The End Of the World
WEEK TWO
By James Leavey
Had a bit of a shock when I went
through this month's bank statement. Seems I'm worth more dead, than
alive, what with the cost of funerals being so high.
Rushed out to the local library and found
the perfect solution: The New Natural Death Handbook,
edited by Nicholas Albery and Stephanie Wienrich. It includes a guide to
all of Britain's woodland burial grounds and mail-order cardboard
coffins, the best funeral directors, cemeteries and crematoria, the law
on private land burial, and inexpensive funerals 'without funeral
directors'. Not sure what 'New' means, for Death is a hoary old
subject, but the blurb on the cover assures me that the contents are in
their 3rd edition, completely revised and expanded. So that's
all right, then.
After a quick flick through, decided to
leave copies for the Beloved Wife and my two children. That way, they
may be encouraged to stuff my remains under the runners beans in the
back garden, or dump my body in a black bin-liner over the side of a
pedalo off Portsmouth, while I devote the rest of my life and earnings
to Havanas and single Malts.
The only other thing I need now is
someone to write my obituary, preferably a professional liar experienced
in the art of producing fantasy and science fiction. And prepared to
gloss over the embarrassing details I'd rather nobody else knew about.
Even better, I could edit my obituary,
before they print it. Of course, what I really want is for everyone to
say what a wonderful person I was, and how much they miss me. I'd love
to be there when the bank manager reads it, the bastard.
It must be a lucrative job, being a
biographer. You'll never run out of subjects. I'm thinking of
ringing the editor of the Daily Telegraph or New York Times, providing a
list of my most famous friends and acquaintances, and offering to
rewrite their lives, for a fee. You don't even have to wait until they've
snuffed it - just tack the date of their death at the end, and shove
in a few quotes from anybody vaguely famous who knew them.
This Death business is getting so
exciting, I'm almost looking forward to my funeral. Hope it's like
the one which saw off my Uncle Paddy. I arrived late, sat at the back
with some distant, aging relatives, and woke up when my cousin announced
to the congregation that the vicar would now play my uncle's favourite
tune, 'Wandering Star' from 'Paint Your Wagon'. The daft old
bats on either side of me thought they were at a karaoke, and joined in
the choruses. It ended with the whole back row of us at the church
holding hands and swaying from side to side, doing our best to keep up
with Lee Marvin.
Just in case anyone's interested, I'd
like the final stripper scene, from 'The Full Monty'.
Meanwhile, I hope to make it to the next
column. If not, I'd prefer you read all about me through a pair of
rose-tinted glasses.
