Yet another funeral was held for The Spoof editor, Mark Lowton, of Piccadilly Gin. "It were sad, it were," wheezed one writer puffing on his cigar, "Aardly anybody turned out fer this 'un, poor bastard."
"He was a saint!" cried the writer known only as J.O. "Mind you, I hated his guts, but he owed me money, and now 'e's dead!"
"The salt of the earth 'e wuz," said a redheaded writer. "Never trifled with the girls, we only had to pee a wee bit and he was happy...oops! Sorry t' let that slip, luv. Put on a bit of weight towards the end, didn't he?"
"I was asked by the pastor, or whatever the hell you call them here in England, to say a few words," said Jeanlefete. "Mark was a deeply-troubled soul; a sick puppy; a ship without a rudder; a bastard; a demented being. Children did not like him, dogs peed on him, women peed on him. He was married to a woman who was declared a saint recently, by Pope Francis. In fact, she and I will marry after this funeral, so if you want to stick around, you are all four invited."
The coffin was lowered slowly into the freshly-dug grave, and was about halfway, when the man on the hand crank lost his grip, and the coffin plummeted the last 3 feet.
Lowton's eyes popped wide open, and stared straight up at the handful of people looking down at him in equal surprise.
"Sorry, Babe, wedding's off," said Jean quickly. "Top of the day t'ya, Markie. I'll be off now."