Obituary Corner

 Scene: The River Styx, mist curling like old cigarette smoke. A rickety ferry groans at the dock. Charon, the boatman, looks mildly irritated.

Tony Harrison (clutching a notebook):
“This is no Tyne ferry, mind. No brass bands, no bairns, just bloody oblivion. I’ll write a sonnet about it — ‘Styx: A Crossing in Iambic Regret.’”

Menzies Campbell (adjusting his tie):
“I must say, the EU never regulated this sort of passage. No life jackets, no cushions, no safety briefing. Is there a parliamentary procedure for negotiating with the dead?”

Patricia Routledge (as Hyacinth Bucket):
“I do hope they’ve reserved me a seat near the prow. I simply cannot abide sulphurous mist in my décolletage. And I shall not share a bench with any shades who failed to RSVP.”

Jane Goodall (gazing into the gloom):
“Fascinating. I believe I saw a spectral bonobo waving. Perhaps the underworld has its own primate hierarchy. I must observe quietly — no flash photography, please.”

Harold ‘Dickie’ Bird (peering over the edge):
“I’ve umpired at Headingley in fog thicker than this. If Cerberus tries to bowl a googly, I’ll call it wide. And I’ll not be intimidated by any three-headed sledging.”

Charon (deadpan):
“No pets. No poetry. No parliamentary inquiries. And no singing. Especially not Gilbert and Sullivan.”

Patricia (offended):
“I’ll have you know I was the mezzo-soprano in the East Cheshire Light Operatic Society. I once sang ‘Poor Wand’ring One’ with such pathos that the vicar wept into his cassock.”

Tony (scribbling):
“‘Cassock damp with grief / as Hyacinth sang / the Styx hissed beneath.’ That’s a keeper.”

Menzies (to Jane):
“Do you suppose the ferry accepts contactless? I’ve only got a commemorative coin from the Liberal Democrat centenary.”

Jane (smiling):
“I think Charon prefers obols. Or perhaps bananas.”

Dickie (to Charon):
“Right then, lad. Let’s get this show on the road. Or the river. And if you see any underworld LBWs, I’ll be watching.”

Charon (sighing):
“I should’ve taken the day off.”

The ferry has docked at the ashen shores of the underworld. Our party disembarks, greeted by a customs desk that resembles a cross between a post office in Huddersfield and Kafka’s worst nightmare.

Scene: The Reception Hall of Hades. A flickering fluorescent light buzzes overhead. A sign reads “Welcome to the Afterlife. Please queue in alphabetical order unless you were famous.”

Receptionist (a skeletal civil servant with a clipboard):

“Name, occupation, and any unresolved earthly grievances.”

Tony Harrison (stepping forward):

“Poet. Grievance: the decline of working-class vowels. And the closure of Leeds libraries.”

Receptionist (scribbling):

“Noted. You’ll be assigned to the Department of Eternal Lamentation. Tuesdays are sonnet days.”

Menzies Campbell (producing a sheaf of papers):

“I’ve brought my own dossier. I’d like to appeal for a moderate afterlife with proportional representation.”

Receptionist:

“You’ll be in the Bureau of Futile Petitions. Next.”

Patricia Routledge (adjusting her handbag):

“Hyacinth Bucket. That’s ‘Bouquet,’ if you please. I expect a suite with a view and no proximity to the damned.”

Receptionist:

“You’ll be in the Department of Mispronounced Names and Social Climbing. It’s next to the Lake of Mild Disappointment.”

Jane Goodall (softly):

“I’d prefer a quiet corner with access to spectral chimpanzees. And perhaps a grove of ghostly fig trees.”

Receptionist:

“You’re in the Sanctuary of Ethical Souls. No meat, no mirrors, no monarchy.”

Dickie Bird (cheerfully):

“I’m just here to umpire. I’ve got my hat, my finger, and my moral compass. If Cerberus sledges, he’s out.”

Receptionist:

“You’ll be posted to the Field of Eternal Overs. Watch out for phantom leg-before appeals.”

Charon (muttering):

“I told you lot to bring exact change.”

Tony (scribbling again):

“‘Exact change for Charon / no card, no coin, no hope / bureaucracy floats.’”

Patricia (sniffing):

“I do hope the underworld has a Waitrose.”

Menzies:

"Has anyone seen my pile of cushions?"

The reunion tea, one year after our spectral ensemble has served their time in the bureaucratic bowels of Hades. The venue: the Elysian Lounge, a faintly glowing tearoom with ghostly scones and a harp that plays itself, slightly out of tune.

Scene: The Elysian Lounge. A sign reads “Reunion Tea: One Year Post-Assignment. Please check your aura at the door.”

Tony Harrison (arriving with a battered notebook):

“I’ve written 47 elegies and one limerick. The Department of Eternal Lamentation is a bit heavy on the sighing. I miss Yorkshire sarcasm.”

Patricia Routledge (in full Hyacinth mode, wearing a spectral fascinator):

“I spent the year organising a posthumous cotillion for the socially ambitious. We had ghostly vol-au-vents and a séance with Lady Bracknell. I was, of course, the toast of the Lake of Mild Disappointment.”

Menzies Campbell (carrying a folder labelled “Coalition Possibilities in the Afterlife” and a cushion):

“I attempted a cross-departmental alliance with the Bureau of Futile Petitions. We drafted a motion to install a second ferry. It was vetoed by Cerberus.”

Jane Goodall (serene, sipping nettle tea):

“I’ve been studying the behavioural patterns of the underworld’s primates. Fascinating creatures. One ghost chimp built a shrine to a banana peel. I’ve named him Plato.”

Dickie Bird (cheerfully):

“I umpired 312 matches, 14 of which were interrupted by banshees. I gave a phantom LBW and the crowd booed in Latin. Still, I kept my finger firm and my hat on straight.”

Charon (lurking near the samovar):

“I’ve been promoted to Head of Transport and Existential Ennui. I now operate the ferry and the escalator to Limbo. It’s mostly paperwork.”

Tony (reading aloud):‘Tea with the dead / scones without jam / ghosts gossiping / like it’s a WI AGM.’”

Jane (smiling):

“I do hope Plato can join us next year. He’s learning to knit.”

Menzies (to Dickie):

“Do you suppose we could form a cricket caucus? I’ve drafted a charter.”

Dickie:

“Only if we play on the Field of Eternal Overs. And no sledging from the damned.”

Patricia (raising her cup):

“To the afterlife — may it remain moderately tolerable and tastefully lit.”

All:

Hear hear.”

 The setting: a dimly lit parlour in the Elysian Lounge, with ghostly tea and suspiciously sharp cake forks.

Scene: The Elysian Lounge, Thursday afternoon. A sign reads “No Necromancy During Tea.” A spectral grandfather clock ticks backwards.

Patricia Routledge (straightening her lace cuffs):

“I propose we form a club. Not a bridge club — too many ghosts cheat. A murder club. Thursdays. With proper minutes and refreshments.”

Tony Harrison (scribbling):

“A club for the dead to solve the deaths of the dead. I smell irony. And possibly ectoplasm.”

Menzies Campbell (producing a binder):

“I’ve drafted a constitution. Clause one: all murders must be metaphorical, historical, or committed by someone with a peerage.”

Jane Goodall (nodding thoughtfully):

“I’m in. But only if we investigate the mysterious disappearance of the underworld’s fig trees. And the suspicious behaviour of ghost baboons.”

Dickie Bird (adjusting his umpire’s hat):

“I’ll keep score. And if anyone tries to bowl a red herring, I’ll call it out. No foul play on my watch.”

Charon (lurking near the biscuit tray):

“You lot are the reason I applied for early retirement. But fine. I’ll be the driver. And the occasional suspect.”

Patricia (beaming):

“Splendid. We’ll meet every Thursday. Dress code: spectral chic. First case: who poisoned the custard at last week’s tea?”

Tony (reading aloud):

“‘Custard of doom / spooned with intent / Thursday’s club / plots its ascent.’”

Jane (to Menzies):

“Do we need a permit for interrogating the damned?”

Menzies:

“Only if they’re unionised.”

Dickie (brandishing a ghostly magnifying glass):

“Right then. Let’s solve some murders. Or at least stir up some gossip.”

Patricia (raising her cup):

“To the Thursday Murder Club — may our mysteries be murky and our tea eternally warm.”

All:

“Hear hear.”

Our spectral ensemble gather once more in the Elysian Lounge, sipping ghostly Darjeeling and casting their dream team for the inevitable adaptation of The Thursday Murder Club: Underworld Edition. The casting conversation is spirited, theatrical, and just a touch competitive.

Patricia Routledge (adjusting her spectral pearls):

“I insist on Helen Mirren. Regal, poised, and capable of delivering a withering glance that could curdle ectoplasm.”

Tony Harrison (scribbling):

“I want Christopher Eccleston. Northern grit, poetic soul, and he can scowl in trochees.”

Menzies Campbell (leafing through a casting directory):

“I rather fancy Charles Dance. Gravitas, diction, and a brow furrowed by centuries of constitutional ambiguity.”

Jane Goodall (smiling gently):

“Emma Thompson. She’d bring warmth, wit, and a certain irritating  respect for ghostly gorillas.”

Dickie Bird:

“I’ll have Jim Broadbent. He’s got the hat, the twinkle, and he knows how to call a phantom LBW.”

Charon (deadpan, sipping tea):

“I nominate Steve Buscemi. No one does weary ferry operator with existential dread quite like him.”

Patricia (nodding):

“Excellent. We’ll need a poster. Something tasteful. Perhaps Helen in a misty fascinator, holding a poisoned scone.”

Tony (reading aloud):

“‘Mirren in mist / Eccleston grim / Dance with the dead / and Broadbent’s whim.’”

Menzies:

“We should include a parliamentary subplot. Perhaps a prime minister buying a donkey field. 

Charon:

“I’ll be in my trailer. Which is also a boat.”

Five souls. One ferry. Infinite regrets. And someone’s been tampering with the custard.

• Helen Mirren as Patricia Routledge — the imperious hostess with a poisoned teacup and a flair for fascinators

• Christopher Eccleston as Tony Harrison — the brooding poet who suspects everyone, including the furniture

• Charles Dance as Menzies Campbell — the constitutional ghost with a monocle and a motive

• Emma Thompson as Jane Goodall — the primate whisperer with a knack for solving crimes and calming banshees

• Jim Broadbent as Dickie Bird — the umpire of the afterlife, calling foul on phantom foul play

• Steve Buscemi as Charon — the weary ferryman who’s seen too much and rowed too far

• Scriptwriter: