Why I planned my own funeral aged just 23
Morbid though it may sound, at the age of 23, I had already devised the running order of my own funeral. Not on account of any great sense of foreboding, understand, but largely because, though I wouldn’t get to see the thing, I’d be damned if I was going to let someone else plan it.
The news this week is that, as has been on the order of service for some time, hymns have finally been overtaken by pop music for tunes of choice when bidding the departed a fond farewell. It’s the usual choices; Westlife, Robbie Williams, Monty Python, Vera Lynch et al. In Merseyside, Gerry and the Pacemakers are so ubiquitous it’s painful. There’s something rather cruel about being lowered into the ground on your tod by people reassuring you you’ll never walk alone, though being dead means you don’t have to suffer through it.
And of course, in the week Gavin Williamson’s phone records show he took the blow and did it Huawei, Sinatra tops the poll at number one.
There are, obviously, several conclusions one can draw. The first is that the decline in Christianity continues apace, which is hardly news. In our narcissistic world, it’s not surprising that people want the song they bow out to to be about them, rather than religion.
Besides, many hymns just aren’t that inspiring, catchy, or even upbeat. Plenty of people, even the religious, want their loved ones to remember them happily, to try to alleviate their suffering. They want people to be upbeat, and recall the good times — the same sort of attitude that leads people to don colorful outfits to funerals, or have their mates dress up in ridiculous costumes as a sort of forfeit for having outlasted the deceased.
Yet I can’t help but feel that replacing tedious hymns with dull pop music isn’t really an improvement. I understand people want to make a statement, but what statement does ‘Always Look on the Bright Side of Life’ make, exactly? If you’re the poor 73-year-old sod who’s had to sing their way through it for the fourteenth time in three years, where is the bright side to look upon? Besides, in that situation, there is no life to have a bright side on anyway, just death — approaching, impending, inevitable, and by the sounds of it, annoyingly twee and repetitive.
Death is the greatest of what Donald Rumsfeld would call the known unknowns. Dying is a terrifying prospect. The idea of the body failing, and the awful wait for something or nothing, never having the answer, is something to which pop songs can’t do justice. Whether you want to be sombre, magisterial or reflective, you can do better than the array of tripe currently making up our top ten most popular chimes. Even if you want to be funny, at the very least make it memorable. Don’t choose the same song every other bugger has chosen. Sure, the assembled oldies know the tune. It might raise a wry smile, momentarily. But wouldn’t it be funnier to do something so unexpected that the shock quite literally propels them and their fragile systems into the afterlife with you, so you can all laugh about it together?
When I die, of course I hope I will have touched enough people to garner a large congregation of mourners, and not just to make sure that I really am dead. I want them to remember me for how I was: vengeful, terrible, and I imagine by that stage, demented. I want them to wail and howl at my passing, beating their breasts and gnashing their teeth. I don’t want ‘We’ll Meet Again’ — I have no intention of meeting the people at my funeral again: how boring they must be if they’ve outlived me. Besides, all my best friends, those who truly love me, will have volunteered to be interred alongside me to keep me company in the afterlife, so won’t be at the funeral anyway, but awaiting me in my mausoleum.
So this is my selection of music for my funeral. For any family or friends reading it, in the event of my death, it is to remain unchanged. If alterations are made, then we will, in fact, meet again. Because I’ll be back to get you.
Processional — Choir sings ‘Let All Mortal Flesh Keep Silence,’ arr. John Rutter. Congregation to weep softly.
Anthem — Dolcissimo, Peteris Vasks. Congregation to weep softly.
Hymn — ‘I Vow to Thee, My Country,’ instrumental followed by verses, Sir Cecil Spring Rice. To ‘Jupiter’ by Gustav Holst. Congregation to sing heartily and very slightly off key.
Anthem — Choir sings ‘Hashkiveinu,’ Max Helfman, arr. Haralabos Stafylakis. Congregation to weep at own discretion.
Communion — Choir sings ‘Crucem Tuam,’ Jacques Berthier. Congregation to wail, beat breasts, tear at hair and gnash teeth. To be continued until at least three choirboys have collapsed.
Recessional — ‘Springtime for Hitler,’ Mel Brooks. Pallbearers to remove outerwear to reveal tight military uniforms, to be joined by dancing valkyries, marching band, banners, a minimum of two leopards, and a tank. Bells to toll incessantly. Congregation to stand in solemn silence.
There will be no encore. Guests are invited for tap water in the cathedral refectory afterwards. A collection will be held to fund the repatriation of the leopards.
