LIZ JONES’S DIARY: The funeral, part one

I know I promised not to write about the funeral of the Rock Star’s roadie. And I wouldn’t have done if he had behaved. I don’t know what it is about the big moments in life that make men, the sort of men I date – former punks, mavericks, fat lumps – suddenly go off piste, off the rails. 

Remember my date with David for his birthday at Lime Wood in the New Forest? When he called me a ‘d***head’ despite the fact I was paying over £500 for the room, meals and his copious amounts of alcohol. I ended up having to lock him out of the room and pass his keys and iPad – they always forget something – out to him through a chink in the door in case he put his foot inside. 

This time? It was worse. I had gone to a great deal of effort, despite the 23-year-old Prada suit. As my eyebrows are transplants, I have to trim them once a week, and have them dyed fortnightly: I am the Monty Don of female skincare. I had to book a lovely young man called Gus to sit with my dogs. I filed all my copy for the newspaper in advance. Since I began my career in 1981, I have only posted ‘out of office’ once, on my birthday. 

ILLUSTRATION: Tom Peake at Meiklejohn. Liz Jones writes about attending a funeral, at which her ex husband was there

I drove to Twickenham in my ancient car. I have no seat belts, thanks to my collie Gracie, as she has chewed them all. Every time I see a police car I try to disguise the fact I’m not wearing one with my arm. The first disaster happened. On the A1, a police car drove up behind me, sirens on. I ignored it until it indicated I should pull over. I stopped. Two officers came alongside my car. ‘Were you putting make-up on while driving?’ 

Me: ‘No.’ 

Policeman: ‘Have you been drinking? 

Me: ‘It is 11 o’clock in the morning, no.’ 

Policeman: ‘We are going to have to breathalyse you. You were driving very slowly.’ 

Me: ‘I’m not used to motorways since lockdown.’ 

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Finally, they sent me on my way. I texted him: ‘Been arrested. Be a bit late.’

Him: ‘Are your dogs with you? I do know how they like to dig.’ 

Me: ‘No.’ 

I parked with moments to spare. Changed my shoes. Checked my eyebrows. He was standing outside the chapel, checking his phone. His ex-wife was next to him. She was wearing inappropriate cream broderie anglaise. She hates me. He once replied to one of her texts and sent it to me by mistake: ‘No, Liz wasn’t criticising your kaftan. It was more general. She writes about fashion.’ 

My ex-husband’s comment in a newspaper that my work is ‘vacuous’ springs to mind. 

We filed into the chapel. I felt his hand on my back, guiding me. ‘We need to sit near the open door at the back as they’ve all read you’re unvaccinated,’ he said. His words were like a dagger in my heart. Dear God, this lot have taken so many drugs, smoked so many fags, I am sure they must be costing the NHS millions. 

‘I’m giving a speech,’ he said. ‘Have a look.’ I gave it a read. He is a poet. Never went to uni, but he is a genius. 

The service was lovely. The music amazing. I started to wonder whether I am dating him again just to have someone there when I die. We filed out. I was sweating. We repaired to a pub, and I was struck by how once we all stood in some hole in Camden in 1983, not realising we would not be young forever. And here we are, dropping like flies. 

There was nothing for me to eat bar peanuts. I told him I had to drive home to relieve Gus. ‘Your new fancy man, is he?’ he said, three sheets to the wind. 

I know he is grieving, so I ignored that. His pupils were like the head of a pin. 

‘No one wants you here,’ he said. I stood in my tall shoes and my old suit, and I suddenly felt ridiculous. I suddenly wanted David.