MANY of you will die at some time in your lives, so allow me to express my heartfelt sympathy at this stage, in case I am too busy or can’t be bothered at the time, you know, when the grim reaper comes for you with his scythe or, more likely these days, his electronic strimmer.

In ancient Thrace they lamented every birth and greeted death with joy. You can see where they were coming from. As to where we’re all going, our ultimate destination, it’s increasingly common for people to plan for this, not so much the afterlife – which, let’s face it is a hell (so to say) of a punt – as the funeral service.

It’s fairly typical Earthling behaviour: obsessed with partying. As I don’t go to parties, and cordially dislike funerals, I’m not planning anything for mine, other than a brief note saying to leave me alone and keep the noise down. Just as in life.

I haven’t even written my will, not knowing anyone who’d appreciate being bequeathed my vast collection of Tolkien books, nor yet my figurines. My mind did turn to the matter briefly, right enough, after the recent stress of moving house to a calm and quiet rural area where I soon became convinced I was going to have a stroke (funeral service: “The fool even joked about having a stroke shortly before such a merciful event took away his sad and largely uneventful life”).

How do you start a will anyway? Is it “To whom it may concern”? I expect these days you’re supposed to say “Hi!” or “Whassup?” and add a smiling emoji. One thing I won’t be leaving in my will is my body. Well, obviously, I will be leaving my body, in more ways than one, but none of the above will include “to medical science”, which is about as scientific as Japanese whaling.

I witter thus in the wake of a survey by death-dealers Co-op Funeralcare, which found that only one in 10 Britons wanted a traditional funeral with God and all the trimmings. Fun, bright clothes and laughter are now the order of day, and I find this frankly appalling.

Worse still are the desired settings, including zoos and golf courses and, as for the ashes of the lucky deceased, these might be placed in fireworks, paperweights or tattoo ink. Ye gods!

Ashes, as Sherlock Holmes might have deduced, implies cremation, which puts the fear of Void into me. You’re not burning me. And that’s final.

I can understand, up to a point, why people might not want a minister or priest piously intoning off-the-shelf platitudes and getting the deceased’s name wrong. But these people are at least professionals, their lives steeped in mourning and lamentation, and they also wear the proper duds: robes, collars, peculiar millinery and so forth.

As a newspaper columnist, I am loath to sound a note of controversy, but death is arguably an important part of your life. This new and regrettable lurch to informality and partying denigrates the significance of expiration. Put another way, it’s not just another day.

My time will come when I am soused and try to climb the extending ladders to my attic. I have experienced intimations of this already in the last few days and can only hope that I don’t end up dangling upside down, as already presaged in the trailer for this ridiculous snuff movie.

Apart from that, I would advise everyone of a certain age to keep their trousers up at all times and trim their nostril hairs. Good luck with it all.

Chin up, it will be over soon

I WILL be quite candid with you here and confess that I am not optimistic. “Aboot what?” You ask. Aboot – I mean about – everything, Madam. The habit of seeing the worst outcome to any enterprise is deeply etched in my imagination and has brought me to my current situation (which is, admittedly, even worse than I’d imagined).

“Tragic,” you say, and slowly shake your head. Well, maybe. I do try to look on the bright side, telling myself I still have most of my own teeth, but beyond that I can’t think of any other examples, and the endeavour withers.

The downside to all this is that, according to a scientific-style study by academics at Boston University and Harvard, optimism helps you live longer, meaning you can put off planning your funeral.

Well, that’s a bummer. Mind you, everything the latest studies say gives you cancer, dementia or a heart attack might have been lifted from my daily diary.

Indeed, at the time of going to press, I’ve become convinced that the Lord has a special purpose in mind for me. Unfortunately, I cannot believe it will be anything good, and suspect it will involve other people pointing and tittering. As usual.

Walking back to happiness

A REVOLT is spreading across England against plans to open up walkers’ nature trails to cyclists. If this dastardly plan succeeds, England will go the way of Edinburgh, where every “green way” not too hilly has been lost to cyclists, and walkers stay away.

I must tell you about the specimen I saw getting off a ferry in the Highlands. He was arrayed in the usual peculiar costumery, but the tight Lycra arrangement around his Cairngorms was extraordinary, displaying bulging barnacles for all to see.

And he wanted all to see, seating himself outside a pub on the little port’s main street with his legs apart and a smirk upon his coupon. I didn’t even see him get on his bike. Perhaps it was just a prop for his protuberances. Alas, I could not find a constable locally to effect an arrest.

Joggers run cyclists a close second for anti-social narcissism, and another revolt has broken out, this time against a planned “Parkrun” through a “tranquil oasis” and wildlife haven in Torbay.

It’s heartening to see people who just want to walk and appreciate nature resisting the fitness fanatics who edge everbody aside in their pathetic attempts to delay death.