Morbid thoughts...

Well, technically that is correct, in that I'm most certainly thinking of death. My death in fact.

I'm actually planning my death as you read this. No - really - in minutiae.

To be honest, writing a will shouldn't be this hard.

I've never done one before (which is a bit naughty for someone who's owned property for 11 years as apparently if you don't have one then if you die 'intestate' - something that basically means that you're up shit creek I think - then the state takes most of it), and seeing as I now have someone to leave things to then it seemed a wise thing to do.

The financial side of it is the easy part, it's the other stuff that's hard. Y'see I don't see the point of growing old gracefully so I plan to keep a will such that all beneficiaries are summoned to a dusty lawyer's office and be read a list of hoops they have to jump through to get their hands on any of my cash.

"And now we turn to Aunt Paula, as a UKIP councillor you must parade up and down Cambridge Main Street wearing a sandwich board. On one side must be emblazoned 'I believe Immigration to be a good thing' and on the other side must be written 'Free kisses to all Frenchmen'. If you do this for 7 hours, every day, for a month then you will receive the princely sum of £10,000."

Sort of like Brewster's Bastard Thousands.

Maybe it could be televised for an extra cash incentive? (Makes note to trademark this idea.)

Apart from all the fun things you can do, there is a sad side to dying. Mainly that you won't be able to see everyone's faces when it is announced that the first person to down a bottle of Jagermeister will win a Porsche.

There are also small details to be agreed. As a non-religious person the idea of some well meaning man of the cloth - who's never met me - eulogising about how great I was, leaves me cold. Nah, better to leave it to one family member and one friend (but who shall I choose? Decisions, decisions...) to recount hilarious stories about that time I was hijacked up a mountain, or that time I flew to Australia late on Christmas Eve purely so that I would miss Christmas Day entirely before flying back again, or that time I turned my living room into a lighthouse just so that I could keep an Australian tree alive, or.....well.....lots of stupid tales.

Then there's the music. Hymns? I think not. I can just about stand 'Abide with me' but that's only because of the FA Cup Final. No - we need two tracks, one a tear-jerker and one a quirky tune to sum me up. So we'll have to split up the speeches with 'Wish You Were Here' by Pink Floyd because it's my favourite song ever and most people that know me associate me with it - and then we'll walk out to Size of a Cow by The Wonderstuff (the line 'You know that I've been drunk a thousand times' is me, to a T :) ).

Then we've burial or cremation. Cremation is the way for me. Burnt to a crisp and then my ashes dumped into a hole and an Oak seedling planted in it. Reborn as a knarly, old thing that lives for centuries. Awesome.

Tickets are available for pre-sale, btw. Reasonably priced.



Anyway, let's talk food. How good is the next restaurant you eat at?

Is it good?

Is it yummy?

Is it excellent?

Is it Tong?

Or is it....