A few days ago, as one does from time to time, I was thinking about my funeral.
It started when heard possibly my favourite song (Little Star by Stina Nordenstam) and thought: “Now that’s what I would like to have at my funeral” This wonderful song, you see, builds up from a tinny whisper to a grand choral chanting, like the explosion of a supernova, and fades away into peace. All my friends gathered would surely be touched by this, and grip each other’s hands in abject misery.
But then I thought – what friends? When I die, I will hopefully be old and then most of my friends will already be dead. And the only people gathered at my funeral will be doddery, bleary-eyed old things, incapable of hearing higher frequencies, who will stare in confusion and try to remember exactly where they were, and where the hell they parked.
The only other option, if I want a funeral where all my friends are guaranteed to come, is of course to die young. And this is probably best avoided.
So what a choice to face: die young, have good funeral; or live long, die old and have funeral populated by immediate family and a confused old person or two, and a buffet consisting of foodstuffs I did not pick and do not like.
So just for the record: when I pop my clogs, I desire the following:
- A song of my choosing (Little Star at the moment)
- Loads of booze and salt and vinegar crisps
- Some nudity (planned or otherwise)
- A good old-fashioned food fight
- A guy in a Starfleet uniform who will do the Klingon Death Scream
- And a few honest eulogies
By honest eulogies, I mean people will stand up and say exactly what they though of me. Not the usual funeral rubbish (“Oh, he was such a good man” – isn’t it odd that everybody turns into a fucking Saint as soon as they pass on?) but an honest discussion of me and my good bits and my bad bits.
“He was a grumpy old bastard who should not be approached before noon. He was opinionated, irritating and some of his opinions bordered on fascism. He was short and his nose was too big for his face. On the plus side, he knew Irish dancing.”
Finally, in order to piss off my kids and give them absolutely nothing to fight about, I will have it announced that all my money was used to pay for the extravagant funeral and that they will get my Star Wars figure collection, to divide in whatever way they see fit.
And in this way, I will make my funeral a day to remember, that every friend and family member still capable of walking will enjoy. Except me, who will be dead.