Mortal Thoughts

My Dear Princess & Dear Fellows,

Another day on the couch today. Cazza and me watched Why Does Love? which was the story of NZ band The Dance Exponents.

"That was the band you always got drunk to," explained Cazza. "All of these songs remind me of talking too loud in pubs."

So that was fun. Then we raised the cultural bar a little bit and watched a documentary about David Bailey. I was quite surprised by him actually. I was expecting him to be a nob, to be honest. You know? How a lot of these artists are only artists because that's the only way they can justify their nobbery?

ME: Put the kettle on would you?
PICASSO: Ptfuh. How very bourgeois.
ME: No biscuits for you Pablo.

But David Bailey seemed very down to earth. He explained that he's good at photography just because he's nosey and likes to get his subjects talking. "I just do stylish passport photographs really," he said.

At the end of the film, David took some photographs on the subject of war and used some prop bones for the shot. "Imagine turning out like that," Cazza mused, as he arranged the human remains for his shot. 

This got us talking about how we would like to end up. I told Cazza I thought burial was far too much effort. "Even cremation seems a bit over the top," I told her. "They can have me for science if they like."

NZ PATHOLOGIST: Good lord! Look at the size of his...

But then it occurred to me that they might not want me for spares/science because my body is all polluted by YUCKY British cuisine. I'm sure I mentioned before that I can't give blood because as far as Kiwis are concerned all British people are lurgy-ridden Mad Cow Diseased lepers.  

Cazza did some research. 

"No, it's okay you can donate all of your major organs," she told me. "Just not heart valves, skin or blood."

"They could give you that stuff in a carry-out bag," I suggested.

"You could actually donate your entire body to science," Cazza said, reading further. "But that does require filling in a form."

"Oh stuff that then," I said. Neither of us are good form-fillers at the best of times.

So there you go. My funeral - should you be there for it - will probably be a bunch of you gathered around a VERY SMALL HOLE while you gently lower a shoe-box into the earth to the strains of Lip Up Fatty.

A touching ceremony, I'm sure you'll agree.

S.