A Casual Ramble About Death

I had a go at being unemployed the other day. I am fully aware that I am indeed terminally unemployed and was never destined for work or manual labour during my teenage years. But I decided to do it properly the other day and watch a bit of daytime TV; a collection of shows designed only to address the minds of those who are unable to provide a service for a wage. Jeremy Kyle, Bargain Hunt, This Morning, Lorraine. They're like 8p cider. It's piss poor, you know full well it's gonna be piss poor, but that still doesn't stop you whacking a crate of the stuff on the till.

So there I was, sat on the sofa allowing my hyperactive mind to sit still for once by watching the unflappable Mr. Kyle tell a man he was a moron on national TV. Then the adverts rolled, and as predicted, the usual suspects reared their head. Car insurance, car insurance comparison sites, accident helplines; the sort of things that are likely to draw money from people too stupid to get a job.

But then an advert about life insurance appeared. The biggest con of all. If Hustle did TV adverts. If Danny Ocean started a business. If Fred Goodwin wanted another job. All three would point to life insurance. 'Have you planned your life ahead?' muttered Billy Murray, erring on the side of his old Eastenders character Johnny Allen instead of polite friendly life insurance salesman. I thought no. Instantly. The thought hadn't even crossed my mind. I look so young, people assume I'm going to order a Happy Meal whenever I go to McDonalds. The last thing I'm going to be thinking at the moment is what colour do I want my coffin to be when I finally lose the last of my nine lives. And with that, I turned the TV off and came back to reality.

Today I found myself in a care home. Some places on Earth just give me the creeps. Care homes being one of them. The queue for the Tower of Terror in Disney World being another. They're so sterile and devoid of any life I was surprised to find a human behind reception and not the Grim Reaper, sharpening his sickle and filling out forms with the blood of the last inmate to try the food.

As I walked through this institute, I saw things. Just things I'd never want to replicate. Old men shouting nonsensical nonsense at staff. Old women looking beaten and defeated as they stared with glass eyes at the telly. The smell...

So then I thought back to Billy Murray, and his suddenly logical question: 'Have you planned your life ahead?' I realised today, I don't ever want to be like that. That is the plan. Avoid mental illness, avoid care homes, avoid doing an impression of a vegetable.

When I'm old and decrepit (which owing to my Peter Pan-like ageing ability shouldn't be for a fair few years) I want to go out on a high. None of this slobbering at the mouth business, just send me on my way while I'm in the best shape possible. As soon as there is a hint of a mental illness, I want to get on the phone to Billy Murray and his crack team of crooks, take out some life insurance, then find some way of dying quietly in my sleep. No relying on Polish nurses to wipe my arse. I just don't think I'd be able to live out my days in that sort of state. I'm a happy-go-lucky chap, not someone who looks forward to cabbage and 17p canned mince after a hard day of staring at butterflies. I'm not saying that the people in these places weren't happy-go-lucky before they got there, its just that I'd rather not spend my last days on Shutter Island looking like a drunk Quasimodo.

There's a reason I'm rabbiting on about death. I have an essay to do. It's all I can think about.