B. Johnson - House Mother Normal

very hard. Last joust, then. Away you go!

At various times in the past we

have had Balloon Races, Polo, Folk Dancing and Archery.

Mrs Bowen the Winner! Back to the table, now . The

Knobbly Knee Competition was very popular, too.

So after all our exertions let’s just have a quiet

discussion session, shall we? And as always our

subject is HOW I WANT TO GO and its related topics MY CHOICE

OF COFFIN or WHAT I WANT DONE WITH MY EARTHLY

REMAINS. First of all, let us remember first principles .

Death may be seen as the price paid for what the body

is — that is, the very biological functioning of

the body, its very nature, inherently implies and

contains death; this debt is paid in instalments;

and the period of old age is that in which all

arrears must be settled. Death indeed may often be a lot

less painful than life: the actual dying, that is .

There are various ways of facing this death. Whether you

believe in God or not, there is still the possibility

he or she will be there waiting for you after death: those

of you wishing for a coin to be placed in your mouths or

victuals to be provided for a postulated journey have only

to let us know. Again, you may see death as the ex-

change of individual life for biological improvement

and conservation as part of a scheme for higher ful-

filment on the part of some life force. Or you can

simply see yourselves as potentially a heap of rather

superior manure: there is, in fact, no dishonour in

that. However you look at it, someone has to decide what

to do with what you leave behind you, and as this is a

democratic institution we give you this opportunity to

decide, for yourselves, between burial, cremation, acid

bath, remote moorland exposure, or whatever .

No replies. Never are. I just hand them over to an

undertaker who probably uses them for meat pies, anyway.

And now at last what you have all been waiting for:

Entertainment! Up on the stage for this, so that

they can see better.

Here’s one you’ll all enjoy. A little girl, let’s

call her Dottie, was sitting on her grandad’s knee

and said: “ Grandad, were you in the Ark?” “No, of

course I wasn’t!” said the Grandad, somewhat taken

aback. “Then why,” said delightful little Dottie ,

“weren’t you drownded?” Isn’t

that a funny one? Laugh, you stupid old twats!

Here’s another one, even better .

Most of you are at the metallic stage of your lives:

silver in your hair, gold in your teeth, and, in the

case of the men, lead in your trousers!

Laugh!

I’ll give them just one more. There was a

very old couple. The husband was ninety-eight and

the wife was ninety-five. One day their son died ,

aged seventy-two. The husband consoled his grief-

stricken wife by saying: “There, there, dear, we never

did think we’d live to see him grow up.”

All right, so it’s

a rotten joke. What do you expect, professional comics?

But I must just tell you this last one. A man lying

on his deathbed was asked if he had made his peace

with God. “I didn’t know we had ever had a row,”

said the man, wittily.

Isn’t that screamingly funny?

Mind you, he didn’t get into heaven either .

A slight laugh. How curious that

heaven does concern some of them in the way — Ivy!

How dare you read a book during Entertainment! Who

do you think you are? How dare you?

I should think so too! You’d

all better watch now, it’s the Piece de Resistance .

Turn on the sexy music. Ralphie!

Here, boy . Here we go, then, sway, that’s

it, just right, slowly unbutton my overall, so they

can see I have only a bra

then only tights underneath

cast off the overall over Ralphie. Up

on the table slowly down with my stocking

tights one leg the other I can

see you’re enjoying this! All watching, except

Mrs Stanton, asleep or dead — does it matter? Now

my bra, tantalise by appearing to have difficulty.

Wouldn’t they all rather be dead?

Ah, friend, that is where we make a mistake! For

they would all rather be alive! All! Tights,

gossamer, off stand! And the music swells to

an early climax. Here, Ralphie! Up on the table

with Mummy! That’s it, you know what to do with

your long probing red Borzoi tongue, don’t you, Ralphie!

Lovely!

oooooh!

that’s it!

Oh, Ralphie! Faster! we’re getting near the

end of the page, Ralphie! oooooh! oh!

iiiiiihl! oooooh! nearly! YES!

There! Wasn’t that wonderful!

I know you too have your little feels in the

toilets. Good luck to you! I hope you enjoy

them as much as I do. And now we must be

in just the mood to sing the Jubilate before we

all vanish up our own orifices .

All together now! One Two Three!

Death comes to all, no matter who ,

No matter what we bloody do:

Despite lacrosse, P.E. and gym ,

Our lights at last will surely dim .

For this we should stand up and cheer

And please ourselves while we are here:

Death comes to all, no matter who ,

No matter what you bloody do!

And here you see, friend, I am about to step

outside the convention, the framework of twenty-

one pages per person. Thus you see I too am the

puppet or concoction of a writer (you always knew

there was a writer behind it all? Ah, there’s

no fooling you readers!), a writer who has me at

present standing in the post-orgasmic nude but

who still expects me to be his words without

embarrassment or personal comfort. So

you see this is from his skull. It is a diagram

of certain aspects of the inside of his skull!

What a laugh!

Still, I’ll finish off for him, about the sadness,

the need to go farther better to appreciate the

nearer, what you have now: if you are not like

our friends, friend, laugh now, prepare, accept,

worse times are a-coming, nothing is more sure.

But here’s something he found in the Montgomeryshire

Collections and thought you might like to have

for yourself, friend:

F for Francis

I for Chances

N for Nicholas

I for Tickle us

S for Sammy the

Salt Box

B. S. Johnson was born in 1933 at Hammersmith and (apart from the war, during which he was an evacuee) lived in London most of his life. He read English at King’s College, London, and was married with two children. His other novels include Travelling People , which won the Gregory Award for 1962, Alberi Angelo (1964), Trawl , which won the Somerset Maugham Award for 1967, The Unfortunates (1969), Christie Malry’s Own Double-Entry (1973), and See the Old Lady Decently Buried (1975), published posthumously. He also published two volumes of poetry, Statement Against Corpses (short stories with the Pakistani poet Zulfikar Ghose, 1964), Street Children (text for photographs by Julia Trevelyan Oman, 1964), and a volume of nonfictional pieces ( Aren’t You Rather Young To Be Writing Your Memoirs? , 1973), and edited The Evacuees (1968). He was Poetry Editor of Transatlantic Review and in 1970 was appointed the first Gregynog Arts Fellow in the University of Wales. He also worked as a film and television director, and his You’re Human Like the Rest of Them won the Grand Prix at two International Short Film Festivals in 1968. His play B. S. Johnson v. God was staged at the Basement Theatre in 1971. His work received great critical acclaim: of his novel House Mother Normal, The Times of London said “the most accomplished tour de force so far from a writer who has always rejected the Dickensian limitations of the novel,” and Gavin Ewart described it as “a remarkable book, original and extremely well written.” He died in 1973.