I later wrote this poem about the night:

And now for something completely...

Curse the bloody Wednesday;
when I crashed through the wind
spitting vomit and tears,
raking at the sky with my
ash-white fingers.
Curse the black cold night;
when I wiped my innards
on my scratchy wool coat,
blew through the doorway with
the dust and the leaves to proclaim death.

Stop this! It's getting too silly.
Yes, it's true we mocked death
for the love of you,
stuck out our tongues and
flipped death the bird,
singing we will all go together
and how sweet to be an idiot
swinging chandeliers
tipping over couches
climbing through windows
Yes, we told jokes
and spat in death's ear;
we hopped and sang let it be
and chased each other
around the echoing room.
A proper wake,
three hours of tears evaporating
into silliness.

Some say JFK, some say John Lennon,
but I'm the closet monarchist
anglophile rabid cult intellectual
who will always answer
a passionate yes to the question,
"Do you remember where you were
the night Graham Chapman died?"

("Liberal rubbish!!!")

                                         - October 1989