Tag Archives: death

Death is* silly *”can be”

There are silly ways you can die, when you think about it.

I was struggling to think of a quick blog just now, so I went to do a toilet. As I set my iPad down on the radiator (to move it out of the sink, obviously) in order to wash my hands, it slipped and fell to the floor. I turned to get said ‘Pad and, as I backed up a bit, found myself almost stuck in the doorway of the bathroom.

Now my bathroom is tiny. Tiny enough that I genuinely have to turn sideways to get in and out of it. And, were the conditions right, I could well get stuck in that doorway. I didn’t this time, but if I had – unable to move, totally trapped in the gap made to host the crap trap door – and I had died there…

Well, that would just have been embarrassing.

Imagine you, for once, played the hero. You saw someone you deemed to be in need and you rush to their aid, resulting in you being hit by a bus, falling down an unnoticed (and very open) manhole cover or treading on an angry prototype cyber-swan sent back from the future to protect the Queen’s favourite birds resulting in it vaporising you with its mecha-laser-wings. You die.

Turns out the person didn’t actually need help. They were japing about with their friends, pretending to be in PG-12 some minor peril. And because of your inability to know this, you are dead. You’d feel quite the fool, if you weren’t already dead.

Choking on food, alone in your flat? Stupid. Drinking yourself to death, alone in your flat? Pathetic. Stumbling on your flip-flop before cracking your skull open on the marble fireplace, alone in your flat and oozing brain fluid out for the ants to feast on? Just darn silly.

So don’t fear death, because… I don’t know. There’s no moral to this story, idiots.

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Death of the party

Goodbye, dear party flat: you served us well. Last night marked the end of a rather brief era, with friends moving on from Bournemouth and – clearly more importantly – moving out of the flat we could regularly rely on to host parties.

The unbridled hedonism of these soirees is the sort of thing that future generations simply would not believe, putting the last days of Rome to shame, quite clearly. Brie, pate, other foods, middling quality alcohol, high-level consumption of said alcohol, all of my musical choices being skipped even though I was always nice enough to not skip all the absolute shit other people put on (what the fuck is wrong with Cannibal Corpse anyway? Philistines), kicking balls at things.

Heady days, no doubt. Craziness. Shocked we’re still alive – it was just so utterly wanton.

But now it is gone, and now we have nowhere regular to attend when we’re all broke and/or bored. Nowhere we can regularly go to consume cheaper-than-pub alcohol and engage in the sort of witty banter that would put Oscar Wilde to shame (“I LIKE THAT BIT ON NAKED GUN WHERE HE SAYS ‘NICE BEAVER’”, for example). It is a loss, of that there is little doubt.

This does of course mean we need somewhere else that is willing and able to host good, solid parties on a regular basis. Auditions will be held over the next few months, with repeat interviews to be carried out on those locations deemed worthy of further attention.

A replacement will be found. A replacement must be found. After all, where else am I to drop trou and dance? The street? THAT WOULD BE MADNESS.

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Does it ever scare you?

Does it ever scare any of you to know that one day everything you know – everything you’ve ever known – will be forgotten? I mean, you can pass on knowledge and you can teach others, you can let them in on secrets and tell them the tricks of the trade, but you can’t ever tell them everything. You can never pass yourself on to another one hundred per cent. And one day you’ll die, leaving everything that is you to be forgotten.

Does it ever scare any of you to know that one day everything you did – well, most things you did – were embarrassing? I  mean, you can mitigate embarrassment in any way you want, you can pretend it doesn’t affect you, you can avoid situations that embarrass and go out of your way to be as straight-laced and normal as possible – but you can’t ever avoid every embarrassing situation. And one day you’ll be left feeling foolish, red of cheek and shameful of character.

Is that a comparison even worth making? I don’t know. Just thoughts about things, people, myself, others. I behaved like a bit of a twat on Saturday night and felt embarrassed about it on Sunday, but when I thought about it – in those terms above – what does it really matter? True, a lot more people now know I can’t dance (I CAN), but fuck it. It’s funny.

Then there are people I know – friends and the whatever else you want to call them – who will get unreasonably angry if there’s any risk of them being embarrassed in any way, ever. It just strikes me as a bit pointless, is all. You’re always going to end up embarrassed about lots of things: don’t dwell on it, just laugh it up and carry on.

Probably don’t compare being embarrassed to the thought of everything you remember being forgotten the moment you die, though. That’s just embarrassing logic.

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NASA satellite death to the head

Seeing as though the NASA satellite that’s going to hit the earth tomorrow is clearly going to land right on my head, such is the luck of me (Ian), I think I’ll do some kind of last will and testament.

  1. 1.       Bury me with all my shit
    I don’t want any of you idiots having my stuff when I’m dead, mainly because you’ll all put your stupid fingers all over it and mess it up. Hence, it’s safest to just bury it with me. Also I’m very selfish.
  2. 2.       Two And A Half Men isn’t funny
    This needs to be made law or something, post-satellite head-collision. Because it’s unfunny shit.
  3. 3.       All future satellites should have my face engraved on them
    It’s the perfect tribute to me – after all, I’m totally about satellites and stuff. Always go on about them. Never shut up about them, me.

Right, I’m bored of that now. And, now I think about it, that’s all I really need. Putting it on a blog like this makes it legal, yes? Good, Sorted. Done.

Of course, I’ll look quite the fool if those bastards from NASA don’t do me in like they’re supposed to. “Oooh, the satellite landed harmlessly in the sea,” they’ll say, “well, we say harmlessly but it did kill a batch of shrimp,” they’d add, “wait – do you call it a batch of shrimp? A shoal? A school? A murder?” they’d question.

Because NASA are sea idiots.

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A belated and not at all worthy tribute to Kurt Vonnegut Jr.

What better way to celebrate the life of a deceased author than to make it about myself? None, that’s what. Yesterday marked the fourth anniversary of the death of Kurt Vonnegut. He wrote Slaughterhouse Five. That’s pretty much my favourite book. And I’ve never read anything of his I didn’t like. Hence why when I heard of his death all those years ago I had to go and have a sit down, as it upset me more than the death of anyone or anything else I have ever known. If that makes me a bad person, so be it.

I don’t think he’s the best writer out there, but he is certainly my favourite. While his message can be convoluted – as a stylistic choice – and go left, right, up, down, backwards and forwards on itself, it still has a simplistic quality that shouldn’t be overlooked. It’s hard work to distil a message down to its core components, but Vonnegut always did that. For me, at least.

I don’t know if I copy him in that regard – I don’t know if I’m skilled at getting across a simple message in what is seemingly the most confusing manner possible (even though it’s actually quite simple). I might do in some ways, but it certainly isn’t something I’ve noticed. What I have noticed is my ripping off of his use of repetition.

Vonnegut often repeated little turns of phrase, little slogans, sayings and remarks. He would repeat them as the narrator. He would repeat them via the main character. He would repeat them through whichever fictional religious organisation he had concocted in order to lampoon the very real religious organisations out there. Repetition is said to be bad in writing. Vonnegut was one example of why that is such a bullshit opinion, and I think – if anything – the correct, intentional, sometimes funny use of repetition is the one thing I have taken from my distant, book-reading relationship with Kurt Vonnegut.

Seeing as it’s one of the few things I actually like about my writing, I’d have to say that’s a decent thing to take from the man. And not to end on the least original ending ever, but you really do have to: so it goes.

What better way to celebrate the life of a deceased author than to make it about myself? None, that’s what. Yesterday marked the fourth anniversary of the death of Kurt Vonnegut. He wrote Slaughterhouse Five. That’s pretty much my favourite book. And I’ve never read anything of his I didn’t like. Hence why when I heard of his death all those years ago I had to go and have a sit down, as it upset me more than the death of anyone or anything else I have ever known. If that makes me a bad person, so be it.

I don’t think he’s the best writer out there, but he is certainly my favourite. While his message can be convoluted – as a stylistic choice – and go left, right, up, down, backwards and forwards on itself, it still has a simplistic quality that shouldn’t be overlooked. It’s hard work to distil a message down to its core components, but Vonnegut always did that. For me, at least.

I don’t know if I copy him in that regard – I don’t know if I’m skilled at getting across a simple message in what is seemingly the most confusing manner possible (even though it’s actually quite simple). I might do in some ways, but it certainly isn’t something I’ve noticed. What I have noticed is my ripping off of his use of repetition.

Vonnegut often repeated little turns of phrase, little slogans, sayings and remarks. He would repeat them as the narrator. He would repeat them via the main character. He would repeat them through whichever fictional religious organisation he had concocted in order to lampoon the very real religious organisations out there. Repetition is said to be bad in writing. Vonnegut was one example of why that is such a bullshit opinion, and I think – if anything – the correct, intentional, sometimes funny use of repetition is the one thing I have taken from my distant, book-reading relationship with Kurt Vonnegut.

Seeing as it’s one of the few things I actually like about my writing, I’d have to say that’s a decent thing to take from the man. And not to end on the least original ending ever, but you really do have to: so it goes.

1. Find a subject you care about.
2. Do not ramble, though.
3. Keep it simple.
4. Have the guts to cut.
5. Sound like yourself.
6. Say what you mean to say.
7. Pity the readers.

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I just want to tell you both, good luck. We’re all counting on you.

I have mentioned in the past my distinct love for Leslie Nielsen, so it wasn’t exactly the best morning today when I awoke to learn of his death. Here’s the video of that joke, seeing as I apparently didn’t link it last time. It was the funniest joke ever written before he died, and it’s still the funniest now.

Anyway, I was a little downhearted this morning – something that has only happened after a handful of celebrity deaths, as I couldn’t give two shits about most of them – when I saw this on Reddit:

Safe to say, it’s one of the funniest, warmest and most spontaneous tributes to a person I’ve ever seen. It’s made me love that site even more than I already do. Click it to make it bigger, and if you know what it’s on about then I think we’ll get along just fine.

While his output was questionable at times, there’s no denying the effect the Canadian had on my formative years. Granted, he won’t have even had a hand in writing the vast majority – if not all – of the jokes, but he’s intrinsically linked in my mind to having the body of a god under his slightly-flabby looking exterior, to the reams of deadpan one liners and to generally just being one of those people I wanted to hug. There aren’t many of those around, and it seems they’re getting less by the day.

I could go on, but there’s little else left to say. He wasn’t a legendary comedian – he was just a fucking brilliant comic actor. But if that’s all you ever were, it’s a damn good impression to leave on the world.

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I told you I was ill

I knew actually leaving the house would yield results – one doctor’s appointment later (obviously not for me, as I have the iron constitution of a bull (made of iron)) and there’s a whole new subject to talk inanely about: hypochondria.

It is another one of those facets of life that I will rip on people incessantly about, yet am guilty of myself. From my girlfriend today, whose “definite brain cancer that will make my very soul explode” actually turned out to be a bit of a boo-boo on her knee, to my “definitely got cancer, going to die of it, tell my Mum ‘hello’” which turned out to be more a spot of me being a massive unhealthy twat, there are some fun stories to get out of this strange phenomenon. It’s made even more fun by the fact that it’s borne entirely out of our endless fear of mortality (well, not entirely, as insane media reporting and general idiocy play big parts too, but you get the point).

My example up there brought about three things: one, a general feeling of malaise in the period where I was waiting on test results and generally trying to get on with being a uni student; two, a doctor’s finger up my bum; and three, another doctor – who didn’t believe me when I told him about the last one/fancied me – violating me too. Safe to say, it wasn’t a high point in my life, and having an ultrasound in a room full of female student nurses was the icing on a particularly embarrassing (but tasty) cake. And why did I do it? I have no idea. The fact I was leading an unhealthy lifestyle, as I still am, never even occurred to me, as I simply convinced myself I was definitely going to die within the week.

Case two saw me convinced my kidneys were about to explode in a shower of pissy vinegar, covering my friends in their diseased goodness. On visiting the walk-in clinic (register with your local GP, kids), I was informed it was actually a chronic back strain, natch.

You want to feel relieved that you’re not dying; that you are actually going to live a long, fat life. But this relief is tempered by the fact that you feel like a massive plum for wasting the time of the medical professionals and for scaring yourself and your friends/loved ones so much. Isn’t it, ANNA?

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