Popping My Clogs: My Early Hours Meditation on Mortality.

The Rigor Mortis Road Trip? My Posthumous Travel Plans.

It’s only 3:20 AM, so what else can I be doing at this time of the morning, apart from sleeping? You know, like (admittedly subjective) normal people do. Well, in my case, it's bashing away at the keyboard with yet another blog post, of course. I'm of the theory that I’ll sleep enough when I’m dead, which, quite coincidentally, brings me to today’s 'specialist Mastermind subject.' So, here we go with ‘Popping My Clogs.

The question being, how much agency do we, in reality, have over our own bodies? Now, you may choose to view my thought processes as somewhat morbid, over-the-top satirical, or serious; that’s up to you, and I don’t bloody care, to be honest. It’s my viewpoint, and I’m proud to own it.

So, here I am up north, in my second home, metaphorically, and I’m wondering what to do for the best,- not that I’d have anything of a choice on the matter if I suddenly snuffed it. To be honest, I’d much prefer to die peacefully, in my sleep, just like my dear old grandad, and not kicking and screaming, like the passengers in the back of his car at that time. But, my question being one of, what would happen if I died in my sleep while up here in Lancashire, and not in my flat in Bristol? And this is where the agency of my carcass, or corpse, for those with a weaker stomach, comes into question. Because, up here in Lancs, my good friend and host, Simon, would have to deal with it. So, here’s my deeper thinking on the subject.

If ‘rigor’ hadn’t set in overnight, then I’d like to be strapped into the passenger seat, and delivered to my Bristol home, and, from where, whatever steps needed to be taken to dispose of me would be put in place. But, and this is where it gets slightly more complicated, if ‘rigor’ had set in, then, aside from placing my carcass horizontally over the back and front seats, and appearing somewhat odd to other drivers on the journey, to say nothing of the police cars swarming him on the M6, the only other option would to be getting a hammer to my hips and knees, so that I could be folded up in the boot of his vehicle, and no one would be any the wiser. Trust me, I wouldn’t give a toss, by virtue of the fact I wouldn’t feel a bloody thing! But at least I’d get back to Bristol, although not entirely in one piece. So far, so good, right? Well, actually NO!

We may live under the illusion that we have agency over our own bodies, but, in fact, we don’t at all. Not total anyway. Because, as in my case, at least, as soon as I pop my clogs, the state steps in and I’m supposed to ‘play their game’ - so to speak. Because, despite my seemingly unusual body shift desire, my carcass has to be accounted for every step of the way. Meaning, Simon would be the guest of His Majesty’s constabulary, and, being browner than the proverbial bread, my exiting request would suddenly involve police, social workers, psychologists, psychiatrists, doctors, lawyers, prosecutors, magistrates, judges, and, no doubt, representatives from every faith and belief known to humankind.

Added to which, quite possibly, the launch of a dedicated new department to accommodate all the professionals and supporting staff under the name of the ‘Six Foot Under’ inquiry board, or similar, whose job it would be to spend a year, or more (knowing how this country works), assuming agency over my carcass that I’ve not approved of, or had any say over before my demise. Who would be told in no uncertain terms, if I could do a Jesus and resurrect myself for a day, to piss off and mind their own bloody business. But no, the government ‘loves’ to waste money on unnecessary projects, of which I would be one.

And so, dear reader, as the first rays of dawn tentatively peek over the Lancashire fells – or perhaps just through my perpetually grime-coated window – I am left to ponder the indignity of it all. Here I am, a connoisseur of the macabre, a champion of the absurd, and yet, even in death, my final wishes are destined to be trampled underfoot by the well-meaning (and no doubt well-funded) machinery of bureaucracy. One would think that after a lifetime of paying taxes and contributing to the glorious national debt, I might be granted the simple courtesy of a discreet, hammer-assisted journey home in the boot of a car. Alas, no.

Instead, my demise will undoubtedly become a multi-agency circus, a veritable masterclass in how many highly paid individuals it takes to process one thoroughly uncooperative iconoclast. The irony, of course, is that the only person truly unbothered by this whole charade will be me. While the "Six Foot Under" inquiry board deliberates my anatomical folding capabilities, I'll be blissfully unaware, enjoying the ultimate lie-in. So, next time you're tossing and turning at 3:20 AM, perhaps consider the glorious freedom of a complete lack of agency over your own remains. It's truly liberating, in a completely dead sort of way.