Putting the fun into funeral

I suppose that last cliffhanger was a bit redundant since you know I'm writing this series of blog posts from the position of someone alive and not from the position of someone cremated alive in his own Mum's coffin.

I never did get into Mum's coffin in fact, even though Roger was threatening me with a Nazi handgun.

I was tempted to fake my death over the summer, like Elvis or the recently released from prison 'canoeist' John Darwin.

I was planning to use my new found death to start a blog site written from the perspective of a ghost. Wandering the earth in purgatory getting up to all sorts of hi-jinx and undead mischief. LoL.

But then I thought, well, if I was a ghost, how could I type blog posts? My ethereal finger tips would pass eerily through the keyboard.

They wouldn't really, since I wouldn't actually be a ghost, natch, but there would be continuity errors and that would bug me. It just wouldn't be convincing for the reader.

So then I thought that maybe I should write a blog penned by a fictitious clairvoyant with guest posts written from the perspective of famous dead people - it's a cracking idea since every good Citizen Journalist knows that you can't libel the dead, so I'd be pretty much free to make up all sorts of outrageous lies at the expense of the expired.

The thing is though, making up pointless and ridiculous blog posts and passing them off as the actual experiences of a genuine person would not be true to the ethos of the blogosphere. That's why I returned to the pages of Newsdesk and decided to bring you all racing back up to speed with my life (that and the fact that Mr C sent me a Happy New Year note - and, well, it fair brought to a tear to my eye).

Anyway, I didn't climb into Mum's coffin when Roger pointed his gun at me, because it wasn't Mum's coffin!

It was, in fact, a wax-worked rendering of my Mum that Steve's dad Constable Steve Stevens and the other members of the Lincolnshire Constabulary alongside CID had put in place. Mum wasn't dead at all readers! Brilliant eh!?

At the very moment that I was about to climb into the coffin, I heard a very familiar voice booming overhead.

"No one inside make a move, you are completely surrounded. Come out with your hands up, Barry. Not with your hands up Barry. All of you, just put your hands in the air and leave the building," it was the voice of Dave the roofer.

The thing is, in the moments before Dave the roofer made his announcement Roger and Gary couldn't help crowing about my imminent demise and their international drugs smuggling and imminent Nazi terror campaign. I was a bit like like in a James Bond flick. "Ah, Barry Newsdesk, we've been expecting you and so have easily over-powered you with the use of a stereotypical Nazi handgun. Now I will reveal to you the secret location of my underground bunker and the password that will defuse the bomb I have placed right underneath the Buckingham Palace. HAHAHAHAHAH!!!!"

I've never understood why the baddies never just shoot Bond. I would. If I was in that position, I would just shoot the bugger and drive off with the Bond Girl to my secret island hide-away. Still, I'm not a movie baddie. Roger and Gary, though, most certainly were movie baddies. CID had been keeping very close tabs on the Leaches, dating right back to the moment that I told Dave the roofer about Mum's relationship with Roger.

Dave the roofer, you see, knows a few people at the Yard. He heard me making mention about Roger Leache and how I'd discovered that he was a bloody Nazi drug smuggler. This set him off, he called a few people and the wheels of justice ground into action.

The worst bit of it all was keeping Mum in the dark. I'm not a natural born liar, so not telling her the full truth about Roger was hard. In fact, I very nearly blew the whole operation out of the water when I confronted him about it all before moving into Greta's place. I needed to convince Gary to believe me and weave my life into that of the criminal underworld.

It's all been an amazingly elaborate plot you see readers. The months spent in the wilderness. The trips to Thailand. Marrying a transexual with a massive cock. Faking my own mother's death. The lot. We're all living under police protection at a secret location. I've got a job in the kitchens of a large luxury hotel complex, it's just to make ends meet until something better comes along.

Yours in blogging

Barry