Burn me, not my wallet

I have just been bombarded again with useless information about my imminent death, the costs thereof etcetera. All this gunff is pure advertising bullshit. You do not need an Undertaker. All you need is a box and an estate type car/vehicle to be carried in. There is no need for a preacher or anyone else, just your friends and family – if you hadn’t already pissed them all off, big style.

So this morning I picked up the phone and asked the council exactly how much it costs for the cremation.
9.30 all day £400

9.00 to 9.30 less £20

Saturday morning (or is that mourning?) £600.

The cremation hall comes with 30 minutes use within that package. So if you want songs and all that get yer mates to fetch their guitars and let them sing you into the fire. It is legal.

According to Abbey and the Mintel Researchers, your estate will be £2.800 lighter doing what the sheep do. Why does this matter? You can leave all the instructions on Earth and the second you die your beneficiaries or executors can ignore ever single word and do whatever is in their interests, not in your wishes. They can all rip you off under the guise of their expenses, just like politicians. So why should this matter?

If you are concerned about leaving your £3 1s 91/2d to the illegitimate shit who has denied you all her life, do it while you are alive. Most people are terrified of death duties without realising that they are a million miles away from having the amount needed to qualify.

I spent two years trying to tell a young person that her grandmother’s home belonged to the nursing home that cared for her during her dotage and not the family. Debts do not die with you; they are part of your estate so go to whomever you owe monies to before being given to the little shit that spent all her time on her back and not on her backside learning English.

So go out, get well pissed, have a good time and spend your measly pension on YOU. Leave the few hundred quid for the Council and the crematorium and a fiver for your brickie mate whose van you’ll be using to get you to the furnace.

What’s wrong with having you laid out in your own lounge with the curtains closed, so that the kids can come and say their farewells in their time and at their ease? Your chums from the local will make sure you get to the Crem on time. The few squiddlies you left behind the bar will be pocketed by the bent landlord and the thieving slut with the big tits who reluctantly served you for the last weeks of your life.

Two weeks down the line and you will not even be a mention in Gordon Browns Wednesday afternoon rant/ditty; just like the dead soldiers coming back from DUTY.