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

Tuesday, November 28, 2006

Final Words

I had my first Thanksgiving last week.

I think it's very important to give thanks; as you can imagine, the amount of time I've fallen to my knees and praised the Lord above for what's before me is too innumerable to mention. So when marvellous ex-pats Bob and Larry said they were going to throw open their doors and asked us to enjoy an enormous turkey, I thought it would be a fabulous way to spend an evening, although by enormous turkey, I thought they were getting Madonna's 'Swept Away'. What a marvellous film. Personally I can't think why it was a box-office flop, and every light-hearted comedy should have an ugly anal rape scene at the beginning. I can certainly imagine Mary Poppins being improved so.

But it turned out to be a turkey bird, as given to the pilgrims by the native Americans. Oh, if it wasn't for those generous indigenous population, where would we be today? No America! Well, there'd be no Murder, She Wrote for one. Or Cagney and Lacey. And that thought just scares me beyond all reason. So bless you, native Indians - you have improved our quality of life beyond all measure, and for that, I was more than willing to give thanks to you. And your casinos, cheap bracelets, and willingness for your likeness to be captured in wood to stand outside cigar shops throughout the United States.

Now, dear Bob and Larry invited a whole host of fabulous people, and I installed myself on the sofa between the mother of the rather glamorous neighbour. Said neighbour was a beautiful middle-aged Lady Who Lunches, slim as a supermodel and "wasn't eating..." but looked at the turkey with an approving glance as she wandered over to get herself a glass of iced water. Clearly as soon as she came into the room, every single gay put down their forks and flocked over to her to pay homage, where she dutifully told us stories of how he decorated her lounge. God, did she know how to play to her audience.

Her mother, the darling lady sitting next to me, turned out to be the former Mrs Nicholas Parsons (he's a light entertainer, dear Yankee brethren) and also knew how to spin a yarn. On the other side was one of my favourite women in the world, who's currently investigating the recent poisoning of the Russian spy who took the Halloween costume of Homer Simpson a little too far by going completely bald and yellow. He's 'sleeping with Baby Jesus' now, as my charming ex would have said, his passing spawning conspiracy sites across the web. Did you hear what his last words were? "The bastards may have got me, but they'll never get us all"

I thought that was wonderfully dramatic. Or he'd been out to see Casino Royale the week before.

Right there and then I decided I should start working on my final words, spurned on by this poor unfortunate's passing. Well, you only get one shot at them, clearly, and I'm hoping for a big turnout when I go. I mean, if my ex's alone try and congregate around my bed, I'm going to have to hire the V&A and put on a decent buffet. Well, you don't want anyone nipping out for a ham salad sandwich and missing the big event, do you?

Although, I'm not a great public speaker, that has to be said. I have a horrible feeling my last words will be something like 'Did I leave the iron on..?'

Or, indeed, "Why on earth is this handbag ticki-"



Anonymous said...

If you're not into public speaking, you still have the gravestone - there's a wealth of oppurtunities there...


Tickersoid said...

Here lies Lee.

(if you don't know how to arrange flowers seek professional advice)

Joe said...

How about "Straighten the doilies and turn the lights off when you leave", which has always appealed to me.

Bob said...

And what a lovely Thanksgiving guest you were. Pop over for pumpkin pie. We'll dress up like Dee and Susie (who's even more entertaining when she's not on her pre-holiday no drinking binge) and work on your eulogy.

Anonymous said...

For some reason visions of Joan Crawford and Bette Davis in whatever happened to Baby Jane sprung to my mind when I read this. God love you.

Miss Mish said...

I always hope that my last words will start "Oh my god I'm com...."
Preferably in my favourite job as George Cloony's fluffer.

Perry Neeham said...

Spike Milligna's last words ("I told you I was ill") always makes me laff.

klee said...

In the dear words of Mae West (otherwise known as a Sherman Tank in shoulderpads)

"Come up and see me some time..."

The perfect epi...epi....epi-tomb?

Inexplicable DeVice said...

As long as the handbag's Gucci, it doesn't matter...

Qenny said...

Composing your last words. Dangerous road to go down. A friend of ours redesigns his funeral several times a year. So far the only constant is ABBA. Don't let it happen to you!

matty said...

I think I love you!

Your blog is awesome!

And, I agree -- it is a tough call between Madonna in SWEPT AWAY and an actual cooked bird. I suspect I would go for Madonna every time. ...and anal rape on a pretty beach.

Ah, pretty beaches.

...Liz Taylor leaving "paper roses" for Dick to pick up.


I like to imagine that your handback is from Juicy C!

Anonymous said...

Last words... hmmn. I have always been unwilling to speak unless I expect to say something that will amaze the whole room and be handed down to posterity with all the eclat of a proverb. One expects that one?s last words will be remembered. This subject requires considerable thought.

Preparation is the key, don't you think? Yet how to prepare when the circumstances of one?s death are left in the clumsy hands of fate? Yet one knows death is coming... it?s like having an invitation to a mysterious party at some unascertained date in the future, without any idea what?s appropriate wear- formal? casual? fancy dress?

So how to plan one's final words? What is a perfectly appropriate line for one situation might be perfectly ridiculous in another. (If on a plane that is about to be flown into a skyscraper, no doubt ?JESUS CHRIST! This time I really AM coming!? might slip out unnoticed; that same utterance, if lying in a bed might surrounded by relatives, give one?s audience the wrong idea)

In consequence, I propose planning my own death carefully, unlike my life which has meandered along from one thing to another, despite my feeble attempts to control it. When I depart, I?ll have an arsenal of killer lines ready. And I'll have a couple for those unforseen circumstances, like paparazzi distracting the chauffeur as you're speeding through a tunnel in Paris, or stalker assassins.

My old friend Vol (no, that?s not Voldemort? it?s Voltaire? although Jo Rowling might want to consider allowing her insipid villain to utter these last words) handled his departure nicely. On his death bed, when asked to renounce the Devil and all his evil ways, he quietly replied, ?This is no time for making new enemies.?

Perhaps I'll invite one of the Catholic priests who used to fondle me back at school along to sit at my deathbed, so I can reuse that line? All in favour of recycling, me... except when it comes to my bodily remains. What to do with those? Hmmn, well, that's for another posting, I think...

Anonymous said...

Thanksgiving is the only time of the year when I can say "I'm in the mood for some dark meat" without getting raised eyebrows.

In fact, choking to death on dark meat doesn't even seem like that bad a way to go. No last words, though, since I know better than to talk with my mouth full.