Page 72 of Four Weddings and a Funeral Director
Ah, the sweet summer child.
‘They might not get the chance to age if they keep it up. We’re talking blindness, if we’re lucky. Death, if we’re not.’
Over at the Queen Dolly shrine, one of the Dolly worshippers broke into an anguished, caterwauling rendition of ‘Jolene’, with the lyrics rewritten to be about the 2019 version of Andrew Lloyd Webber’sCats.
‘Although death doesn’t soundsobad right now,’ Mort admitted.
‘It could be worse. You could be gamely trying to stick a Rosa landing.’
Lily pointed to where Rosa the bull was bucking and spinning, her hydraulics in fine form. No fewer than three would-be cowboys were sitting groaning beside her, clutching various parts of their anatomy. A sexy male nurse was tending to them with novelty Band-Aids and platters of ribs and fries.
To be fair, fries did fix a lot of things. Except perhaps an artery blockage. And the effects of the formaldehyde shots that a group of cowboys were toasting with over the saloon bar.
Mort raced forward, swiping the shots off the bar. The shot glasses shattered, exploding around the bartender’s cowboy boots.
The Grief Guys, who were just about to run in to reprise their shoot-out, backed off. Duggo (who had a dressed-up Sausage on a leash) shot Mort a confused look.
‘I’ll explain later,’ Mort told him. ‘Come back in ten.’
‘Dude, what the fuck!’ exclaimed a guy with hair so sun-bleached it was translucent. He wore a shark tooth on a leather strap around his tanned neck, and cowhide patches on his jeans. Ah, a surfer cowboy.
‘Sorry. I’m ten months sober …’ extemporised Mort. ‘And it hurts to see you hurting yourselves like this.’
‘Aw, man. Thank you for thinking of us.’ The surfer guywrapped Mort up in a brutal hug. ‘I love this sobriety journey for you. If you want to come on my podcast and talk about it, let me know. Here’s my card. I’m one half of The Dudes Hang Low.’
Wheezing for air, Mort took the card.
But then, disaster.
Bernard stood, whacking a cowbell with a butter knife to get everyone’s attention.
‘It’s speeches time, cowbabes! And then after the worst of you have roasted us like the brisket very kindly provided by the Flaming Galah, we’re going to boot scoot up a frenzy. Does everyone have a drink?’
A murmur went up as everyone raised their glasses.
‘No!’ shouted Lily and Mort together.
‘Barkeep, get those two in the back a drink,’ said Amos, raising his glass of moonshine. ‘We can’t have empty hands at an event like this.’
‘Not him – he’s sober,’ shouted the surfer guy, pointing at Mort.
Mort waved awkwardly as everyone congratulated him on his sobriety.
Lily took the helm, drawing the attention away from him with an even worse pronouncement. ‘I mean … no, we can’t toast with the basic moonshine! That’s not how cowboys do it. This stuff hasn’t even been stirred with a raccoon’s penis bone.’
‘A what now?’ whispered Mort.
‘It’s a whole thing. Google it sometime,’ murmured Lily.
‘Don’t,’ said the surfer guy, holding out his hands placatingly. ‘It’s better someone in your position doesn’t know.’
Lily turned her attention back to the guests. ‘If you’ve got moonshine in your hand, get yourself to the spittoon because the good stuff’s coming around.’
A puzzled murmur went up around the crowd.
‘Sit tight: the Grief Guys are coming around with the bubbly. It’s three times stronger, and not made in a Red State.’
The confusion shifted to approval.
