A Final Farewell in Kennington

    This afternoon I walked past a local church in which a Pentecostal funeral was about to take place. The congregation was mainly Afro-Caribbean. They stood about on the pavement in their brilliant finery: the women in diamanté-studded stiletto shoes and feathers and furs; the men in ties and waistcoats and broad-brimmed hats. Around the corner a big black hearse awaited, cascading with yellow and white flowers. Further down the street the hearse driver propped himself up against the wall outside of a pub, pint in hand, waiting for the service to end so he could tipsily deliver the deceased to their final destination, under the London clay.
    I ducked into the pub to check my emails on the free Wi-fi. As I sat there, several waves of Jamaican women came in from the funeral party, requesting the use of the pub's toilet. They were directed up the rickety staircase to the Ladies'.
    After a little while, a spotless white Rolls Royce pulled off the road and parked across the pavement. The driver, who wore a shabby uniform, stepped out and opened the rear door for the very dapper passenger: a Jamaican man in his late-60s. On seeing this, the landlord barked an oath and strode outside.
    "Sorry! Sorry! You can't park there! They'll crucify you!" The Rolls' passenger stepped towards him. He was spectacularly dressed in a black, wide-brimmed hat; black sunglasses; a scarlet waistcoat; black and white herringbone jacket; thigh-length black fur coat; white flared trousers; highly polished black shoes; and a massive silver crucifix that bounced against his belly, suspended from his neck on a thick silver chain.
   "It's arright, mon", he replied, "I come far da funeral, they ain't gonna totch me, now." He wandered across to the church. The landlord came back inside and said, "Fuckin' 'ell! Did 'e enter the pimp of the year contest or sumfink?"

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