Perhaps this is best sumed up in 'The Last Will and Tesament of Jake Thakray'
I, the under-mentioned, by this document
Do declare my true intentions, my last will, my testament.
When I turn up my toes, when I rattle my clack, when I agonise,
I want no great wet weepings, no tearing of hair, no wringing of hands,
No sighs, no lack-a-days, no woe-is-me's and none of your sad adieus.
Go, go, go and get the priest and then go get the booze, boys.
Death, where is thy victory? Grave, where is thy sting?
When I snuff it bury me quickly, then let carousels begin -
But not a do with a few ham sandwiches, a sausage roll or two and "A small port wine, please".
Roll the carpet right back, get cracking with your old Gay Gordons
And your knees up, shake it up, live it up, sup it up, hell of a kind of a time.
And if the coppers come around, well, tell them the party's mine, boys.
Let best beef be eaten, fill every empty glass,
Let no breast be beaten, let no tooth be gnashed.
Don't bother with a fancy tombstone or a big-deal angel or a little copper flower pot:
Grow a dog-rose in my eyes or a pussy-willow
But no forget-me-nots, no epitaphs, no keepsakes; you can let my memory slip.
You can say a prayer or two for me soul then, but - make it quick, boys.
Lady, if your bosom is heaving don't waste your bosom on me.
Let it heave for a man who's breathing, a man who can feel, a man who can see.
And to my cronies: you can read my books, you can drive around in my motor car.
And you can fish your trout with my fly and tackle, you can play on my guitar,
And sing my songs, wear my shirts. You can even settle my debts.
You can kiss my little missus if she's willing then, but - no regrets, boys.
Your rosebuds are numbered;
Gather them now for rosebuds' sake.
And if your hands aren't too encumbered
Gather a bud or two for Jake.
All of this flashed through my mind the time I got lost on Unst in Shetland, and went knee-deep in a bog--would have been worse if I hadn't flopped over on my back.
Compost heap sounds good to me. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust....
Nick Brown wrote:I have agreed to leave my body to the University of Edinburgh for anatomical examination - to help teach the doctors of the future.
Would that be to show how self preserving with whisky works
To be quite honest I don't give a fiddlers what's done with me as I'll be gone. Just as long as I've had plenty of drams before I go to the Big Distillery in the sky or should that be down under
Wendy wrote:mmm...I also voted "other"...firing out of a canyon, but that could also be Elmer T. Lee talking tonight!
(aside)Would that be a 105 mm Canyon or a 155 mm Canyon? (I was a 2nd generation gunner long ago - couldn't resist)
I voted crematorium as the thought of being slowly inhumed by nature's handmaidens back into the soil doesn't truly appeal.
My whisky collection, like Frodo's, is to be spread out among my friends. Everyone picks one of the sealed bottles and a wake to comment on my past indiscretions is to be held with the open selection. The remainder is for my wife or daughter to disperse however they see fit. Could be a heck of an auction... hopefully this post doesn't hasten my demise.
Failing that I'd like to be doused in Bruichladdich Infinity to speed up my cremation and my ashes sprinkled into the maltings at Port Ellen. I would be 50ppm in Ardbeg, 80ppm in Bruichladdich Octomore and so on...
Ford Prefect "It's rather like being drunk"
Arthur Dent "What's so wrong with being drunk?"
Ford Prefect "Ask a glass of water"
The Hitchhikers Guide To The Galaxy
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