PUTTING THE FUN INTO FUNERAL

My mother had to attend a funeral recently and, whilst she was at pains to point out what an uplifting and happy occasion it was, to me the whole thing sounded rather ghastly. I mean, obviously the whole “death” business is a pretty ghastly thing to have to think about anyway, but that wasn’t the reason.

Not, of course, that they’re ever the greatest of things to have to attend, but this one seemed to develop a level of inappropriate behaviour that, to me at least, sounded like the worst kind of horror show and the kind of thing that would make me run a mile, perhaps (and hopefully) even if I was the one inside the box.

You see, there’s this modern idea that the whole event should be some kind of a “celebration” of the life lived which, whilst in itself it doesn’t seem quite the worst idea anyone’s ever had, does now seem to have become an excuse to remove any kind of air of dignity from such occasions and turn them into another example of the vapid, meaningless, party-style nonsense that we seem to inject into just about every public occasion in these days as we lurk on the very brink of the collapse of social order into decadence, anarchy and chaos.

So, when I am told that the whole thing was approached with a kind of “happy clappy” party atmosphere, and that people took the notion of “casual (or colourful) dress” to the degree that they were prepared to show up dressed in the kind of outfit that would have adorned a surf dude, then I hold my head in my hands and really wonder whether I might be better off just wandering off into the wilderness when my own time comes and seeing what the wolves can make of me.

It certainly sounds as if they might be better company on life’s last journey…

You see that, to me, all of that jollification and jamboree shows a distinct lack of respect for the person around whom the event was supposed to be about. Certainly, in this instance, the quiet, dignified, smartly dressed man I (vaguely) knew, might have found such a colourful party to be not quite his sort of thing at all, but it would appear that other forces prevailed on this occasion and who am I to say whether or not they were right about such things...?

I just know that it really wouldn’t have been quite my cup of tea, that’s all.

After all, sometimes it is what the survivors left behind believe that counts, or even what they choose to believe the person in question themselves might have believed or wanted, which doesn’t necessarily have to actually bear any relationship to anything the person themselves might have said or done about it. Once you’ve gone, after all, such things are beyond our control no matter what we might think we’ve done to make sure they are. Such things are open to interpretation, and when you no longer have any say in the matter, it’s hard to resist the unstoppable force of someone else’s belief system even if it jars with the personality other people might remember you having.

You are, after all, no longer here to have any influence.

In and around this event, which I was never expected to attend anyway, I could have done without the several lectures which I was given about what “we” (meaning “they”) believe. All of that claptrap “about going to a happier place” and “being out of pain” I can just about stomach, but it’s all the superior smug gittishness of knowing better that really sticks in my craw. All of the sanctimonious drivvle used to justify turning what ought to be a sad occasion into a bloody jamboree and woe betide you if you dare to suggest that it might be somewhat inappropriate.

After all, when you’re messing about with belief systems, you can very quickly find that you’re standing upon very shaky ground.

Nevertheless, with all that was going on, I have had to also give some serious consideration to the fact that if this is the kind of thing my own mother has in mind for her own sendoff, however far off that might still be, I might have to make my excuses and not attend, leave them to their jolly little bout of tambourine bashing and hope for a little more quiet dignity at the crematorium later on.

You see, to me, unless the event is rather tragically dealing with a very young person who might not have understood the gravity of the occasion, and where so-called “adult standards” should no longer really be applied, funerals should always be rather formal events, and people should make an effort to turn up at least vaguely smartly dressed and with a modicum of understatement, out of respect for the dead.

So, I’d just like to make it absolutely clear that, as and when and if I go (I’m still working on the “if” part…), and assuming that there’s anyone left who actually gives so much as a toss, I expect it to be a sober, sombre and, above all, dignified affair. I might not go through my life demonstrating all that much dignity, but I am sure as hell going to try and leave it with some. After all, if I wouldn’t feel comfortable going to a loud, raucous and jolly little party whilst I was still alive, I’m pretty damned well convinced that there is not going to have to be such a thing held in my memory once I’ve snuffed it, even if I do finally get to be the guest of honour and the centre of attention for once.

Bloody typical! You spend all of your life being utterly insignificant and when people finally pay you some attention, you’re not around to enjoy it.

Not that I would enjoy such a thing anyway (and I don’t just mean funerals, but parties of any kind really), of course, but you know what I mean…

Heck, I would at least expect someone to give the impression that they’re a bit miserable about my demise even if they’re doing cartwheels inside. After all, if I’ve spent my entire bloody existence feeling just a tiny bit miserable, I don’t see why the rest of you should have any fun. I expect to be properly mourned, dammit, and I expect there to be full-blown tears and a proper, dignified amount of lamentation and woe if you can bring yourselves to do so.

Personally, I think the Victorians pitched it just about right.

Wailing and gnashing of teeth would be quite acceptable, too, but of there even the remotest sign of a tambourine or a smidgen of applause, well, just be aware that I really would not have approved and imaging the stern “tutting” that would have been coming your way if I’d still been around to do so.

Because I’m fully aware that I will have already have been reduced to nothing and my influence upon events will be zero. I don’t have to like it, not that I could of course, but that’s just the way it is. I can’t even threaten to haunt you if you do these things because I know that that’s a load of old cobblers, too.

Anyway, if I should suddenly peg out and disappear into the great beyond, I just want you all to know that’s what I want and, whilst I have absolutely no doubts that there is no such thing as a “better place” and that I’ll just be just a less than fond memory that pops up in one or two nightmare for a few years before fading from even that, I really ought to make it clear.

Other than that, you can enjoy the lack of me afterwards, but just make certain that the send off is suitably depressing.

It’s what I would have wanted...