"MY FATHER [FAMOUS AUTHOR] STAMP THOROUGHBREAD LOVED PLAYING GOLF WITH A FAG IN HIS MOUTH, BUT HATED ANYTHING TO DO WITH ME."

STAMP THOROUGHBREAD MEMORIAL SPEECH BY SCREE THOROUGHBREAD

Thoroughbread’s Daughter’s speech, performed at last week’s memorial service from the inside of a recycling bin, is reproduced here in full for pricks like me who went for a pre-service stiffener in the pub and forgot to attend five or six beers in.

A large green recycling bin is wheeled centre stage as a recording of famous author Stamp Thoroughbread’s voice is played into the church by the close to shitting himself

vicar.

Stamp Thoroughbread                                                     GET ON WITH IT!

The lid of the bin flips open, revealing Stamp Thoroughbread’s daughter, Scree. She begins her tribute. Due to the bins height we can only see her head and shoulders,

Scree Thoroughbread                                                       Summing up my Father, famous author Stamp Thoroughbread in a media friendly headline has been difficult. I laboured hours over the title of this tribute – eventually settling on MY FATHER [FAMOUS AUTHOR] STAMP THOROUGHBREAD LOVED PLAYING GOLF WITH A FAG IN HIS MOUTH, BUT HATED ANYTHING TO DO WITH ME.

There were many alternates –

MY FATHER [FAMOUS AUTHOR] STAMP THOROUGHBREAD LOVED SHAGGING WOMEN WHO WERE NOT HIS WIFE, BUT HATED THE COLOUR YELLOW.

MY FATHER [FAMOUS AUTHOR] STAMP THOROUGHBREAD LOVED SHAGGING WOMEN WHO WERE NOT HIS WIFE, BUT HATED DRIVING TO OXFORD – UNLESS IT WAS TO SHAG SOMEONE'S WIFE WHO LIVED THERE.

Dad was a writer – he wrote all the time – churning out 300 pages of shite then getting all tarted up for the book launch, where he would invariably end up shagging someone. I once asked my Mother why she put up with it. She drove me to Boarding School and left me there the next day.

Dad came to visit periodically – on the first occasion getting the Headmaster uproariously drunk before PRIZE GIVING then popping backstage to loudly shag the Head’s wife. On the second visit – invited to give a talk on writing, Dad asked pupils if they had read any of his books. When no one said yes, he proceeded to pull books at random from the library shelves, declaring that any book not written by him was ‘shit.’

We fared better in the School holidays. In 1993 I remember Dad played a game of tennis with me [I won 40-LOVE] before disappearing the whole rest of the summer with his best friend’s wife. OLIVIER DELICIOUS, Dad’s best friend, came round to console Mum. The resulting sounds of consolation drove me to start a band called DEATH BY FENCING and we played our one song FLAG WAVING RETARD over and over in the hope they would pause for a fag break. When this failed I turned to alcohol. I crave its sweet release.

Despite his huge success, Dad was proudest of a fart he did in The Royal Box at Wimbledon in 1972, but I never saw him so proud of me as when I graduated Oxford with a First in English Literature. At the Celebration Dinner, when I announced my intention to become a novelist, Dad’s mask malfunctioned and I saw the real him. “Any book you write will be nowhere near as good as mine” he shouted. “MY SENTENCES FIZZ LIKE LEMONADE!”

For three straight nights after he passed, Dad appeared me to me in dreams – an enraptured ghost, haunting the battlements of the women’s showers at his exclusive health club like a pervy old King Hamlet. “The State of Denmark has never looked so good” he winked.

I hated him.

I loved him.

He is still dead.

 As seen by ROGER CLIMB-DOWN ST PETERS

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