Reverse Engineering

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You know how this thing works right?  You write the missive for the day and then you try to tag it with anything relevant that might just tempt somebody new to read what you have to say, based on the obvious assumption that anyone who has read you before will either read you again anyway or (probably more likely) poke their own eyes out rather than have to repeat the experience.  Tags mean little to regular readers and, other than when featuring words such as ‘naked’, ‘full-frontal’ or ‘see what my nineteen year old nanny gets up to on her day off’ do little to draw readers towards the boring old tosh that I am apt to serve up.  Nipple.  (Sorry, I just dropped that word into the text so that I can legitimately reference it in my Tags without the WordPress catch-a-cheat bot chasing me.)  For most of us, I think, tags are extraneous unless… Well, I just wondered what would happen if the tags actually came first.

I decided that I would check out my previously used Tags and base an article on, perhaps the most widely used five.  Unfortunately, I found that they are arranged alphabetically and, because I am a little impulsive with these things, just those that begin with ‘A’ run into the hundreds.  ‘A Little Rhyme’, A Little Fiction’, ‘A Little Poem’, ‘A Little Tale’ and a dozen close cousins all show up a little too often.  Scanning down the long, long list of only once-used entries made me realise that I really must try and be a bit more careful with the recycling in the future.  Even more so when I looked at all the listed entries which had never been used – I don’t even know how they got there – but I must conclude that I had at some time or another seriously considered using ‘Standing in the way of the intrusion of painful reality’, ‘Tea, Hobnobs and a tartan blanket’, ‘The Communal’ and ‘What was I thinking?’ and, I presume, to my great credit eventually decided against doing so.  I regret not using ‘Joy and melancholy’ though.  I will use it soon.   What seemed like a great idea at the time – see Tank Tops, Denim Waistcoats and Cork-Heeled Boots – quickly began to seem both vaguely ridiculous and unmanageable – like Tottenham Hotspur.

The first entry on my list, presumably courtesy of the inverted commas, was ‘Burn’, which I remember featured in a post about my funeral, in reference both to a Deep Purple song my wife is insistent I cannot have and the occasion’s inevitable denouement.  The last entry – apart from ‘Zoo’ which featured every week for a year and damn-near bloody killed me – is ‘Zaflora’.  (I’m not sure how widely available this little product is but, in case it has not yet made it into your neck of the woods – borne, perhaps on the wings of Covid19 – I should explain that it is a concentrated disinfectant that, when diluted, smells, as its name suggests, floral and is much revered by British shopkeepers who have to swab out their front doorways –not a euphemism – every morning, as having the great benefit of not smelling like Dettol.)  I cannot recall in which rant this featured, but it is almost certainly best forgotten.  Not surprisingly the various threads, fads and infatuations appear most often, amongst them ‘Dreams’, ‘D.I.Y’ and ‘Diet’, all of which had numerous entries – I had by this stage, as you will guess, reached the letter ‘D’ and the bottom of the glass.

There were however, amongst the zillion little ‘tempters’ on my extremely extensive list, one or two that did stand out as having been used on more than one occasion and together they probably sum up this little diversion better than anything I could deliberately create: the subjects of ‘Old people’, ‘Prostate’, ‘The Creepy Uncle’, ‘Intransigent knees’, ‘Jo Whiley’, ‘Needing to wee’, ‘Navel Gazing’, Okra’, One of those days,’ and ‘Slugs’ collectively go a long way to explaining what ‘Getting On is all about.

And finally a single little gem that caught my eye, nestling unheeded in the almost infinite list, destined to bring a smile to the lips of any UK resident of my vintage, ‘Rod, Jane and Freddy’.  Go on, tell me those four words haven’t cheered-up your day!

N.B. I have just realised that I have got to list some Tags for this little rag-bag now, and I really don’t know where to start.

Sic Transit Gloria Mundi

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Photo by Micheile Henderson on Unsplash

I am of an age when I wish for little from life other than it doesn’t end too soon. That it doesn’t end in pain and anguish. That I merely wake up one morning to discover that I haven’t actually woken up at all. The reality of mortality becomes ever more defined. The need to lay plans for what will happen after I have gone, somehow becomes more pressing. I have not yet started saving in order to ensure that my children do not have to cough up for the dubious pleasure of watching me transcend this mortal coil and ascend upon the wings of super-heated ether into the clouds, but I have started to make a few plans.

I would like balloons in the crem, although I know they won’t allow that. I would like to be carried in to Roy Harper – When An Old Cricketer Leaves the Crease which, I feel, strikes just the right note and, perhaps more importantly, gives the pallbearers adequate time to grapple me onto the conveyor belt and behind the curtain. When I told my best friend he said, ‘That’s all very well, but you haven’t played cricket in thirty years’ and that is all very true, but, you know, even a corpse can aspire. If you have never heard this song, I urge you not to wait until my funeral to break your duck. (Of course you’ll all be there.) It’s a wonderful song with a full-on brass band and the most poignant yet joyful lyric you will ever hear.

I intend to exit to Blue Oyster Cult – Don’t Fear the Reaper which, as well as being a great song is both apposite and strangely uplifting. (I did, originally, say that I wanted Deep Purple – Burn which my wife pointed out is neither.)

I have been to so many funerals where somebody who obviously did not know the deceased has been asked to read a sterile eulogy, that I am quite tempted to write my own before I go. I’ve even toyed with recording it myself, but I think it might be a little freaky, so I’ll have to let somebody else do it. But who? It is perhaps asking too much of a close family member and I don’t know anybody even vaguely famous. Nobody even wants to think that somebody older than themselves will be able to read their eulogy: everybody plans to live longer than everybody else of their own age. It will probably have to be the celebrant – I could always rehearse him/her I suppose. (I must make a note to book early.) The eulogy will not focus too much on my earthly achievements – that would be both immodest and very, very short – it will quietly gloss over my many shortcomings (for details of which, you will have to consult my wife and children) but will concentrate on my assorted foibles and peccadilloes – I am awash with those. They are, perhaps, more ‘sit’ than ‘com’, but there is something to work on. I’m sure there’s a laugh or two to find in there somewhere. It will be a mixture of navel-gazing, observation, obfuscation, waffle and downright exaggeration (ah, you see where I’m going?) and it will provide a short diversion from the maudlin task at hand.

I’m always unsure as to how I would like to be viewed by posterity. What would I like people to say about me in a hundred years time? ‘Doesn’t he look good for his age,’ probably. I hope my grandchildren remember me with the same kind of fondness with which I remember my own grandparents. I’d like them to chuckle when they think about me and agree that I was ‘an old bugger at times’. And if they have a bookful of embarrassing photographs of me to pass around afterwards – well, my capacity to blush will have long passed. And I hope that, as I will then be well past my centenary and ‘as sharp as a tack until the day he died’, it will be a jolly affair and that the memories I leave behind will all be fond ones. Thus passes the glory of the world…

I used to hate weddings – all those old dears poking me in the stomach and saying, ‘You’re next.’ But they stopped all that when I started doing the same to them at funerals. Gail Flynn