"Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy...

[at Gareth's funeral] Matthew: Gareth used to prefer funerals to weddings. He said it was easier to get enthusiastic about a ceremony one had an outside chance of eventually being involved in. In order to prepare this speech, I rang a few people, to get a general picture of how Gareth was regarded by those who met him: 'Fat' seems to have been a word people most connected with him. 'Terribly rude' also rang a lot of bells. So very 'fat' and very 'rude' seems to have been a stranger's viewpoint. On the other hand, some of you have been kind enough to ring me and let me know that you loved him, which I know he would have been thrilled to hear. You remember his fabulous hospitality, his strange experimental cooking: the recipe for "Duck à la Banana" fortunately goes with him to his grave. Most of all, you tell me of his enormous capacity for joy. When joyful, when joyful for highly vocal drunkenness. But I hope joyful is how you will remember him, not stuck in a box in a church. Pick your favourite of his waistcoats and remember him that way. The most splendid, replete, big-hearted, weak-hearted as it turned out, and jolly bugger most of us ever met. As for me, you may ask how I will remember him, what I thought of him. Unfortunately, there I run out of words. Perhaps you will forgive me if I turn from my own feelings to the words of another splendid bugger: W.H. Auden. This is actually what I want to say: "Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone. Silence the pianos and with muffled drum, Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come. Let the aeroplanes circle, moaning overhead, Scribbling on the sky the message 'He is Dead'. Put crepe bows 'round the white necks of the public doves, Let traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves. He was my North, my South, my East and West, My working week and my Sunday rest; My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song. I thought that love would last forever; I was wrong. The stars are not wanted now; put out every one, Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun; Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood, For nothing now can ever come to any good."

Gareth used to prefer funerals to weddings. He said it was easier to get enthusiastic... ...about a ceremony one had an outside chance of eventually being involved in. In order to prepare this speech, I rang a few people... ...to get a general picture of how Gareth was regarded by those who met him. "Fat" seems to have been a word people most connected with him. "Terribly rude" also rang a lot of bells. So "very fat" and "very rude" seems to have been the stranger's viewpoint. But some of you have rung me and let me know that you loved him,... ...which I know he would have been thrilled to hear. You remember his fabulous hospitality, his strange experimental cooking. The recipe for duck á la banana fortunately goes with him to his grave. Most of all, you tell me of his enormous capacity for joy. And, when joyful, for highly vocal drunkenness. I hope joyful is how you will remember him. Not stuck in a box in a church. Pick your favourite of his waistcoats and remember him that way. The most splendid, replete,... ...big-hearted... ...weak-hearted, as it turned out -... ...and jolly bugger most of us ever met. As for me, you may ask how I will remember him. What I thought of him. Unfortunately, there I run out of words. Forgive me if I turn from my own feelings... ...to the words of another splendid bugger, W.H. Auden. This is actually what I want to say: Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone, Silence the pianos and with muffled drum Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come. Let the aeroplanes circle moaning overhead Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead. Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves, Let traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves. He was my North, my South, my East and West. My working week and my Sunday rest, My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong. The stars are not wanted now: Put out every one; Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun; Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood. For nothing now can ever come to any good. It was good of you to come. Must have been the shortest honeymoon in history. No, it's fine. We'll do it some other time. You know, what you said in the street... - Yes, I'm sorry about that. - No, I liked it. I liked you saying it. Charlie, I'll take Scarlett home, all right? Darling Fi. Walk, Charlie? Yeah. Yeah, that would be grand. Never felt like that. I mean, something vaguely similar,... ...for Jilly, when I was young. Jilly? Labrador. Yes, it's odd, isn't it? All these years we've been single and proud of it... ...and never noticed that two of us were, in effect, married all this time. Traitors in our midst. You know, I think death is hardest for the parents, don't you? I hope I die before my children. Tom... There's one thing I find really... Well... It's your total confidence that you will get married. I mean, what if you never find the right girl? Sorry? Surely, if that service shows anything,... ...it shows that there is such a thing as a perfect match. If we can't be like Gareth and Matthew, then maybe we should just let it go. Some of us are not gonna get married. Well, I don't know, Charlie.