Scenes of bliss pass as a phantom by

Is it me, or has the official send-off of the dead gotten extremely lax nowadays? I don't know about you, but I want a proper funeral, all black armbands and tears and drooping lilies. And stuff. When I shuffle off this mortal coil I expect a massive turn out from all my friends and admirers, all dressed in glossy funereal black, top-hatted and black-gloved to see me off.

I want people up and down Ireland to watch my funeral procession on big screens in town squares and women to sniffle noisily into hankerchiefs as the echoing footstep of my mourning procession cleaves through the watching throngs. I want priests falling on their knees and shaking their fists in disillusioned anguish at a faithless God; beautiful damsels surveying my hearse with a type of fierce pride; angelic children sobbing uncontrollably at my coffin side. I want swarthy hunks to bear my wooden box to it's final resting place, their hands gripping the manly shoulders of the other pallbearers in quiet support for the other's loss.

I want meadows scoured to make the floral tributes for my coffin, which will be borne in on a carriage pulled by a team of black steeds. I want Aoife to sing 'You Were The Wind Beneath My Wings' at my graveside and Burt to beat his breast as my coffin is lowered down. I want aggrieved roars and noisy crying. Hordes of lingering mourners laying flowers on my grave. My dog to take up a pitiful vigil in the cemetery. And then I want everyone to get pissed afterwards. For a year and a day, as they did in proper, pre-Christian times.

What a self-centered brute I am. I went to a funeral this morning and now all I can think of is how I want mine done.