Eulogy

A man sits to a table and bids the attention of those sat around, for he is about to tell a tale so incredible – so profoundly unbelievable – that it can only be true. “I will tell you of Dave,” announces the man; “rugby maestro, cricket legend, musician, lover, father, and Welshman. From Solihull.”

“Phooey!” the table exclaims collectively. A Welshman from Solihull… Whoever heard of such poppycock?

The man tells of Dave ensnaring a maiden whilst they were both still but younglings. “A maiden so fair, they say, that waters would part to accommodate her step. Or perhaps those same waters feared her roar – so fierce that it could shatter granite!” He met said maiden in the sixth form in Cwmbrân, and they would embark on many adventures henceforth.

“Marriage and three heirs came next, and betwixt them they would follow the noble Dave to far-flung lands; lands of which mere menfolk could but dare to dream… They would follow him to Dubai; to Hungary; to Malawi; and to Dundee for a bit.”

Another at the table pipes up. He issues a challenge to the narrator. “And what fantastical things befell them there? If – indeed – such things occurred?”

“Well,” says the man; “Dave did battle with a mighty arachnid. The terrifying scorpion struck the first blow, and inflicted enough venom upon Dave to slay a regular mortal. Dave, however, did smite the foul beast with the sole of his shoe – smashing it to more smithereens than the universe has stars.

“And that is to say nothing of the time he tried to take his children swimming in shark-infested waters off the coast of Oman. After spotting one shark… then three sharks… then a dozen sharks framed in the faces of the waves, he thought it best to take them collecting shells instead.

“He was equally renowned for his appreciation of the finer things. A good nosh-up, for one. Many Saturdays ago, Big Dave arrived home following a gruelling battle on the rugby field. He had consumed some richly-deserved libations, and found himself with a hunger. His search for food yielded a casserole, which he proceeded to devour in its entirety. The crime was only discovered by his wife just as she was about to dish it up to his hungry family that Sunday lunchtime.

“Intrigue and exploits befell Dave wheresoever he went. Through sporting misadventure, he broke more fingers than you can count on both hands. Once he risked the fearsome wrath of his maiden by buying a sports car without her knowledge. On one occasion he was mistaken for Sean Connery… In Scotland, no less! Though possibly the tale of his being spotted by a neighbour asleep on a park bench - dressed in a pressed suit and covered in ducks – is best left in a drawer.

“Never one to shirk from extreme jeopardy, upon his retirement Dave took the astonishingly brave step of moving into a house with his wife and in-laws. There he proceeded to tour about west Wales, learn how to speak Welsh, and play the piano like a flopsy bunny. And spend time with his kin. For let it be said that truly Dave’s family were his greatest adventure!

“The day eventually came when Dave was sent to the graveyard where he’d sent so many a cricket ball before. And folk they did travel, from lands near and far, to pay tribute to the man with tears and laughter, with tales and jokes, with ales and song. And the ground it did rise, and the sea it did swell; the trees they did hum, and the beasts they did call… Such was the love held for Dave by them all.”

The table look aghast. But the man’s work here is not quite done. He adds:

“These stories, you see, are not of my invention.
There are so much more… Far too many to mention.
I suspect you now realise these tales are all true -
And if you pause for a moment, you’ll think of one too!”