It was between 4 February--the day of my grandmother's funeral--and 21 October of that year, the day of my marriage, that I learned courtesy of my uncle that the family's nickname for my father, bestowed on him by members of his family, was "O.B"--Old Bastard. My uncle, Bill, said that "O.C." would have suited him better on account of the way he treated us. I only worked that one out later. Bill also said that the saddest thing about his mother's funeral was that they were not burying O.B.--a serial rapist and abuser--instead. There was great rejoicing when he finally curled his toes.
So, that's how this monologue came about. I loved my grandmother, and she would have loved the pantomime that her funeral became.