Two friends of mine once put the body of their deceased elder brother into the back of their van and drove across most of northern France to his ‘home’ commune where they went straight to the funeral parlour and declared that he was – well, deceased. The funeral parlour didn’t bat an eyelid, they called in the local Doctor who duly confirmed that he was indeed deceased, and the funeral went ahead.

Everyone was well aware of the horrendous cost of ‘repatriating’ your body if you have the misfortune to die away from home, and most wise French people have insurance to cover the cost. Those who don’t take the ‘self-help’ route.

The thought of being buried in land that didn’t also contain the bones of your ancestors would be unthinkable.

So the story of the two elderly German women who wrapped 91 year old Willi Jarant up in a warm coat, sunglasses, and a thick scarf, gathered up the grandchildren, and headed out by taxi to Liverpool airport to take Willi home to Berlin didn’t raise as many eyebrows here as it has in England.

It has raised eyebrows in England because Doctors – called in by alarmed airport staff – now say that Willi was not only ‘dead on arrival’, but had been so for some days.

The English have a horror of death; it negates everything the Government have been telling them that if they eat five veg a day, don’t smoke, don’t drink, don’t laugh and religiously vote Labour, that they will live for ever.

I was very close to a Dutch couple, and was staying in their house in England when the wife died. I stayed on to look after the children. Every day for, four, maybe five days, the husband changed his wife’s clothing, re-did her make-up, helped by the children, determined that Mama was going to her grave looking her best. Finally I managed to impress on him the importance of calling the Doctor to certify death.

The Doctor went ballistic, offensively so, and called in Social Services. They threatened to take the children away, and I spent many hours arguing with them. The crux of their unhappiness was that the ‘children had been in the presence of a dead body and this could scar them for life’.

My friend was duly taken away in a discrete box in best sanitised fashion – and at that point the children were distressed – they knew their Mother had been claustrophobic.

Was I wrong not to have interfered with their way of dealing with death? I didn’t think so.

The Continentals are somewhat more phlegmatic. For heavens sake, in France if you are pregnant and your fiancée dies prematurely, you can still conduct a perfectly legal and pragmatic wedding ceremony in the local Notary’s office to ensure the children have their legal rights.

Death isn’t treated as some sort of disgrace that should be avoided at all costs.

They know perfectly well that they won’t live for ever, so not only do they enjoy themselves in life, they are eminently practical when it comes to death.

Not for them the unseemly rush to have the body removed under cover by discrete men working in silence. Not for them all evidence of the ‘five a day’s’ failure by concealing the body in a wooden box.

The entire family and all the friends that can be mustered will gather to say a final good-bye and kiss the departed. The entire village will attend the funeral. No one will be under any misconception that five veg a day, or whatever the current fashion for living for ever is, hadn’t worked for Pierre.

Anyone doubt the airport staff at John Lennon airport are all being treated for post traumatic stress? They’ve just witnessed a real dead body. Gosh.

1
Uncle Marvo April 8, 2010 at 11:16

I spent a lot of time in France. More so in Spain now, since Sarfuckinkozy got in, because he’s another Blair (except his wife is rather easier on the eye, and so is he).

When they have a stiff in the village, they have pictures of him/her all over the village, like an advert for the funeral. Ace. Then they bury them ten deep, upwards, in cupboards. With pictures of them on the ends. Ace again.

I like the French way of indicating a road accident, too, where they have black cutouts representing man, woman, child etc. They have a special one for pregnant woman, which I think is quite cute, and slows you down a lot more than flashing technology and speed humps.

Death is not something we should try to deny. The reaper may be just around the corner.

He doesn’t scare me.

2
Sarbanes Oxley April 8, 2010 at 11:37

I knew two Irishmen who came over in the 1950’s with a mate for six months work and never went back. One died and they decided to repatriate himself to Birmingham Airport in the back of a white transit.

The problem was they had a rolling wake down the A45 to the airport stopping at more than one hostelry to drink his health (!!!!)

Eventually the drink took over the driving of the van and they ended up on the top of a grass roundabout in Coventry, with the coffin lying half out the doors. The Police knocked on the door, and my friends father in Law fell out, with the immortal phrase ‘ I cannot tell a lie, I am drunk’.

The Police call a van loaded all three up and deposited them at the Airport, no charges ever brought. That was twenty years ago.

I dread to think what would have happened had that happened today.

3
Ed P April 8, 2010 at 12:29

In this best of all possible NuLab utopias in which we are so fortunate to live, it is important that the sheeple are not scared – they might stampede (or whatever sheep do when spooked). Death must be sanitised and hidden away by the all-knowing all-caring state. Now don’t forget to vote for Gordo!

4
Mark April 8, 2010 at 12:50

This story reminds me of Mother Upduff by Can
The story of a family holiday in Italy…

“Finally, or is it the beginning,
Mother Upduff was standing there watching in the fish market,
A gigantic octopus leaped out of the pool
And snatched Mother Upduff up.
Then they didn’t know what to do Mother and Father Upduff wrote,
Not having any money at all,
Decided that they would have to wrap her up in their tent,
Putting on top of the car and carry her back to Düsseldorf.
Wrapping her up in their tent, putting on top of the car
And fiercly driving back to Düsseldorf.
Zoom, off they went back to Düsseldorf.
On the way to Düsseldorf while they were still in Italy
They drove into a café, have a cup of coffee.
Drinking their cup of coffee up, coming back outside
Their car had been stolen with their luggage”

5
JohnRS April 8, 2010 at 12:57

Maybe the difference in attitude is the distance we in the UK are from “the land”. Most of us are several/many generations removed from being part of a family working and living in an area for generations. We have no connection with anywhere in particular so “going home” with a corpse doesnt occur to us.

In France and quite few other countries the link is much closer. So the need to go home is that much stronger.

6
spartan_69 April 8, 2010 at 13:00

Last year a group of WW2 Navy Vets had a trip to visit the Faslane Submarine Naval Base. After the visit, one of their number died. They laid him out at the back of the coach (forgetting to tell the poor driver) and then set off back home on the 300 mile journey which was now a mobile wake. One of the old boys decided it would be a good idea to ring the wife of the recently departed and tell her.

Somewhile later, the coach driver was faced with a number of police cars, with their sirens and blue lights on, forcing him to pull over into a service station (seems the wife had rang the police).

The 2 policemen were somewhat authoritarian when they boarded the coach, demanding to know what had happened, what regulations had been broken. blah blah.

He was cut short by an ex Chief Petty Officer who barked out ” Shut up sonny, we don’t leave fallen comrades behind” which then started a barrage of similar comments (and a few insults) from the rest of the old boys. The veterans then disembarked the coach to continue the wake in the glorious sunshine whilst said now subdued policemen made arrangements for the late veteran.

The driver just sat there with his head in his hands.

7
Anna Raccoon April 8, 2010 at 13:25

Keep ‘em, coming folks, the comments today have had me in stitches….

8
HASurvivor April 8, 2010 at 14:33

My dad died in when I was 8, in 1966. At no point was I allowed to see the body, neither was I allowed to go to the funeral. It was if the man had just been erased from my life and had never existed. I was sent to stay with an uncle for a couple of weeks and nothing was ever discussed in my earshot. It just WASN’T THE DONE THING.
It fucked me up in relationships for over 40 bloody years is what it did.

9
Sarbanes Oxley April 8, 2010 at 14:41

I am afraid this is another one from my collection of wonderful Celtic friends.

Pat (yes- that is his real name) is a public school educated British Army Bomb disposal officer, which meant that in the eyes of plod everytime a bomb went off in the late seventies in the midlands- he was suspect number one and had his home address raided at four in the morning repeatedly because his parents were Irish and he was born in Dublin.

He found the best way to deal with this was everytime that a bomb went off, he got up and toddled off to the local Police station and presented himself for questioning. Asked why he was doing this for the sixth time, he said the same thing, I feel that it is my duty to save special branch the cost of the petrol and repairing my front door everytime they kicked it in, he also left them a spare front door key, so Special Branch could let themselves in when they came calling.

Anyway two stories rolled into one

His father was enjoying carnal delights in his house with the ‘widda’ woman
from three doors down (both in their seventies’) when she suddenly expired mid orgasm. Being a good catolick, he called Pat and his brother to observe the decencies and to smuggle the deceased lady back to her home so that her family would think that she had expired peacefully in her own bed, not in the throes of an evening of passion.

This involved dragging the poor woman over two fences in the adjoining back gardens under cover of darkness at 1am, according to Pat she was a bonny big woman, and therefore a bit of a struggle to move around, especially with the neighbours dog hanging on to her dress and growling as she was heaved over the last fence.

She was put to bed, and bless her despite the mauling she had received, her daughter found her the next morning with a mile still on her face.

Six months after this Pat’s father went to meet his maker, he was cremated and wanted his ashes taken back to Ireland and cast upon the hills near where he was born.

Pat and his brother decided to take his brother’s motorbike, Pat was on the back holding the urn, as they flashed down the fast lane of the M6 heading for Holyhead, thirty miles into the journey, the lid came off and Pat received a mouth full of Dad, and the rest blew onto the central reservation. Pat tapped his brother on the shoulder, saying’ I think Dad’s got off the bike’

So to this day, Pat’s Dad lies were he fell, not in the soft green hills, but near J10 Walsall turnoff M6.

The upside to this story is that Pat and his brother got a seventy per cent refund on their aborted trip from the ferry company and the sincere condolences of the Directors and shareholders of the company.

10
binlid April 8, 2010 at 16:04

As a child, I used to be taken to visit aunt Peggy. She always smelled of lavender, which I adored, but – despite my repeated requests – she would never give me a little dab of this wonderful scent.

I was in my teens before I discovered she was the neighbourhood person of choice if you had the need for a good laying out; hence the smell of lavender soap and eau de toilette, which she used to prepare the bodies.

11
Saul April 8, 2010 at 17:21

Shouldn’t that read…..

“Dead in arrivals”

12
Gloria Smudd April 8, 2010 at 17:36

I’m only here for the bier.

13
Joe Public April 8, 2010 at 18:29

And Ryanair rue the potential loss of £1 Bog-Tax