My Will

 

My Will ©

By Michael Casey

 

Well, where do I begin, at the End, at a funeral, as I did in The Butcher The Baker and The Undertaker. So why be sad, because Sadness is the Death of the Soul. People make Wills to share out their earthly goods, to make sure they have a burial, and not a cremation, you can even book ahead, like a Saga holiday. You can have a Hippy funeral in a wicker basket and be buried under a tree, and let your body feed all Eternity.

 

I’d like to be buried at Trinity Rd church Smethwick, next to the Sikh temple and below the local postal sorting office. Overlooking the main road, a canal, and a trainline, and houses that used to where the Steelworks was in Brasshouse Lane Smethwick. That’s where my dad used to sweat for 40 years, and also where Betty the music teacher used to teach at the school, but never met our dad just below the Albion ground. And to top it all the graveyard is closed, and is Anglican, and is half used by a funeral director, and I try to be catholic.

 

I feel the graveyard is too much like a filing cabinet, and another one, doesn’t  suit me. The Graveyards in China  are much better, or at the least the one where my father-in-law is buried, with almost Disney like statues that denote past lives spent. But I’m not Hell bent on my desire, and I could even get close to Hell’s fire. I just don’t want to follow any crowd. Though I’ll be dead and so won’t have much say in the matter, not unless I start saving for a funeral plan.

 

So this brings me to my Will. To those who want to snatch and grab anyof my last belongings, this is what they’ll get.

To Amanda who loves to whine, you can have my purple bucket, the one I used to pee in, as the bathroom was just too far away. Call it my bucket list to you.

To Peter who wanted to steal my jottings, I leave a blank USB, because I never make notes, just write it down till I finish, so go write your own stuff, lazybones.

To Slim who thought I had no dress sense, I leave my size 46 inch pants, but not my recently purchased elastic braces, he can use string instead.

To Judy, who once punched me for my cheek, I  leave my old underpants.

To Johnnie the doorman, I leave £1000 to piss  up the wall, he was a real person, not a grasping  liar, I could always look him in the eye. We had much in common, such as working security.

I want my Rosary beads put in the coffin with me, as forgiveness comes through Prayer, so while in the ground I can keep on praying.

At the Wake, their will be no wake, just go to Subway and buy your own sandwich, and follow your nose to the pub next  door.

Though if my readers far and wide hear of my death, will they then stop sending evil time wasting emails to me, all not in English.

Will Japanese, Korean, and Chinese girls drop rose petals on my grave, as my readers are fetched after all.

Will I have finally met another love, married and have 4 more kids, and formed Kpop band. Would they all gather around my grave and sing and dance with sadness in their eyes. Oh Fat Daddy Oh Fat Daddy, why did you leave us, so soon

Will my ashes be catapulted via my old braces over the road and rail line and end up buried at sea, in the canal in Smethwick, just by where the Cock Inn used to be. Or will my ashes be flushed down the lavatory, and will it really matter to you or me?

How do you want to be remembered, and does it really matter? Having kids laugh as they remember you, and never fear you, now that’s the best memory or all. Let them laugh, and let them smile, as your name is mentioned. Now that’s all that really matters. Remembered Laughter,  so it doesn’t matter what happens to this fat silver haired writer in shades from Birmingham. If you smile and laugh at the mention of my name Michael Casey, then I’ve not been wasting my time writing all this stuff, or have you all had enough?