To begin with, as we know, everyone’s been dying for quite a substantial period of time.
Nobody’s not died in living memory.
We just keep it up, don’t we?
2016, in four months, robbed the world of mother and brothers, friends and lovers; most of which are unknown to all of us.
Now however, it would seem the entertainers are going.
Victoria Wood was introduced to me by my mother.
I had no idea in the slightest.
This is a very general rule for me, and becoming engaged with a funny looking lass who seemed to be wearing intergalactic clobber made it all the more so; not to mention her referencing to things which were evidently quite dull.
And then I aged.
A sad story, I know, but with these betraying years came the sublime smack of comprehension regarding the world that I had not known before.
I read a little, wrote a little, kissed here and there (once everywhere) and realised a bad time was sweaty and good time doubly-so.
And now I am as I am.
And me being what I am as I am now; I’ve gone and gotten myself and appreciation for Victoria Wood.
And I think she’s an absolute cracker.
Blending the northern grind of suburban mediocrity with the true surreal thrill-filled passion which consumes each and every one of us at our best and worse; she found her comedic niche and worked the hell out of it, building to the paramount point of glorious comedic beauty:
“The Ballad of Barry and Freda”
She, being Freda, approaching the waning years of latter middle-age, whilst also being bloody Northern, is one evening filled with the passion of Greta Garbo’s smouldering glare and Marilyn’s off-the-shoulder-strap cheek.
Freda enquires, demands, pleads, proclaims, beseeches her lover, Barry – likely a chap still working though would rather more sit and scratch – this simple statement of the still-sparkling powerful cheek of she that is forever young (sometimes)… “Let’s do it.”
Barry cringes, is unkeen to go about the act of love making owing to some “it’s not right, s’not proper at ah age, you’re just bein daft y’old blody womun”
As is his right, with the timidity of the years bearing down upon him, though much still very so in love with his Freda, he’s a tad out of rhythm when in the sack.
And he is quite honestly intimidated by his wife.
However, her passion builds, bulges become commonplace in the front room and the crescendo cometh in the form of Victoria Wood bellowing, thoroughly accented like a bloody Northerner should be, with “TONIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIGHT!”
And I’m still listening to her sing it.
Recognition is the means of immortality and thus, for us, Victoria is very much so still here.
Lemmy basses about through a thousand stereos still.
Bowie’s bravery strikes chords in a million daily hearts.
And I’m reminded that I am fairly old for the average 26 year-old.
And I’d better get working.
You can’t take anything with you, but you can leave the world with something to remember you by.
And there they go.
Never forget, we’re lucky to have them…still.
Rest in peace humanity, and throttle life like you know you’re not coming back.
What about if I were to simply explode?
I don’t think one can argue with dramatics at a time like that.
Plus the mess I make post-pop could provide work for the workless (I will be swept and mopped), meat (a tad hairy) for the hungry (I’m looking at you, lucky vultures) and a reminder of me as I used to be; wet, showing too much flesh and gradually making my way down your wall.
I can only apologise for the mess. If offended; feel free to concern yourself with the less-fine cuts.
Fertiliser is fertiliser after all.
Apologies also for the windows; at least we have people to deal with that for us; window washers. I hope they’re trained to such a degree as limbs on the pane.
If it weren’t for window washers we’d have to go about that extraordinarily simply task all alone with a sponge.
“All alone with a sponge.”
Let these words haunt us like the remnants of me snail-pacing myself down your window.
A real curtain-shutter.
I don’t know about you guys but I want to stab and burrow the little dot of an exclamation mark deeply into the Earth before I depart.
“BOOM” suits me nicely.
Just to be clear here; I’m not advocating any terrorist activity.
Don’t do that.
It’s bad for your health and the economy.
In particularly, MY health and economy.
Don’t touch my economy.
Terrorism in the form of faux-martyrdom (annihilating oneself and as many as possible of the unsuspecting non-believers around you) is cowardice in its most vulgar and blatant guise.
Heroes also suffer the throws of slings and arrows whilst they burden the daily and die slowly in an effort to improve the world (though relative).
If destroying yourself and the lives of those you haven’t even spoken to is your best method; you should really get out of the world-changing game because you are woefully unarmed on a planet currently dealing in and thriving on words and ideas.
Courage is all the more essential in matters that are slow and are accordingly all the more un-noted.
Exploding yourself and killing others is capitulation to the rigours of a worthy fight.
Not to mention that you disembarking a few dozen/hundred/thousand folk from the planet’s surface really is testament to how petty you are.
If all I’d achieved in my life was the murder of others; I’d consider the life a wasted one. Fortunately and tragically never to return.
Blow yourself up; leave the world unchanged (though of course there is now one less cunt in it).
I’d rather be all alone with a sponge.
In the meanwhile; I believe I was talking about my own preferred means of departure.
REAL CLASS is lacing oneself with explosives, enjoying a final meal of rare steak and (please) no lit candles, before making my way out into the desert/mountain top/bridge of your own cute little boat (let’s keep it secluded, eh fellows?) and having a good long think.
Follow that think, whatever it might have consisted of, and push the button.
Probably the red one.
Exploding must be one hell of a sensation; though admittedly brief.
They say a head decapitated is still open to thought and sensation for several seconds.
Perhaps it is alike to the chicken running headless around the farmyard in what it hopes is the least axe-like direction.
Time to kill, post-suicide, eh?
If only my head remained; I think my options would become wonderfully limited and clear.
Can’t say “Ow” (though appropriate). Can’t sing (though appropriate; exploding really is breath taking). No final soliloquy.
Only one thing for it.
Give the sky a big kiss and continue rolling.
Mwah (you get one too).
It won’t change the world, but since it’s your life; do as you choose with it.
Plus; worms need grub too.
Bugger off in the style you deem most appropriate.
That’s what I’d like to do.
That’s how I’d like to go.
I would, of course, fiercely recommend living that life first.
It is ever-so-somewhat the point.
(PS. I likely have much more to say on the variety of topics covered here; I’ll get to them at some point. Probably not sponges and window washers though; I don’t know how they happened.)