When Mr. De'Ath Comes Calling: A Mortals' Musings"

Okay, so death isn't everyone's cup of chai latte. I get that. But, let's face it, today's life is tomorrow's compost, so to speak, right?

Now, I'm still getting my head around the idea of salvaging that compost, bagging it, and marketing it as the green-fingered version of "better than sliced bread"—perfect for the rose garden. Admittedly, it would never take off, because people get all soppy and sentimental about anything to do with death instead of thinking more innovatively in this so-called "green age" of recycling and saving the planet.

However, just imagine the benefits of keeping those lasting memories of dear old Dad, not just composted in such an efficient way, but having a hybrid rose named after him that will presumably live forever—circle complete, is it not? Personally speaking, I think we have to reimagine death. So, what prompted these thoughts? Good question. Well, I was having this conversation the other morning about the many benefits of death. Well, not exactly that conversation. No, I was championing the many benefits of being, worm food, in reality. You know, a decent kip (albeit longer-term); no bills, no dickheads in your life; no parking fees; no cost of living (obviously); no neighbour disputes; no robbery (you hope); no fines; no agonizing over what to eat for dinner (because, in a complete role reversal, things will be eating you); no what to wear; nowhere to go on holiday; and no how many times a week your partner wants sex—among other things, of course. Then there's the other side of that journey into the ether, whereby the greed monster rears its ugly head, all feeling for the departed takes a temporary vacation, and the family starts bitching about who's the rightful heir of Dad's "PG Tips" chimp memorabilia—and no one wants the teaspoons anyway, since discovering they were no more than silver-plated tin and an import from China.

I must make it clear, I'm not advocating for death by pointing anyone in the direction of contemplating their own demise by sticking their head in the gas oven—especially if anyone has a "pay as you go" meter and they haven't topped up for a fortnight, and they're on the last of their energy before the next tranche of social security benefits arrives in their bank account. Of course, I appreciate not everyone enjoys the many luxuries state benefits bestow on their recipients, and yes, it goes without saying that not everyone is in receipt of government dosh. So, let's move this conversation on to something more positive: "Death Chambers"—places where people can voluntarily visit to end their lives, aside from flying to Geneva, as is the current trend for those who have the means to the required financial resources that will conclude their lives with dignity.

You see, contrary to the many, I'm one who prefers the term "death" as it tells it like it is, and adding the term "chambers" well, that just punctuates the finality of that process in a large room used for such a formal event. However, for many, it would be construed as perhaps more dystopian, eerie, and perhaps gothic in proportion. Why? Because death is something to fear, and therefore a taboo subject. Even though, in simplistic terms, we're born, we live, and we die—and that's a fact. Or, put another way, death itself is nothing more than a failure of continuity. Yet, as we all know, nothing lasts forever. If it did, then parents would be taking their eager young offspring to the highlands and moorlands for some dinosaur feeding while enjoying a picnic at weekends and/or during school holidays.

The grand finale of death says a lot about us, in reality, and how schizoid we all are when the subject is mentioned. I'm almost convinced that if the death penalty was ever reintroduced here in Britain and public executions were set as standard, while carnivorous couples were out shopping, the husbands would sneak off to spectate, while their other halves were left to wander around the supermarkets, basketing the weekly shopping list, and bacon to go with the liver for that evening's meal. Now, wouldn't that be offal?

Secretly, of course, we'd all like to be in the audience, trying hard not to look, peeking through almost closed fingers and gritted teeth, awaiting that final moment, while betting bookies fret over the odds as to how many seconds it took for the hanging corpse to finally expire before they pay out. But then, who really wants all that as much as who wants war, but are forced to engage in it? For most, though, it's okay as long as it doesn't involve them having to fight and it's on someone else's turf anyway. So when does death become comfortably uncomfortable? I think we can nearly all agree that when it comes to young children being raped, hanging, perhaps, wouldn't be good enough, while subconsciously we are baying for physical and mental torture as the final icing on the death cake for such perpetrators. Even though it goes against the "humanity" grain in us all.

Some people may believe that war is sometimes necessary to achieve certain goals, such as protecting national security or promoting democracy. Others may believe that war is always wrong and that there are always peaceful solutions to conflict. There is no right or wrong answer to this question, just as there is no right or wrong answer when it comes to death, however caused.

As for me, well, I own nothing of value, and, quite frankly, once I've taken my final breath, I won't give a rodent's rectum about anything, and they can carry me away in a bin liner for all I care. I won't be doing a Jesus and resurrecting myself a few days later to moan about it. No. Just like my grandfather, who died peacefully, in his sleep. Not kicking and screaming like the passengers in the back of his car at the time of that fatal crash.

that fatal crash.