An old actor friend of mine died a few weeks ago. At his funeral there were all these luvvie types saying how he would have wanted us to celebrate his life, not mourn his death. You know the scene from Four Weddings & A Funeral? Just like that, it was.
This twat in a beret got up and performed a poem. "Rage, rage against the dying of the light." His was a very soft voice which did not rage well but there was not one dry eye in the house, save mine.
It was a Humanist funeral, full of smug cunts. A Dawkins-lite tosser in a cream suit took the service. Fuck knows how he managed to sneak Darwin into it, but I suppose the deceased was a bit ape-like.
The spit of Bob Hoskins, in fact. I used to call him the cockney Bob Hoskins. I did this short at film school, Bob Boskins, in which he played the leading role. You've seen Being John Malkovich? Based on Bob Boskins, that was. Did I get the credit? Did I, fuck.
So they played a Rufus Wainwright song as we all took a few minutes to remember our friend. Rufus Wainwright. I hate him. My dead friend hated him. He obviously wanted me to suffer because he knew all those luvvie types like all that fake emotion.