Somebody dies and his friends say ‘he passed’. Passed what? He didn’t pass. He failed. He took the most basic test of all, ‘are you responsive?’, and his answers fell short of the required standard. True, he was awarded a bit of paper, a death certificate, but it’s no use to him on his CV.
Death was easier when I was a kid. People spent most of their lives dying. They ate burgers, pork chops and potatoes fried in lard. They shunned exercise and fresh fruit. They filled their cars with leaded petrol (which gave the air a pleasing lavender tinge). They glugged down beer and gin galore. And they sucked burning tobacco fumes into their lungs. My grandparents smoked 30 or 40 cigarettes a day, which was normal back then. They died in their early seventies. My parents quit smoking and reached their mid-eighties. I never smoke, unless a cigar is forced into my hands, so I may cling on until I’m 90 or older.
But what will be the point of me? Hanging around. Taking up a spare room at home. Wolfing calories that could feed the poor. Squandering a pension that might fund a payrise for cabinet ministers. Unproductive, needy old limpets need to be prised off their rock and crushed. That’s why I support the policy of ‘assisted dying’ (or murder if you prefer). I’m resigned to the inevitable. One morning I’ll wake up and see the driverless exit-capsule parked beside the kerb, with my son at the front door checking the details on his device. ‘It’s for you, Dad. Bang on time as well. And listen. It’s been great. Thanks for everything. See you on the other side.’
Ahead of this taxi-ride to eternity I need to put my affairs in order. First, the corpse. One method is to plant it in a churchyard next to a vertical sign inscribed with a few biographical details for visitors to read. But I have to admit, I shudder at the thought of burial. Lying smothered in the earth and becoming a maggots’ picnic, even if my nerves were insensible to their nibblings. The most popular alternative is cremation. But what a waste. Buying six planks of varnished timber and setting fire to them the next day. Madness. Instead I’ll bribe a sozzled fisherman to elbow my corpse into the drink as he trawls the Channel for haddock. The words ‘lost at sea’ on my death certificate will satisfy officialdom and render a funeral unnecessary.
Next, the will. My friends and relatives will pore eagerly over this document so I’m tempted to include a few sage reflections on life. ‘True happiness means having a great home, a great career and a great family.’ That sounds impressive but it’s a myth unfortunately. Material success makes you insecure and anxious. Your home can vanish in an earthquake. Your family can be killed in a drive-by. Your career can perish in an economic slump. True happiness means curbing other people’s happiness. That’s the best way to keep a smile on your face. Sabotage someone else’s peace of mind. It’s easy enough. Just follow these three steps. Find a group of people doing something enjoyable and tell them it’s unacceptably dangerous, then start doing it yourself. I noticed this at school. The teachers assured us that tobacco caused lethal diseases, and they roamed the playground confiscating cigarettes which they smoked in the staff room. The same logic explains why green fanatics like to travel in private jets and chauffeured limousines. They’ve discovered the secret of happiness. Enjoy a banned activity in full view of the people you’ve prevented from enjoying it themselves.
True happiness means curbing other people’s happiness. That’s the best way to keep a smile on your face
Next, the money. In this column, I won’t name the friends and loved ones who stand to benefit financially, in case they get ideas. Murder is a little obvious, of course. But accidents can be arranged. Some old crocks who draft their wills become uncharacteristically generous to good causes. Not me, I’m afraid. I’m sceptical of charities unless they’re staffed exclusively by volunteers. Very few are. And I have no wish to fund the salaries of spongers posing as saints. Anyway, donating cash in the hope of acquiring virtue is a misstep. It’s like hiring a fat migrant to shed the weight you need to lose yourself.
Finally, the fun part, the ‘Letter of Wishes’. These are the sacred commandments from beyond the grave that no man dare flout or disobey. I’ll set aside £100,000 for an art installation that ought to please everyone who uses Britain’s railway network. On a windswept island in the mid-Atlantic, the branches of a palm tree will be fitted with two battery-powered loudspeakers transmitting the words ‘see it, say it, sorted’ on an endless loop. Steel chains attached to the base of the tree will imprison the slogan’s author.
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