I figure I can get Older Sister and a couple of nurse friends to go in their uniforms and supply not only hankies but also oxygen to those prostrate with grief. I will also have to make friends immediately with Rory McElroy, as he seems the most famous local person who will still be alive to do my eulogy.
Only later, on the day after Whitney's funeral, did I learn of Bobby Brown throwing a strop and stomping off, on account of not being allowed to sit up at the front with Bobbi Christina. You don't hear much about a good row at a funeral but with my family, I reckon,no problem!
