Yes, I realise they're tailored to my browsing history, so I see a lot of adverts for bands, booze and fast cars. Also goats, sadly. Tonight, though, my dander is well and truly up!
"Funeral dealt with?" enquires an ad. "Aged 56? Get £10,000 of life cover for £1.16 a week. Pay bills or leave a cash gift!" The ad is illustrated by a sprightly older chap wearing glasses so thick he could be confused with Colonel Blink, The Short-Sighted Gink (apologies to younger pals who may never have seen "The Beezer" comic, where said military gentleman appeared), who is celebrating his funereal readiness with a happy thumbs up. Seventy years ago, it would have been the stock photo for a newspaper front page article headed "Londoners tell Hitler 'We can take it!'"
No, my funeral isn't dealt with. Not unless you consider telling my nearest and dearest that I want the William Croft arrangement of the Burial Service - surely, the greatest, most beautiful music ever written - "Who Knows Where The Time Goes", Jon and Vangelis' "I'll Find My Way Home" (a great shout of faith) and the Cropredy Chorale singing and playing "Meet On The Ledge" at the end, followed by "Launch Chorus" from Apollo 13 at the crematorium.
By "dealt with", I assume that the advertisers mean "paid for", and the answer to that is a firm "No, and pray fuck off." I intend to die with a negative bank balance, owing money to many credit card companies, also said nearest and dearest. However, that is for the future, and not for consideration in the present - a present where I have only recently let go of my youth. And that took a Court Order, delivered by a biased judge who was swayed by the farcical arguments of the Goat Protection Squad. In short, I now find myself entering early middle age, a state whose requirements I refuse to comply with on the grounds that I was brought here against my will. (Personally, I think the rum'n'rohypnol tinctures were, in hindsight, a mistake.)
Deal with my funeral? Shan't! I won't be there, and, apart from the music, I frankly don't care what happens. Shove me in an old cardboard box, don't spend money on a coffin, especially money that could be better employed for the booze-up afterwards.
It is for the same reasons that I do not respond to the urging of Michael Parkinson and Julie Walters to pay into their "avoid an embarrassing death" funds. "It will pay for those final costs", they say, in an understanding tone, as if there is something shameful about dying without the readies to settle the end-of-life bills. To which I respond "Sez you".
My old friend Paul Douglas's uncle ordered a pint in one of Portsmouth's most comedic pubs, the Fawcett Inn (on Fawcett Road, naturally). The foaming glass was duly served, he took a gulp, pronounced it excellent, then went a funny colour and fell to the ground, the victim of a massive heart attack. Now, Noel Coward once remarked that to be born an Englishman is the equivalent of being born one drink up. Dougie's uncle died one drink ahead, as he hadn't paid for the pint, and the general feeling in the Fawcett Inn was that going through uncle's pockets for the cash might be misinterpreted if the ambulance crew or the police stepped in at the wrong moment.
Now, that's the way I want to go! One drink up, with enemies surprised to be named in my Will - "He left you his Visa card. We take cheques..." Deal with my funeral? What, when there's so much more music to be listened to? More women to meet? More sunny days? More food experiments to be carried out, like the pineapple jelly I made with coconut milk last weekend? (And, BTW, OMG.)
No, I'm too young for all that... or, at least, to the casual observer, I act too young for that. Most of the schoolfriends I am in contact with are, these days, very much older than I am. They're surprised that I go to music festivals, they don't really know what a podcast is, they certainly wouldn't download one, they don't go to folk clubs, and they don't understand trance music. The drugs they take are not recreational, they're prescribed.
I truly do not intend to die anytime soon, and I certainly don't intend to die with anything organised.
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