The Journal #43
You’d have to be sure I’ve gone and I’m not just fucking around but for the music put Tom Waits on shuffle, snack on cheese Wotsits and cheap chocolate, scrap all dress codes but everyone must wear one of my cravats from the collection. I would like guests to write their favourite joke on a post-it note and stick it on my coffin which will not obtrude, but will sit to one side of the chosen area to allow unfettered meetings. If you must tell stories about me so be it but I would rather have written them myself. I would ask for something from Hamlet but chances are it’ll come out of a novice’s mouth like meat the wrong side of the grinder, I am not a butcher, I see no need for butchery at my funeral, I am expecting fewer than 10 mourners. Someone can read Larkin, someone else Beckett. Alcohol is fine but remember it is not your day. Marijuana and tea from Yorkshire leading to lucid group conversations are fine. Tears must be collected in test tubes which will be provided.
I would appreciate a rousing speech that briefly explains my credo that religion is the greatest con played out on man, that I stood up and gritted my teeth and did not fear death, that I would therefore look ridiculous on a cloud, that I am nothing but clay, etc, etc. although whoever can just print it and read it straight from my Wikipedia page. 30 minutes in, guests will be invited to lift the lid of my coffin and wet me with their test-tube tears or spittle if they are lacrim-intolerant on this particular occasion. To conclude, my recorded voice will assure the modest gathering that it ends here, it is over and I am happy it is over or I would be if I had feelings like I had once.