Death, jobs and cider
It’s eleven in the morning and I’m killing time before a job interview. I’m in a Wetherspoons under a loudly buzzing air conditioning unit, I have no idea why the air conditioning on because the day is a cold one and the air has that brittle crisp quality that seeps into the bones, looking around at the alcoholic corpse that occupy the place maybe its better that they’re not left to thaw. It’s bitterly cold in here and the situation isn’t helped by the mistake I made when I first walked in; instead of saying
“Nice big cup of coffee please” I accidentally said
“Pint of extra cold cider please”. Must be habit.
This place has all the atmosphere of a coach station waiting room, because of the lack of music the air is punctuated by mutters and grunts. Last night, however, in stark contrast, I was in a student pub, a social vampire leeching off the overabundance of enthusiasm and bonhomie. The contrast between the two makes this place seem all the more sad, as I look around I see battered creased faces that seem to be saying
“I would kill everyone in this room right now to be allowed to smoke” or simply waiting to die. The good thing about drinking by mistake is that you find yourself regretting it less the closer you get to finishing, and now I’ve finished my only regret is that I only have time for one more.
Seeing as I’m surrounded by the undead, or at very least, near dead. Its appropriate that my thought wander towards death. I’ve been to too many funerals in my short span on the earth and even more wakes; I hate the things and dread them more than the smiley specter of death itself. Terrible formulaic affairs with only names and dates changed, which is why I want mine to be a little different. I want a brummie Viking funeral.
First, take everything useful; any organ not ravished by self abuse. Next load up the useless bit of meat that used to be me (a vaguely useful bit of meat) into a shopping trolley. My body can be wearing anything really, but for preference I want to be wearing a tux with the bow tie undone ala Dean Martin. I also want two coins sellotaped to my eyes – I do hate the thought of being stranded on the shores of the river Styx for eternity, for the sake of four pence. After arranging my be-coined body into the shopping trolley in a sitting position I want all the thing I’m taking with me into the next life
- a walking brolly
- my manbag with its usual bits and bobs
- a bottle of Jack Daniels
- a six pack of beer
- a crate of cheap energy drink
- my Mp3 player
- some porn
- a claw hammer
Then set the whole lot on fire and push me down a slip road joining Spaghetti Junction. Go home and forget about it. I know I’ve mixed my ideologies a bit, but as a life time atheist, I like to hedge my bets.
This is all a joke of course, to be honest I don’t care what happens, funerals are for the living. My one true request is that I want Wild Horses by the Rolling Stones played, if it isn’t I’ll haunt the bloody lot of you.
PS, got the job, just gotta wait for CRB check
“Nice big cup of coffee please” I accidentally said
“Pint of extra cold cider please”. Must be habit.
This place has all the atmosphere of a coach station waiting room, because of the lack of music the air is punctuated by mutters and grunts. Last night, however, in stark contrast, I was in a student pub, a social vampire leeching off the overabundance of enthusiasm and bonhomie. The contrast between the two makes this place seem all the more sad, as I look around I see battered creased faces that seem to be saying
“I would kill everyone in this room right now to be allowed to smoke” or simply waiting to die. The good thing about drinking by mistake is that you find yourself regretting it less the closer you get to finishing, and now I’ve finished my only regret is that I only have time for one more.
Seeing as I’m surrounded by the undead, or at very least, near dead. Its appropriate that my thought wander towards death. I’ve been to too many funerals in my short span on the earth and even more wakes; I hate the things and dread them more than the smiley specter of death itself. Terrible formulaic affairs with only names and dates changed, which is why I want mine to be a little different. I want a brummie Viking funeral.
First, take everything useful; any organ not ravished by self abuse. Next load up the useless bit of meat that used to be me (a vaguely useful bit of meat) into a shopping trolley. My body can be wearing anything really, but for preference I want to be wearing a tux with the bow tie undone ala Dean Martin. I also want two coins sellotaped to my eyes – I do hate the thought of being stranded on the shores of the river Styx for eternity, for the sake of four pence. After arranging my be-coined body into the shopping trolley in a sitting position I want all the thing I’m taking with me into the next life
- a walking brolly
- my manbag with its usual bits and bobs
- a bottle of Jack Daniels
- a six pack of beer
- a crate of cheap energy drink
- my Mp3 player
- some porn
- a claw hammer
Then set the whole lot on fire and push me down a slip road joining Spaghetti Junction. Go home and forget about it. I know I’ve mixed my ideologies a bit, but as a life time atheist, I like to hedge my bets.
This is all a joke of course, to be honest I don’t care what happens, funerals are for the living. My one true request is that I want Wild Horses by the Rolling Stones played, if it isn’t I’ll haunt the bloody lot of you.
PS, got the job, just gotta wait for CRB check
posted by Puck at 10:45 PM
2 Comments:
You know, aside from some good party music :) I know what we can play at your funeral. I was listening to this while reading your post. I know you hate them, but Tom Waits did this song for the Beautiful South. Lyrics go:
Well sitting in a bar alone
where no-one knows your name,
Is like laying in a graveyard wide awake.
You're scared that if you cough or yawn you might wake up the dead,
So pretend to read a paper or just drink instead.
And the grave-digger's smiling at his reflection in his spade,
He's visiting the seediest, the shallowest of graves.
The vocal chords of elephants and the characters of mice,
They're singing "whisky, whisky"
so good they named it twice.
etc, etc. Good eh? xxx
lovely, but its still the Beautiful South, who suck so badly it causes a small rip in the space/time continuum.
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