The Best Funeral
Ever
by Jilliana
Ranicar-Breese
I have only
been to three funerals in my life. My mother's,
my father's and my ex husband's.
Martin Breese,
magician, multi media publisher, inventor,
pioneer of magic tricks, photographer and
copywriter/editor died at the age of 74 three
years ago having experienced everything that he
wanted to do in life.
Like owning a
Rolls Royce, which he only drove on two occasions
to the local Sainsbury's in Brighton because he
was sold an expensive pup. He could not even
start the Rolls for his third wedding! Like
finding a Thai bride on the internet, like going
with dozens of young Chinese prostitutes supplied
by the local brothel keeper Coco in Brighton at
£100-£120 a session. Like harvesting a crop of
marijuana under photographic lights on the top
floor of our house in the respectable Hanover
Crescent and smoking it all over a year or giving
it away to his old and new grasping 'friends'.
Like getting a tattoo on his arm of the
Breese logo from his early magic publications
which looked like one big black stupid splodge.
Like owning and running a colonic irrigation
clinic in our flat which he lived in after we had
split up. Like drinking copious amounts of
wine without getting too drunk. Like being
unfaithful even though we had had a fidelity bond
for 23 years. Like 'buying' friendships.
Like creating multi media magic videos and
CDs which he had pioneered and won an award in
Hollywood at the Magic Castle, the world nerve
centre for the magic brotherhood for his 32 years
in the international Magic Fraternity. Everyone
in the world of magic who was of a certain age
knew the name Martin Breese. Yes, he grew old
disgracefully and got away with it. A charismatic
rogue, rascal and manipulator pulling the
invisible puppet strings to the end of his days.
First of all
the funeral was held in the very beautiful Church
of Annunciation, Hanover, Brighton. He was not a
member of the congregation but was very friendly
with the Priest - Father Michael. He was
officially called this but his alter-ego was
Spike Wells, a well-known local jazz drummer who
performed gigs and who had a violinist wife half
his age. He had also had a career before
Priesthood as a solicitor!!!!
Father Michael
gave a profound speech about Martin, the man and
his achievements which must have been difficult
for him, as he was fond of him as a friend. They
had met when Martin ran his Colonic Irrigation
clinic at the top of the flat we jointly owned
which he moved into when he left me!!! They also
shared a love of George Simenon's Maigret crime
novels. Father Michael would come to visit
him in the cancer ward at the Sussex County
Hospital in his role of hospital Chaplain where
they would talk about life and death. Martin knew
when he was ready to leave this world for the
next.
Sophie, his
intellectual daughter who was a Doctor of
Philosophy and Literature from Oxford University,
gave a loving, professional speech followed by
his son James, a well established TV
presenter, charity auctioneer and writer on
vintage Collectables for The Sunday Mirror. So
Martin had a good oratory send off, so to speak.
When I said my
FINAL adieu to him in the Brighton County
Hospital (he died of leukemia), I touched
his shoulder and said, of all things, "Take
good care of yourself". Why on earth would I
say such a funny thing? I've never said that
before to anyone!!!!
When I entered
the church, I thought I would follow James and
Sophie alongside Martin's third wife (a Thai
bride called Pang) and sit with them in the front
row of the church normally reserved for close
family. But horror of horrors, as I came down the
aisle, one of Martin's good friends and supplier
of apparatus and tricks called Glinda, a
transgender character, fell sobbing into my
arms. I couldn't very well leave so I remained
there throughout the sermon holding her hand with
her head resting on my shoulder, breast and
sometimes my lap. She was wearing one of her
usual décolleté summer dresses. But hey this
was Brighton in full swing where anything goes in
life as well as death!!!
After the
church there was the Crematorium ceremony, with
only the immediate family where we watched the
Master of magic and his casket disappear into
heaven or hell with the dark blue curtains
closing forever behind him.
At the magical
hour we all went to the vibrant magical party at
the trendy MyHotel in the ultra modern
cocktail bar for two magic shows and speeches by
professional magicians who were his good friends
honouring the Great Man and his many achievements
with the guests standing watching drinks in hand
after a toasting him cheering what a great fellow
he was!
The atmosphere
was convivial and electric. I was reunited with
people from our past 25 years life together
including his book jacket designer, his estate
agent, his solicitor (who I heard got drunk later
into the evening), a South African Rabbi who
gatecrashed and had never met Martin, my oldest
best girl friend Helga who had flown in from
Jerusalem, Israel, his typesetter Anne who had
driven from her home in France, the Egyptian
lantique dealer, neighbour and friend who had
bought our marital home in Hanover Crescent, the
manager of the local Chinese restaurant, Denis,
who had tried unsuccessfully to teach him some
Chinese, his ex companion Jackie with her
American comedian partner, his oldest friend,
Lawrence, who he used to play marbles with on
South London bomb sites who he drank copious
bottles of wine with at Donatello's each month
and dozens of others who had been invited to pay
homage to the character who had grown old
disgracefully and got away with it.
It was a
fabulous party with food and drink flowing freely.
Martin Breese would have loved it had he been
invited! What a way to go...........................
Written
in Athens in September 2015.
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