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Dreadful Nonsense

"I've read your blog. it's really funny. you should write a column." - Jon Ronson

Talk this week has turned to death more than once. I don’t think it’s got anything to do with the current climate of rapidly cycling boredom and hysteria that eventually comes with constant talk of suicide bombs. I think it has more to do with the fact that we’ve both got birthdays fast approaching, and with birthdays comes the realisation that life is quite soon to finish. At least, that’s what I like to constantly remind people while they’re trying to celebrate.

Another appeal was on the television for the famine in Niger, another parade of almost unbearable images, but charitable apathy has already began to sink in, and we started swapping statistics about the different causes of death in the UK. Having first decided on a round figure of total number of people in the UK, and total number born, we all turned and stared in wordless amazement as He Who Only…’s flatmate declared the surprisingly large number of people who – in his words – “had to die” every year to keep the population under control. I expressed a hope that he wasn’t thinking he had to help contribute to the death rate.

Another night, another pub. For some reason, watching Liverpool romp to victory over some team for some championship qualifying something inspired us to talk firstly about our own funeral services and then on how much a funeral costs to stage. One of our party promised the other of our party that, when the sad time comes he will endeavour to make the most inappropriate speech possible, causing most of the congregation to vomit and some others of the congregation to drop dead right there in their pews. We then realised that there’s a gap in the market screaming to be filled, and so another great scheme was formed. Plans are afoot, dear reader, if things don’t go according to what we have mapped out for ourselves, to open up a budget funeral parlour, burying or burning your dearly and recently departed for less than half of what the competition charge. We’ve got plots, we’ve got pyres, we’ve got cut price coffins, and we’ve got our eye on an abandoned field near the train station asking to be filled with the discarded dead.

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