Journey through space to the Planet Fabulous, where the Ruler of the Universe will see you shortly.

Wednesday, August 10, 2005

Death

My first piece of advice for this life is: always become good friends with a necromancer. Why, I find there's nothing worse than unfinished business. If your local phone directory doesn't list, why not have a quick word with that Madonna woman? She obviously knows a good one by the look of her.

Failing that, the rest of us creatures will have to contend with our fitted mortal coils. One often wonders how one is going to shuffle off it - will it be in quiet dignity of passing away in your bed, surrounded by friends sobbing low into their hankies? Or will it be with the sheer gayness of falling off a speaker cabinet at some ghastly Pride event when your hip gives way, your cooling corpse coated in little more than a saucy bit of masking tape and all the silver stars that would stick?

I'm always after a big end, as I'm sure you're aware. I want drama, pathos - naturally including a great deal of ostrich feathers and a mirror ball so large you could signal to the Space Shuttle with it. A final curtain, some rapturous applause, and everyone to file away chatting that 'he may not be original, but at least he was persistent' kind of thing. People pausing in the foyer to pick up a copy of my
racy steamy tell-all autobiography extravaganza called 'Suffering The Slingbacks and Arrows'. You know, the one with me and the whole of the New York Yankies living up to their name in glorious hardback.

Death's not that bad. I've already been through one when I was regressed to a previous life by a psychic, and all it appears to be is slipping away and then waking up in a brilliantly-white space with lots of drapes. Why yes, it sounds like a Conran store - and let me tell you, that is heaven to a lot of Gentlemen Who Are Good With Colours.

But then, what's going to happen to my hairy carcass when I finally vacate it? My naturally giving manner thinks that I should donate it to science, the pluses of which mean I get to be manhandled by some 19-year-old students for the first time in the good part of a decade now. Meanwhile the Wife, being the Earth-loving goblin he is, wants to be hauled up on top of a burning pyre and left to 'return to the soil' as the sun sets. I think he was half-hoping I'd agree to throw myself on there with him in a fit of grief, but the only way I'll go near that is to nip on in an asbestos suit - or with some nice marshmallows on forks.

Failing that, he wants his ashes scattered in a beautiful nature reserve in Oz. Pfft. If I'm going to be dry roasted, I'll want my ashes to be scattered where they're really going to mean something. Like over Tom Cruise at a premiere.

Oh, and I'll want 'Burn Baby Burn - Disco Inferno' played at the cremation, please. Thank you.
 

9 comments:

Broderick said...

I'm glad to see the good old fabled Indian pratice of Sati may one day see a resurgence in London, Lee. The Wife has a good sense of drama. Your job is to find someone who looks enough like you and throw HIM on the pyre... then nip over to Canada to spend the rest of your days as we do... smoked like haddock in an ether of cedar and marijuana. Immortality is easy!

kyknoord said...

You know, one day funeral planning might be an industry that could surpass wedding planning. After all, everybody has to die, but not everyone gets married... Of course, if someone is going to anoint ol? Tommy-boy with your mortal remains, I think it would be a nice touch if they were carried in a box adorned with a tasteful ?biohazard? symbol and the words ?Caution. Anthrax?.

Dantallion said...

Two words: Mass graves.

Sort of an orgy for the afterlife.

St. Dickeybird said...

I want to be cremated with "When Smoke Gets In Your Eyes."
I thought about donating my body to science, but they'd probably just use me as a doorstop.

j(aded) said...

I just love your 'Gentlemen Who...' series! You really must tabulate this somewhere for us all to peruse and (legitimately) use at our own leisure :)

c'lam said...

i had pictured you lying in state for a month, with all the men who... filing past wiping tears from their eyes.

Rob said...

All the people filing past singing Santa Evita Binding, of course. And Antonio Banderas muttering dark things about you...

I've got my funeral tunes sorted. Naturally there's ABBA and the Phil and Giorgio classic, but I always felt that "Burning Up" by Dame Kylie would be my final sendof.

Followed by a bit of a pissup.

Or I may have that during. (It's how I'd want to be remembered: blurred and wobbly.)

EarthMother said...

My kind of funeral! I think you missed your calling ... should have been a coordinator for a funeral home.

dolly said...

I think the most fun part about death would be to come floating back at the funeral with all your other dead friends and chortle at everyone's bad hair day and their awful black outfits...except I'd hope they'd all wear bright colours instead.