Paul has the last laugh with Scotland’s comedy community - Susan Morrison
Scotland's comedy community said farewell to my dear friend Paul Sneddon last week. As you’d expect, comedians' funerals are not quite as others.
Contrary to the popular image, we don’t do the ‘tears of a clown’ thing. Most of us are pretty resilient. Well, you have to be to convince yourself that driving five hours to stand in front of 20 stony-faced punters in Leeds and then drive home through a snow storm is a valid life choice.
Paul, though, never faced anyone doing an Easter Island statue impersonation for long. He was a regular force of nature. It was always my little pleasure to watch him reduce even the most sour-faced lip-curled joy-sponges to helpless hysteria. He always did, and so it was fitting that waves of laughter washed around his coffin.
His brother told us that he was the greatest uncle in the world to his nephews. Where other people tell children bedtime tales of lost lands and fairy castles, Paul told them about a boy called Douglas who lived down the toilet. C’mon. There’s a whole franchise waiting to be written about this Scottish superhero.
His brother-in-law didn’t give us melancholy memorialisation, but instead related how a simple lunch date unravelled in typical Paul style, as he lurched about London having been caught up in a strike, which made him late, got lost, wound up on the wrong bridge, then finally met up only to order the only pizza not on special offer. It was an epic that made the Odyssey look like a day out with the Auchenshuggle Ramblers Club.
The wonderful Miles Jupp spoke about Paul's relentless optimism, generosity of spirit and wondered, as we all did, why on earth he did that with his hair.
A eulogy was read by a woman who started by saying she couldn’t believe he’d left so soon, since it usually took her at least 30 minutes to prise him out of any room. That would be me. Every evening we worked together invariably ended with me yelling at Paul in escalating exasperation to stop talking and get in the taxi.
Tommy Sheppard of The Stand spoke of the talent and energy of a true friend to so many. And there were many. Those standing outside numbered as many as there were inside.
Paul graced his stages with presence and exquisite timing. Off-stage the man was menace to himself and technology, especially cars. Every motor he drove quickly acquired the scraped, scuffed, scarred paintwork of a man who thinks those stone pillars are easy to drive through. Side panels were dinged and dented. He lost his keys inside a car door. One boot jammed shut, entombing a cheese sandwich. It was summer. The word ‘whiffy’ doesn't even start to cover it.
Paul was a proud Scot, so his family asked for a Saltire to be draped over his coffin. The undertakers did a lovely job placing the flag. The staff attending made sure it lay just so.
But, as he finally left us, somehow that flag managed to get itself tangled a little in the machinery. Oil was smeared on the Saltire. Such a thing had not happened before, they said, apologising.
They needn’t have. No doubt in my mind, Paul’s unruly battle with technology claimed one last victory. And, boy, would he have laughed at that.