Archive for September 7th, 2010

Reports of my death are greatly exaggerated

September 7th, 2010

I fucking hate funerals.

They are such morbid affairs.

Wakes are grand, as the whiskey and the stout flow, and the dear departed is remembered as the dear departed would probably wish to be remembered – through and alcoholic haze of pipe smoke.  Funerals are different though as the service tends to over-dramatise the whole fucking business with talk of death and dust and ashes and shit like that. 

I have given a little thought as to how I should like to be disposed of.  Not a lot lot thought, I hasten to add, as I don’t intend to partake in that little ceremony for a while yet.

First and foremost, I don’t want some priest rattling on about what a great fella I was, when the little bollix never even met me.  If there are speeches, I want people to tell it like it is.  If they think I was a cunt, let them say I was a cunt and don’t wrap things up just because I’m dead.  If they want to say I was a grand chap, then I’m fine with that too.  After all, I’m not going to be in much of a position to comment one way or the other?

Disposal is a tricky thing.  I don’t particularly like graveyards, as they tend to be somewhat depressing.  I did entertain a passing thought that I should like to be cremated, preferably on a pile of old tractor tyres that have been soaked in sump oil.  Call it my last little gesture to the eco-freaks.  I would then have liked for my ashes to be placed in as many ashtrays as possible and left in as many pubs as possible, with strict orders that they must never be moved or cleaned out.  That would cause a nice little drop of confusion?

Lately however I have been entertaining the thought of being buried on a riverbank, and a tree planted on the spot over me.  I like the idea of listening to running water, and having birds singing overhead.  With a bit of luck, the tree will become a place of romance, and I can watch as young couples shag each other’s brains out in the shade of my leafy tombstone.

There again, why should I worry about all this?  By the time it all comes to pass, I won’t give a flying fuck.

I’ll be dead.