What is family, above all? It's a space, I think, in which you can feel fully known. Everywhere else, particularly now that everyone has gone public, you're liable to find yourself misrepresented: but with your parents, your partners and your children, you hope that the image they hold of you in their heads is more or less a correct reflection of who you actually are. In my family, we think, I am properly mirrored.
Until you die, I've noticed. Once you die, our society seems to think that everybody, including all your relatives left behind, are supposed to just say you were wonderful. You, apparently, were the most wonderful mother, husband, father, wife, pet-owner, neighbour, cautious driver and good citizen. Anything else at the funeral pulpit is sacrilege.
Well: that isn't what I want. When my mum died, I didn't want to hear from all those people telling me at her funeral that she was wonderful. Because it flattened out who she was. It made her just like all the other endless angelic dead. If that's all you can say about those who have gone, you may as well say nothing.
My mother, you see, was bonkers. She was a spotlight-grabbing, sex-obsessed, hilarious crazy. For example: in the middle of her life, she became massively interested in golf. But she didn't play golf. That didn't stop her filling the house with golf memorabilia, and starting a golfing memorabilia business called Golfiana. This was not, it turned out, because of the pure joys of life out on the links. It was because she had fallen in love with a golfing memorabilia salesman. Who, by the way, was not my father.
Now. This may seem not how you're meant to remember one's dear departed mother. But trust me, this – an aspect of her life I celebrate in my new show, My Family: Not The Sitcom – brings her back to life much more radically than saying she was wonderful.
The show, really, is about memory: about how we want to be remembered. It is also about my dad, who has dementia. I talk about that too, because again my sense is that erasing that out of his history is just propaganda. And the truth is – I'm a bit nuts about that truth thing – that some aspects of my dad's condition are funny. He has Pick's Disease, a type of dementia that involves not just short-term memory loss, but also sexual disinhibition, extreme rudeness, impatience, and swearing. When the neurologist first told me this list of symptoms, I said: sorry does he have a disease, or have you just met him?
Because my dad has always been like that. Imagine Roger Mellie, a bit more sweary, and Welsh, that's my dad. So the dementia hasn't robbed us of who he is, it's exaggerated who he is. And while there is sadness in that, there is comedy too.
It doesn't of course truly matter how we are remembered, as the person who might really care about it is dead, and therefore, unlikely to be upset either way. However, I also believe that the only way we do carry on existing after death is in the minds of our loved ones, and therefore, we may as well get that image right. When I go, I'd like to think that my kids will get up on that sad height and tell the truth about me. And that should involve – that will involve, if I remember my own life correctly – taking the piss.
David Baddiel performs My Family: Not the Sitcom at London’s Menier Chocolate Factory 10th May -25th June. To win two tickets for a performance of your choice, subject to availability, look out for the giveaway on Twitter by following @Mumsnet.
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MumsnetGuestPosts · 12/05/2016 16:04
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