A fit of Giggles in the Crematorium

My uncle lost his pants today in church. In a funeral service to be precise. Apparently this is the second time such an occurrence has well - occurred. The first time was a year ago to the day. The funeral then, was of the husband. Today it is of the wife, a hello and goodbye neighbour, a couple of  floors beneath. The service was moving. One of the three sons was not present and not mentioned. Probably black sheep. The other two gave moving orations. A tear came to the eye.
Hoisting him into the taxi must have shifted his waistband. Up and down, sermon and sit, didn't help either. Nor did the fact that my oncle has no hips, a bum as flat  as an ironing board, and that one box of Maltesers too many, surreptitiously scoffed in the wee hours meant that he had outgrown his sweep of custom made Saville Row suits. Squeezing him into his trousers was a task and a half. The giggles had started then, but had been suppressed, as a bedroom scene reminiscent, "breathe in and hold it, please clasp, clasp!", the stuff of Scarlett in 'Gone with the Wind'. There are no stays but the zip's got stuck. It can't ascend up any further. Never mind the suit's jacket will hide it. Nor will the top shirt button do up. "Ouch!" chicken neck skin gets buttoned up to. "Leave it undone, tighten the tie. Won't notice." Bling required. Gold tie pin and emerald and gold cuff links to detract. No one will bat an eyelid.
Huff and puff. Catch the lift. Don't breathe out!
Things started progressing south most noticeably during yet another rousing rendition of 'Jersusalem'. What is it with this hymn? the issue perplexes me. It IS the 'unofficial' British national anthem. Must be. What a fuss made of it in THE Royal Wedding last year. Makes an upright Christian patriot out of the most yobbo council hooligan. Stand to attention. I mean, is all of England 'not ceasing from mental fight, not letting sword sleep in hand ..Till we have built Jerusalem, In England's green and pleasant land' (read 'clouded hills' in paragraph but one). After all this time, have the Englishers succeeded?.
Sure the funeral was in London's Golder's Green. For a price anyone can be burnt there. There was a crucifix on the 'altar' today in deference to the neighbour's faith. Probably during the subsequent service a Menorah appeared and supplanted said crucifix. The woman's husband was Jewish. Golder's Green is Jewish full stop. Not so much ghetto as minted town. There were lots of Muslims coming out of mosque on the way there and well the service was Church of England. So in a way if you ignore the East End Pakistan and India contingent, the Africans and the Caribbean on Notting Hill, this could really be Jerusalem. Ticked off the Muslims, the Jews and the Christians.
But in my mind Jerusalem = bomb might go off any moment on a bus. The city is a CNN synonym for discord. Why would England aspire to be Jerusalem. And Jerusalem in which era anyway? Then there's the bit about Jerusalem being builded here (Uk I presume), among those dark satanic mills. Satanic Mills??? I'm non-plussed . Mr Google's help is definitely needed to capish what the hell the author's going on about. More confusion and sentimental pathos precedes this; 'And was the holy Lamb of God On England's pleasant pastures seen? did those feet in ancient time walk upon England's mountains green'..ermm NO! because Jesus/Lamb of God (is whom the hymn is referring to I take it, though of course I stand to be corrected - have not done my pre-blog research because really this post is about a man's falling trousers and I am digressing yet again).
Anyways, Jesus was like- born and as far as history lets us know like- died in Israel. I do not think he refugeed it in a boat to the UK for a wee holiday. "Oh you know what, let's go see what the Romans are doing in 'ol Britannia. Need a break from the heat..clouded hills sounds nice just about now."
SOOO as I was saying. OH JERUSALEM!! and the trousers are bunching in a heap on his shoes. Wiggle wiggle. Lucky for the burberry trench coat. Feet far apart, knees bent, trying desperately to hold onto last shreds of dignity and fabric.
We are swayed and prodded into joining the queue to shake the vicar's hand. Consummate showman, he does three funerals a day and sounded pretty sincere and into his bit - I'm told that he had thespian aspirations prior to donning the habit. That explains it. Things were already a bit OTT to begin with but as soon as the coffin started sliding forward he took it up  a notch, waxing lyrical; something about angels bellowing their trumpets, welcoming Mrs Neighbour and St Peter jangling his keys and letting her through and the 'Countenace Divine' himself coming downstairs to hug her welcome. The coffin slides forth to the flames. If all this was to take place surely it happened a week ago upon her demise. Or was she in limbo and the angels polishing their trumpets waiting for the clergyman/actor's summons?
So my uncle whispers in my ear a little loudly (he is half deaf)..'My trousers are falling'..'Oh' I say hmm I espy a chair and we slink out of the file (the Britishers love their single lines) 'You must sit down'. 'He obediently obeys.' 'Wonderful Sermon! Vicar, THaaankyuuuaa' effuse, effuse..the taxi is waiting, we have to get cracking. I need to get oncle out of sight.
I notice a curtained cubicle to right of 'altar'. I manoeuvre and shuffle uncle to the spot. Place umbrella and book and other paraphernalia on said altar. Later Vicar remonstrates and tut tuts my sacrilege but needs must and necessity bla di bla..so try to start pulling trousers up. Go behind relative and he almost topples over whilst I administer what looks like a Heimlich first aid manoeuvre. It also, I ponder posthumously, looks like I'm shagging him from the posterior standing as he is with his trousers crumpled over his shoes and bent forward on his walking stick.
In the meantime much to our collective dismay I discover that we are in the 'organ enclosure, and the organist is doing his best to play on angelically, ignoring us, whilst we (uncle+ me) do this little dance, as he turns and squirms and I wriggle and grope trying to shift his trousers up under coat. We are getting nowhere. Instrumental Jerusalem continues. I decide to undo his trench coat and then lower myself to my knees to pull up from the front. Vicar comes in upon us. It looks terrible. Uncle in his underpants and me on my knees in front. Jerusalem reaches a crescendo. I jerk up from BJ stance in consternation just in time to catch  uncle who has toppled backwards onto organist. I can't take it any more. I have blood seeping from biting my tongue. I erupt into totally inappropriate giggles. The situation is too funny. Vicar not amused. he asks me to remove umbrella from altar. I produce a belt from the bag I have been carrying and encircle unfaithful trousers. It is no use. Later, as we exit taxi in the pouring rain the situation repeats itself. 'The belt, the belt, it's slipped ' and my eyes are so blurry I can't see.