Saturday, May 19, 2012

Cradle Snatcher to Grave

I was in our local town a couple of days ago, eating a sausage roll in the graveyard (not a euphemism) and noticed an interesting gravestone.

Actually, re-reading that, it sounds a bit wrong. I should say that I was actually eating a sausage roll in a graveyard.

Nope, can't get away from it. I was just eating a sausage roll in a graveyard. There's no way of making that look like anything other than what it was. I had a sausage roll, and I was in a graveyard. Eating it.

The point is that while there I was idly perusing the data inscribed upon the stones because my 3G signal was low, when I saw the following grave:

Stop pushing, there's room for everyone.

It's the final resting place of a chap called Samuel Aldridge, who shuffled off his mortal bucket in 1800 aged 81, and his wife Sarah who died 28 years later, aged 48.

Now, apart from their being something potentially disrespectful and possibly unholy about eating a Gregg's pork cylinder on a grave (Dancing? Yes. Frolicking? Fine. Turning widdershins whilst chanting excerpts from the Necronomicon? Not a problem. Eating a Greggs? Ooh, you've crossed a line there, pervert), there was something about those dates that intrigued me.

If Sam died in 1800 aged 81, that means he was born in 1719. His wife, dying in 1828 aged 48 was therefore born in 1780. That's a sixty-one year age gap.

Now, I am a modern liberal and in no way judgemental about the choices of life partner another person makes, as long as they are happy and both get something out of it. In this case, however, considering it was before the advent of many medications used to treat the afflictions of old age (and indeed Viagra), one thought did occur to me.

Way to go Sammy boy!

I’m just surprised he lasted till 1800.

I had other things to do in town apart from desecrate crypts with take-away snacks and so, after brushing my crumbs off on a cherub (also not a euphemism), I continued my sojourn, making a mental note to post that picture on the Gravel Farm for your perusal, for it brings to mind questions of mortality, history, spirituality, love and boffing the elderly to death.

I needed some rabbit treats for our elderly but still voracious bunny, Bert, who might be blind in one eye and unable to clean his nether regions but he can still get it on with your foot if you're wearing fluffy socks. For this reason I made my way into our local pet shop.

The regular reader might recall that this is the shop where I was once very excited to be offered the chance to purchase a squeaky rubber winking lady with a cat's head dressed in bondage gear.* In the end I declined to buy it because I'm not really that into bondage. Or bestiality. Or dog chew toys.

Although the winking lady with a cat's head dressed in bondage gear did apparently sell, the shop owner started to think she'd been catering to too specific a target market and was probably getting fed up with men in stained brown trench coats turning up at night asking if she'd got any new stock in. Upon my visit this time, she'd moved on to providing more mainstream figurines which will appeal to everyone.

Ladies and gentleman, I give you . . . Chicktoria Peckham:

"Does my parson's nose look big in this?"
I still didn't buy her though. I prefer a bit of meat on my birds.

After spending twenty minutes trying to come up with a pun involving the word "plucking", I had Chicktoria prized from my hands and was asked to leave.

Making my way to a budget shop which provides a select range of anything, I encountered the absolute pièce de résistance when it comes to today's theme of death and target markets.

          "I'll cook your heart!"
Leaving aside the fact that the model is actually rather pasty and looks like he'd be happy to serve you a sausage roll to eat on a gravestone, the wording makes it quite clear that this wig is intended only for a very select few.

I thought about buying it, but I don't know any sinister black children.

*Now there's a link that's hard to resist.


  1. Sinister black childs wig. Dear God. I'm all laughed out, as the anti-Alison Moyet sang (probably). The very idea of marketing something as 'sinister' - I love it. I still can't think of anything eating a sausage roll in a graveyard could be a euphemism for but am struck by the fact that you make a beeline to the graveyard having purchased said pastry. Or is there a concession in the nave?

  2. I suspect old Sam was bumped off by his new wife Sarah, in the bedroom with a.... No wait I cant say that!
    'wearing fluffy socks' Way-hey-hey..I know what that means, you pervert.

  3. Are you sure Sam and Sarah actually did the deed? People got married for all kinds of reasons in those days. He may have needed someone to treat his corns. As for Chicktoria, all I will say is that the the breast meat looks more appetising than the drumsticks.

  4. Dirty rabbit nether regions would make a nice toy too, I think. For someone. Not me.

  5. Chants Cottage - It's more aout proximity than concessions. The Greggs is near the cemetary, so hopefully makes the arterially sluggish think twice about that third lardy cake.

    Tempo - Oh yeah. I wore those fluffy socks all night long!

    GB - Could be right. I believe in those days a marriage wasnt considered consummated until one partner had debrided the other's feet.

    Trucking Tumbleweed - Batteries not included. Sounds like a rubbish exclamation as well. "Oh dirty rabbit nether regions, I've got this toy stuck!"

    1. Jules, thank you once again for giving me the "laugh of the week". Love your sense of humour mate, keep it up (not a euphemism)

  6. Way to go Sammy indeed! I hope he died in bed also. With a big smile.

  7. Joe - Ha! Thank you, glad you likes it.

    SkylersDad - Amen!

  8. There lies Sarah, the younger wife of Sam.
    He either had mad money or an enormous ram.

    (or both, heh)

  9. i will be thinking about this for the rest of the day, sugar! *sigh* and thank you very much for that, too! ;~) xoxoxoxo

  10. You silly bastard. What a fabulous way to start a work week.

    I shall have the phrase "eating a sausage roll in a graveyard" in my head all day -- which is not a bad thing.

    Sex and drugs and sausage rolls,


  11. Eating a sausage roll in a graveyard- My mind does automatically think euphemism- for, well, anyways, you could send me a few of those sinister black child's wigs- I work in a boarding school, and we have a few those kids here.

  12. Eric - With an age gap like that, one should always use caution, lest one pops one's clogs whilst giving a portion.

    Savvy - Food for thought! You're welcome.

    Pearl - How come an insult from you makes me feel all warm inside?

    Torggil - It's only for the follicley-challenged sinister black children though.

  13. Yay! A post!
    I click on your bookmark feed every day and... waa waa waaaaaa (sad face), but today I got a little gift and a little thrill!
    Thank you. :-)

  14. Irene - Ooh, pressure! I do intend to blog more often, honest. Glad you like it.

  15. "Sinister Black Child's Wig" WTF?

  16. Sausage roll? You cheapskate. Couldn't go for a sausage, bacon and egg "breakfast belly-buster" could you? Still, the fact that you have the guts to eat sausage rolls in a graveyard means that my estimation of you has moved up half a notch, estimated conservatively of course.

  17. We want to ask you about the HUMOR SMITH CHRONICLE.
    Do you know about the HUMOR SMITH CHRONICLE?
    And we HEARR it came from MATANDO - DODONGO- ICEMAN who's with KSDON-
    And we also HEARR he's with TCCARE- THOMAS- TCAOF- EL SALVADOR.
    Can you get back to it on your blog with further information because we HEARR it's all about
    And MP3 .

  18. mo - I would be worried that if I took a full breakfast in there it would smell so good that the dead would rise and try to take it from me, and I don't want to bring about the zombie apocalypse. Again.

    Anonymous - You HEARR wrong.


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