Day 60

5.03: It’s times like these you start to feel like Colombo. You’ve got a questionable death, and the daughter – one of the daughters – is demanding a post mortem, but there’s no body. Or so the daughter – one of them – says. ‘Everything’s just fine,’ say the others. ‘Don’t poke your homely cigar-brandishing charm into mausoleums where it ain’t needed.’

If the daughter’s to be believed, James Brown’s body don’t lie mould’ring in the grave no more. It ‘s vanished from the tomb. He might have been Jesus all along.

Charles Reid who runs the CA Reid Sr Memorial Funeral Home where the Godfather of Soul’s supposed to be eternally putting his feet up, has scotched the rumour, but then he would wouldn’t he? It’s hardly likely you’d get a funeral director declaiming ‘Yeah, we really dropped the ball on this one. Busted: one corpse short of a cemetary.

I don’t trust Charles Reid.

So what’s going on? Because you just know that everyone from here to Augusta Georgia’s conjuring images of James Brown and Michael Jackson on the run together, slogging their suitcases through the customs shed at Lagos in shabby trilbies and nylon moustaches.

And they live in a boot on the side of a hill, and their chimney’s a kipper; their neighbours are monks. Their fridge runs on bagpipes; their staircase is fudge.

The fantasy can never die, Charles Reid, unless you kill it. Bring me the embalmed velveteen body of James Brown now.

6.55: Tell me why I don’t like Mondays. Actually, don’t bother. And don’t worry, I’m not going to go out and gun up a school, like the girl who so pricked Bob Geldoff’s curiosity, but I am in a bad mood. Again. So I’ve churned out almost a thousand words in the last couple of hours, but I’ve been fairly hammering at the keyboard, so won’t be surprised if what I’ve produced is the punctuational, grammatical and stylistic equivalent of a high-school massacre. Guns don’t kill people, commas do.

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~ by David Thorley on March 14, 2010.

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