crackerwax

Gram Parsons’ friends took his body into Joshua Tree National Park, filled his coffin with five gallons of petrol (or indeed gasoline, yeehaw) and struck a match to it. Suffice it to say this process did not leave them with a lovely little urn of ashes. No sir. It left them with smoldering bits of charred corpse hanging off yuccas.

Now, I love the idea of my friends carrying out my final wishes, as Gram’s were sort of, but please for the love of Christ get it right people. Plan it a bit.

I don’t want bits of my, undoubtedly good looking, corpse left in smoking lumps in some fuzzy tree desert. I want a fireball you can see from space. Well actually I don’t want that at all, I’d rather have my body chopped up and amusing things done with it.

Chop my fingers off and use them to scam Heinz, claiming that you found them in tins of pea and ham, leave my head in the freezers at Asda to freak out pensioners. Go on go wild, I won’t mind. Hell, I’ll be dead.

Whatever you do though, don’t mourn.

Actually no, I’ve changed my mind again I want the following.

• My main wake whilst I’m still alive. It’s my party too.
• To be cremated. The one time in my life I won’t complain about it being hot.
• Have this played when my coffin comes in.
  
• Have this played as the coffin gets consumed by the flames (clichéd but good).
  
• Have this played when everyone’s leaving.
  
• A mini wake after where everyone dresses in black, watches The Sweeney and gets utterly hammered.

I suppose it might be a bit morbid but fuck it, it’s what I want so no arguments, OK?