MELLIPOP GETS A BIT MORBID

Ok, so I’m sitting on the bus the other day, idly thinking about the possible event of my death. And thinking about the actual death of two closely-related people in my life in recent years, both of whom were very different. Male/female, old/young, stern and cold/ vivacious and warm. The one thing they had in common - besides me - is that neither one of them got the send-off they deserved at their respective funerals. And that pisses me off.

My first being-pissed-off-at-a-funeral experience came a few years ago, when I attended the Catholic service for my 17 year old “little sister”, a very close friend who I had known since birth and who had lived across the road from us. I guess she was like my Steve Urkel from Family Matters or Nudge from Hey Dad - a much-loved, ever-present figure in our household, and an endless source of entertainment and energy. And the kid just never shut up! I’ve never met anyone since who can talk as much as this kid…

So I’m sitting at her funeral, wading through the endless prayers and references to the “death of Jesus Christ” and getting more and more pissed off that the priest wasn’t talking about the death of Amy. Let alone the LIFE of Amy. Feeling like I could have been at any God-fearing Catholic’s funeral instead and not have known the difference. Until the priest threw in a sentence or two about her habit of attracting stray animals and her love of horse riding. And that was it. Back to JC. I mean, this was a girl who never stopped talking about herself and who was always the centre of attention, and here she was being edged out at her own funeral! The phrase “she would have been turning in her grave” has never been more appropriate.

Or, there was my Italian grandfather, who passed away a couple of months ago. The man lives 78 years of life to be remembered in a threadbare eulogy that states without pomp and/or splendour that he was a pastry-chef who fled Europe during the war, and that he enjoyed fishing and Italian music. Then the orator pads the rest of it out with generic character descriptions that don’t come close to painting the complex figure my grandfather was. And in absolutely no way do I mean to criticise his grief-stricken family for that oversight. It’s just to say that we all ultimately become products of the Funeral Industry, and I don’t like the way they spit us out.

The thought that fills me with abject horror is that some random funeral director who has never once met me is going to be responsible for composing the words that summarise the essence of the person I was/am/will be, padded out with a few specific biographical details so the attendees know they are at the right funeral. And to deliver my final words in a detached monotone before pushing the button that despatches me through to the incinerator.

I can see him there with his “Funeral Director’s Handbook of Generic Adjectives to Describe the Deceased” as he whips off my three-minute eulogy in a dazzling display of efficiency before cutting and pasting select paragraphs to use in the next four euologies he has to write that day. So if you happen to be present for the funeral of Mrs J. Parker on the same day, you might just recognise a few choice cuts from the Mellipop funeral that preceded it. If nothing else, it offends me as a writer…

First of all – I don’t want a funeral parlor funeral. With the coffin and the crying and the cremation and all that depressing stuff. To that effect, there will be provisions in my will to dispose of my remains discretely and set aside a big-ass bar tab where the beer and the anecdotes will fly thick and fast. And the jukebox will be playing ABBA and Kylie Minogue and everyone will be talking about what a fabulous dancer I was at Retro – “Remember when she won the Grease mega-mix dance competition”, they will all say. And laugh their arses off as my nearest and dearest sit around drinking as they recall all the stupid things I have ever said or done in my life, like the time I grew my armpit hair for the feminist sisterhood.

I mean, we organise a will to distribute our material possessions after we die – do we really care more about who gets the big screen TV and the house, than how we are remembered by the folks we leave behind. I don’t want to be a footnote at my own funeral. And I don’t want any fucking poetry or prayer. So I’m writing my own “break in case of emergency” eulogy. Because I can. Don't know whether I will post it here though. Might freak my Mum out a bit. I mean, it's a pisstake, of course but I'm just not sure whether she'd get the joke. Nah...Bad idea....