Death

Being the DRONGO I am, this has never even crossed my mind.

MORAN.

Jesus.

WFT happens. I guess rellies just go to the bank and try to prove they are entitled to jack that $$$ right out? 

Of course, I dwell on what will happen to my records after I die. Virtually on a daily basis. No shit, every day I think I have to write down my paypal/discogs passwords so Camp Leader can shut that shit down. Last Will and Testament, baby. Even though I sold off my TESTAMENT lp's long ago. And also the email of the local store she should try and pawn my shit off at. Like fuck she's going to be arsed selling the clunky fuckers on discogs herself and shipping the albatross cunts around the world.

Kills me that some of my $100 lp's would end up fetching 100 yen each from some conniving local store vendor.

KILLS ME.

Very cool.

www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2021/mar/18/toxic-chemicals-health-humanity-erin-brokovich


Sounds like the premise for a film. "It's 2120 and human reproduction levels have plummeted to 1%. The last 1% sperm counters (Pitt, Cruise, Clooney, etc) are confined to Daewoo Reproduction Labs where they loll around all day rooting as many birth hatches as they can to sustain the future of the human race. Japery ensues. Sexy japery."

Odd this isnt getting more traction in the media. 2045 aint too far away mofos.

www.politico.eu/article/no-more-babies-expert-warns-that-hormone-altering-chemicals-threaten-human-procreation/

By 2045, no more babies.

Only fitting. The cocks of men - specifically their brain-override function - got us into this mess and LOLLL they're going to be the link in the chain that breaks first.

Get on board Bezos's Gilead Ark, baby!

It'll be ironic that with humanity originating from Africa, it's to there we shall return with last ditch efforts to find the last viable unsullied village cock to seed our dying race with fucking LOLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL

I don't post here that much but I guess it's been going on for quite some time because I posted a thread titled "Death" and was like "That rings a bell, maybe I only really have one idea."

This collection was sick. This guy just figured it out and it was like his life's work. Multiple sealed copies of the first few Meters LPs with the $1 markdown sticker on the front. I wish I could remember more.

What I do remember is "the hounds." The record hounds. They just smell it. This was like very early 2000s so yes, cellphones and internet, but not like today. I swear these guys had like a call tree because they'd all show up before we opened the morning after we got this buy where we didn't even have a chance to properly sort/price it.

Sorry, that's all I got. But the Meters is an example. This guy had future facing hipster taste and knew to buy multiples of everything cool way early on. Then he died.

Oh we had a discussion about "record buddies."

Like, you gotta have a record buddy. So if you die, your shit goes to someone who gets it, not your bereaved spouse dumping it in a random store! Maybe goes hand in hand, being a super nerd collector and not having a buddy...

I didn't even finish Keith's autobiography. I guess it's fascinating he was obsessed with reggae and if I recall had a band with Justin Hinds? I mean that seems like information that should be my business. Not listening it, but knowing about it.

But yeah, just too long.

Had to get all the equipment checked out back when my wife thought there was something wrong with me. Turned out I was 2.5 times the WHO average for the number and "straightness" of the little baby makers. So my wife gets more testing and finds out she has some serious reproductive problems. Didn't want to adopt. End of baby/family talk. End of marriage. So, there you have it in a "nut" shell.


Did I have any children? Nope. None. I could have helped this world, I suppose, but I chose to piss away my life on movies and internet chat rooms. I look in the mirror and laugh. What a waste of a life! And death is coming, which means the bank is looking for its easy money. Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me.

The Stones died with Brian...or was it....Maaaahhhhdaaaahhh?



Not to harp on it, but I was just watching Little Steven Van Zandt on the Sopranos podcast, his autobio is coming out, and he talked about the one-two punch of The Beatles and The Stones, teaching the young rockers first, what it is to be a band, and secondly, with the Stones, how you could even approach in a more personal way, in your own style and not having to always smile for the cameras. Art school juvenile delinquents. I don't fugg with Beatles at all but dig all the early stones up until, of course, Brian's offing...There's a movie about it even, but ya know, just a crazy gardener. 

Skip the weird political shit, or don't, but this is a great document of this song coming together, one of their last great ones, even though Brian was already being pushed to the side...(I just remembered, I watched this on VHS rental in Japan at some point...)


Also, Death is NOT the end...Schmaltzy, I suppose. I'm not the biggest fan of any of these peeps but I think they nail it here...



Or if you just want to consult the Ancient Masters...



   Or consider how long ago the Tibetans created a whole guide to death! or Death (Not the band!)



 ETA: I finally got my second jab four days ago so I am going.to.live! Astra Z baybee ~ Thenk ya Bojo ~~

Deth by A.I, baby

www.theguardian.com/technology/2021/oct/29/yeah-were-spooked-ai-starting-to-have-big-real-world-impact-says-expert
 tl/dr- oh baby we need more A.I armageddon movies. MOOAAAAR.

90-to get fucked so that i could be retired and rest.

Would like to read a list of people who died in 2019, just before the Rona showed up.

Dodged the bullet, checked out blissfully unaware the world was about to be plunged into airborne viral chaos.

Fine then! Fuck off leaving the rest of us to carry the can!

Kobe Bryant comes to mind.

Big dirty Jezza's article on death from behind the Times paywall

---

WALL TO WALL

Jeremy Clarkson

Saturday April 09 2022, 6.00pm BST, The Sunday Times

In a few years’ time, after I succumb to a terrible disease, no one is going to say that I fought to the bitter end bravely or stoically or with much in the way of dignity. Because I fear I’ll spend my final days howling, sobbing and quivering in a corner, while telling all the nurses that it’s not fair, and the doctors that they’ve got to invent a cure.

Or will I? Over the years I’ve been with many people in their last moments and I’m always staggered by how sanguine they are. How accepting of their fate. There was one girl, a dear friend, who’d been diagnosed with cancer shortly after she became pregnant. This meant doctors couldn’t administer any form of chemo or radiotherapy and as a result, after the inevitable caesarean, she only had the chance to cradle her son for the briefest of moments before she died. And yet, despite the gut-wrenching sadness of the moment, she smiled and was calm.

My dad was similarly peaceful. Even though he was only 61 years old when the icy hand of death came curling through the window, like a tendril of nerve gas, he didn’t thrash around wondering why he had to go when Arthur Scargill did not. He simply decided his last word should be “Geronimo”. So he’d shout it out, loud and proud, close his eyes and then, a few moments later, open one and say quietly, “I’m not dead yet, am I?” Even in his final moments then he wanted to make us laugh.

Imagine that. Knowing that you are minutes away from death and accepting it without a fight. We saw the same thing with Saddam Hussein when he was led into his execution chamber. I’d have been biting and kicking my jailers, but he just stood there as the rope was placed around his neck, as though they were doing up his tie.

We hear that Mary, Queen of Scots behaved in much the same way. Even though her execution had been ordered by her own cousin, she thanked her jailer for offering his arm as a support as she climbed the steps to the scaffold and then, before kneeling and placing her head on the block, she said: “This is the last trouble I shall ever give you.” Even at the end, when you might imagine her knees would be knocking and her bladder emptying itself, she remembered her manners. It’s weird.

Or is it? Because I turn 62 tomorrow, which means death cannot be that far away. But instead of hiding in a wardrobe, hoping it won’t find me there, I’m writing this, and when I’ve finished I’ll go to the pub. I do think about dying, a lot, and it bothers me. But not as much as it should. Not as much as I thought it would when I was kicking around on a piece of ground in my home town, waiting for something or someone to show me the way.

It’s not that I believe I’m going to a better place and that in this better place I’ll be enjoying a refreshing glass of ass’s milk and some honey with AA Gill and all my other dead friends who, like my dad, died far too young. I don’t. I know I’m going to be in a hole where I shall rot. And I shall be there for ever, or at least until a property developer decides he needs the graveyard for a new housing estate. And then I’ll be landfill.

I think I can cope with this because of the way age affects us. No one wants to die when they are 22 because there’s so much still to see and do. And no one wants to die when they’re 62 either, because … actually, I don’t know why. I’ve done my bit already. I’ve produced some children, which is all the species wants, and now I’m just sitting here consuming stuff unnecessarily. I’m a drain, a waste of blood and organs. And soon I shall start wetting the bed, which means I’ll be a nuisance as well.

But though I know the party’s nearly over and it’ll soon be time to go home, I’m imprisoned by medical science, I’m forced to forge a path through uncharted waters, living a life no one in all of human history has ever led before.

In the olden days people would wake one day, usually at the age of about 33, to find an important part of their body had conked out and that’d be that. They’d be worm food. My grandfather, a doctor, came home from work for lunch one day and felt unwell. So he telephoned his partner at the surgery and said simply: “I’m having an aneurysm. Don’t bother calling an ambulance. I’ll be dead by the time it gets here.” And he was.

Now, though, his bulging artery would have been spotted long before it ever split. He’d have had pills to keep his mind fresh and surgery to keep his body functioning. I was out for lunch with three mates the other day and all they talked about was their new knees. Later I went out with a singer and all he spoke of was his new hearing aid. We’re all dead men walking.

All this, of course, is tremendous, but what are you supposed to do in the autumn of your life when your body is held together by medical Sellotape, you need a pill for your ***** and you can’t remember where you put your spectacles? How do you fill your days when you know you’ve outstayed your welcome and that it’d be better for everyone, and the planet, if you weren’t around any more?

Some imagine that they should spend their final years doing as much world travel as possible. They want to see new places and smell new things, and taste new fish, and I can’t see the point because all you’re doing is creating memories you’ll never be able to savour.

There’s a similar problem with reading. You’re filling your head with new things that will never be of any use. Because while you’ll have the facts to hand, you won’t have the mental agility to use them to form worthwhile opinions. And even if you do, who’ll listen? You will be retired, so you’ll have no colleagues or employees, and you’ll know your grandchildren came round for tea yesterday only after two hours of cajoling from their parents, and some bribery.

They don’t want to spend any time with you because you are an alien. A monster. You lived in a world full of racism and diesel and meat and you did nothing about it. And then they’ll bring up Greta Thunberg and you’ll roll your eyes and there’ll be a row and it’ll be six months of sadness and regret before you see them again.

I like to think that over the past 62 years I’ve amassed a great deal of information. I’ve travelled further and more often than most. I’ve read many books and met many interesting people. I’ve dropped a laser-guided bomb from an F-15 fighter jet, I’ve climbed down the side of a giant oil tanker on a rope ladder in the middle of a Cape of Good Hope storm. I know what it’s like to be in a helicopter that’s being chased by a surface-to-air missile and I’ve driven to the magnetic North Pole. But when I start to speak, my children’s eyes glaze over because I can’t name a single Stormzy hit and I need help when I’m trying to tag someone in an Instagram post. All my knowledge, then, is worthless because no one wants to hear any of it. I’m a library in a world that has the internet. A human typewriter.

Look at it this way. I’m writing all this down so that it can appear in a newspaper. And not speaking it out loud into a podcast. Most kids couldn’t understand that at all. They’d think I was “not sick”.

Hilariously, some people try to combat the effect of age by adopting the speech patterns, clothing and views of the young. And some go even further by trying to get fit. They join gyms and walk about in the countryside with ski poles, looking like Theresa May. What’s the point? Do you really think that after a year of sweat and grunting you’ll emerge into the light looking like Chris Hemsworth? Because you won’t.

At best you’ll look like a pipe cleaner in a ball sack. And you still won’t be able to run the hundred metres in 11 seconds or do pole-vaulting or swim a length underwater or win the Tour de France. People in gyms are chasing their youth but it’s gone. And it doesn’t matter how many downward dogs you do, it’s not coming back.

I know that I will never ski again and I’m fairly sure I’ve dived into the sea for the very last time. From now on I’ll be wading in, or climbing down a ladder, possibly while wearing some kind of tight-fitting rubber hat. And I’ll swim like a dog, with my head held far too high out of the water.

However, while ageing is mostly bad news, there are one or two nuggets if you know where to look. First of all, it simply doesn’t matter what you look like. As a young person you need to be attractive so that you can have sexual intercourse, which means you are forced to put stuff in your hair and wear matching socks and chancellor-style Italian trainers with gold-foil serial numbers.

When you are an old person there is no need to do this any more, so you can have hair coming out of your nose and ears and you can wear a jumper with holes in it and slippers with zips up the front. And you can drive a Volvo and have a tartan shopping trolley. It’s all a blessed relief.

I used to look at the adverts for gardening trousers in the back of The Daily Telegraph and snort with derision so hard that most of what I’d imbibed the previous evening came shooting of my nose. Not any more. Now I look at them and think, “Hmm. Those action side pockets look useful and so too does that elasticated waistband.”

I started going for walks in the pandemic, mainly because if I was far from the house I was far from the fridge. This is something I hated as a young man. I couldn’t see the point of “going for a walk” if I was simply going to end up back where I started. But I love it now because I can see the hedgerows changing with the seasons and I can pause a while to study an interesting-looking bird’s nest. And when I get home I can look it up in a book to find out what sort of bird made it.

That’s what’s happened then. I used to get my kicks from doing “bombing” at the swimming pool. Now I get them by putting on my spectacles and looking at nests.

This is because, when you are old, you no longer need to make the best use of your time. You need to waste it. You need to fill the hours and that’s why gardening now holds some appeal. I bought some secateurs the other day and find them mildly arousing. I also enjoy using my new wheelbarrow. Plus, if you make your garden beautiful, you are creating a legacy that will last for hundreds of years. Unless, of course, your children are forced to pay for your stay in an old peoples’ home by selling your house to some property developers. In which case your cherished veg beds will be turned into landfill as well.

I think this is what defines old age. All the stuff I used to think was boring is now a “lovely” way of passing the time. I haven’t fallen into the jigsaw wormhole yet and I haven’t taken up bridge or golf. Nor have I felt compelled yet to spend any time sitting in the Volvo in a “viewing area” at a beauty spot drinking tea from a Thermos. But I will.

Cash in the Attic is different, though. I will happily waste time watching that and I’m also happy to spend hours mooching about in antique shops, admiring dovetail joints. I’ve even thought about taking up woodworking myself. I may get a lathe and spend the afternoons making lamps.

We need to live like this because if we fill our diaries with exciting mini-breaks to Barcelona, we will only have to cancel them when one of our friends dies and it turns out the funeral’s that day. When people get married or turn 40 the parties are planned well in advance, but funerals are always a surprise and because they play such havoc with a busy social life, it’s probably easier to not have a party. That way you’re always free to go to a funeral.

The big problem with all this time-wasting is that age is cruel. It affects us all in different ways. I saw Genesis recently and the randomness of ageing could not have been brought into sharper focus. There were Mike Rutherford and Tony Banks in sharp suits with cool hair, standing upright and looking tanned. And in between there was Phil Collins. He was no older, but he was grey and wizened and crippled with some terrible back issue.

He has been forced then, by God’s mean streak, to do jigsaws knowing that Tony and Mike can still at least manage a game of Swingball. It must be irksome.

When you’re 22 and all your friends are 22 you can all do the same things, but when you’re 62 it’s different. Some people will be able to do underwater fencing while others will be worn out from doing up their shoelaces. And the ones who have to take a breather on a flight of stairs will be resentful of those who are up there already, bouncing around on their wives. Old age is not a place where friendships can flourish. There’s too much bitterness. Too much envy.

In the winter I like to go shooting, which means putting on a heavy coat, a heavy jumper and heavy trousers and then, while carrying a heavy gun and a bag full of heavy lead, walk up a steep hill through mud so deep and cloying that my already heavy wellingtons soon feel like rubberised boulders. And sometimes, when I watch friends who I know to be my age boinging about like spring lambs while I pant and wheeze and cough up lumps of actual bone, I’m often overwhelmed with a need to load my gun and put them out of my misery.

It seems 1960 was a vintage year to be born, and as a result I’m the same age as Jonathan Ross, Sean Penn, Ian Hislop, Bono, Damon Hill, Gary Lineker, Hugh Grant, Kenneth Branagh, Jean-Claude Van Damme, Antonio Banderas, David Duchovny and Colin Firth. And every time they appear in the newspapers I look at their pictures wondering who’s faring better than me.

All of them are, if I’m honest. Except perhaps Jonathan Ross. And that irritates me. I’m in a battle here with Kenneth Branagh and, though we’ve never met, you can be assured he’s in a battle with me. And he knows he’s winning. He can look at a photograph of me and then himself in the mirror and he’ll think, “Yup. I’m in the lead.”

Recently, I saw photographs of Charles Dance emerging from the sea with his new girlfriend. I was happy for him as he looked so happy and healthy, then I saw that he was 75 and suddenly I hated him, not just slightly but on a molecular level. Because I’m fairly certain I won’t look like that at his age. I won’t look like much of anything at all in fact, because I’ll be landfill. Along with my garden.

And my house? Ah, that’s another story. They started building it in the autumn of 2019 and I thought then that it may be a foolish endeavour because how long would I have left to live in it? The builders said it would all be done by May of 2021, but because they are builders, here we are in the spring of 2022 and the drive’s still full of vans and the garden’s still full of trenches and I still can’t hear myself think because of all the power tools. There’s a very real possibility that I’ll be like Brunel; dead before the builders realise my dream. Or that I’ll have to get them to install some kind of stairlift before they go.

How much time do we have left and what will we be able to do with it? Those are the questions. And why do these imponderables prey so heavily on our minds? I guess it’s because we struggle to cope with the hope. When we know the end is coming, that hope is replaced by despair and somehow that’s always easier. Maybe that’s why people on their death beds are so calm. Or maybe it’s the opiates. We don’t know the answer to that one either.

David Bowie, however, once wrote something pertinent on the subject: “Time, he’s waiting in the wings. He speaks of senseless things. His script is you and me, boy.” He probably thought he’d be able to enjoy the royalties from this clever song in his old age. But as we all know, he ran out of time and never got there.

Another of Nick Cave's kids has carked it. You're supposed to look after them you fucking retard.
 
www.theguardian.com/music/2022/may/09/jethro-lazenby-son-of-nick-cave-dies-aged-31


What a total fucking piece of shit.

I have ZERO tolerance for deadbeat dads.

Just human fucking garbage.

Shirt's full of shit, Nick.