Late arrivals at the society ball

Humphrey Lyttelton, 1921 – 2008

Humph tells me he has to leave us now as he’s been invited to a club night by St Peter, and this is something of a climax for him. He’ll drop everything to be taken to heaven by St Michael. He says he can’t wait to see the kindly old keeper-of-the-keys’ famous entrance and part his Pearly Gates, and I can just imagine St Peter’s joy as Humph gets red in the face blowing on his trumpet all evening. There are rumours that God might come and play with his instrument too — he has needed cheering up lately as the Archangel Gabriel keeps rubbing him up the wrong way, and he was last seen giving Gabriel a good mouthful.

St Michael won’t be joining them as he’s off to the pub with Mary. He likes nothing more after a long hard day than to rest his staff in the Queen’s Head, and once Mary gets the pints out he’ll be up all night, and finish off with a stiff one in the early hours. Mary, bless her, never learns to drink in moderation, and I know she’ll be feeling a little dicky in the morning.

Samantha will be there, and she tells me she has been baking some of Humph’s favourites, and bought the whiskey that he loves. I know that she’s very much looking forward to having him try her muffins and liquor out in the Garden of Eden.

Humph, you touched us all, blew us away, and leave us all gushing this weekend. We raise a glass to the legendary Humphrey Lyttelton, and can only play another round of Mornington Crescent.

I’ll open with Great Portland Street.

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