Coming up with a funeral seating plan is never easy

Have you ever thought about it? You must have? It’s going to happen to us all, some of us sooner rather than later. Who’s going to turn up? What friends do you really have? Who is been there from the beginning? Who is only transient?

Deep. Okay, purely a hypothetical, as I’ve left the remaining Zopiclone at home and I’m actually quite enjoying the day. If I popped my clogs in the next five minutes, who would I invite and more importantly who would actually turn up?

Hmm, okay first are some rules. There is still a will somewhere, I think it’s at the bank, I never got round to changing it, lets call that divine insight. I have no dependants. No one to pass anything on to. My mother if she succeeds me (considering she is eighty and looks sixty-five, it’s highly possible), she gets nothing, actually no, give her a subscription to daily Lillie deliveries, she hates the things. Every time they turn up will be a reminder of how I was neglected as a child, so I can not only be bitter to the end, but actually beyond it.

My sister? Nothing. Strange choice? No not at all. She doesn’t need it. Just stick together and you will be absolutely fine, you’ve got through some really tough times and I have every faith (shit I really shouldn’t divulge into any kind of religious context) that everything will turn out well. Just keep doing what you are doing. You can have the Jag if you want, just cruise around like lady muck, but don’t do too many miles on it or it will devalue faster than a B&B on the Syrian border.

My nephews, meh, give them twenty-five grand each (I can’t remember the exact amount as it was inflation linked at the time, so is probably the size of the national debt of a small African country). Now I can just see one of them plotting some psychoacoustic interment in his next ‘trap single’ to bring on some sort of brain embolism, while the other one will just open his phone and send out a drone attack.

The rest? Well I want the dogs to be taken care of. The stipulation being that they must remain together and under no circumstances should they end up with my ex. They will be paid for fully until they cross the rainbow bridge.

Thelma, sadly I think will be gone by the time I get back. Donate Kylie and Jason to a good cause, there must be a girl or boy out there which would love a couple of reptiles with a complete setup for free. Just make sure they have long term commitment.

This entire blog should be interned into a server somewhere. I want it to irritate people for at least the next one hundred years, the same with my Facebook, YouTube and Spotify (TeeJayem).

The rest? Well after disbursements and everything else; my poor sister will of course be taking care of that, feel free to add a service charge at a spa somewhere, after all death can be quite distressing, even if not your own. All to animal charities. Hollyhedge should get a lump sum, mainly as both my dogs came from there, I stopped doing home checks for them as I found some of their criteria to be a dit dubious and didn’t sit overly well with me, but their intentions are indeed sound. Dogs trust, guide dogs etc. A dog may only be a small part of your life but when it looks at you, you are the only part of theirs.

I don’t want any kind of service. People amble in behind a box, sing completely out of key to hymns which mean nothing to me (even if they are in D), and listen to some drivel from a person who’s never met you.

Sidebar: This is one thing that really pisses me off about funerals. You have a ‘celebrant’, who’s sole purpose it is, is to waffle on about how fucking wonderful the person was, yet they work from a script that has been written by a relative and been studied for about four seconds. My grandad’s funeral was typical, the celebrant banged on about his famous ‘ikemo’ (sic) stories, they were fucking ‘Iki-mo’ (sic), that’s something that’s grated still, some twenty-five years later.

Simple box. I’d like a discount negotiated as I’m short. It should be carried into the crematorium with one of my hats on it. What should I wear? Difficult. After all, you are only cremated once, you don’t want to fuck up the outfit. Don’t make me look like a choir boy in some really frilly white fucked up frock, that just isn’t my style. Pick a hoodie and a vest. There will certainly be no shortage of a choice for shoes.

Location? South Bristol crematorium. Why? Simple. It has a view of the bridge. I have that tattooed on my arm for eternity, that’s the way I wish to exit.

The after party? Well I think there should be a grand put behind the bar at the Hollow tree, actually make it two as John will no doubt devour a grands worth of San Miguel before anyone has even turned up. No one is allowed to drink gin or fucking white wine spritzers, take the day off afterwards. Just order three hundred pints of larger…..and crisps. If anyone wants food, it’s up to you to pair up for any ‘two for one offers’. There should be mandatory karaoke. You can only have a drink after you have performed. No one is allowed to sing, ‘Knocking on heavens door’ or anything in F sharp.

Guest list? Hmm, well anyone on Facebook who isn’t marked as an acquaintance, so if you can see a link to this post then it’s party time. I’ll add my mother as well, she will no doubt drive and have a small red wine. She is blocked on my Facebook mainly as she is irritating plus I don’t really want to she her noting my statistics and my Pokemon trait of ‘trying to catch it all’. I still have my doubts about that Cuban, but as my willy hasn’t dropped off and I’m currently not pissing fire I will give him the benefit of the doubt.

My ex. isn’t invited. You pretty much killed me once, I won’t give you the pleasure of having any kind of closure on the act. If there is a God, I will be informing you.

Any final requests? Yes. I don’t want my ashes turned into a diamond, fired into space or injected as a tattoo into the ass of a sumo wrestler. I’d just like a spoonful put into a wine bottle, with a reserve sign posted above it. This should then be used to reserve the table for quiz at the pub. I will be there both in body (although I would have lost considerable weight, if that was even possible), in spirit and for a change, on time.

R.I.P. Me.

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