…writing your own obituary.

Gnightgirl dared her readership to write their own obituaries. This sounds like tempting fate, but luckily I don’t believe in fate, and I like morbidity (I’m a regular John Donne). Since I am going to outlive you all none of you will get to read it when it is printed, so consider this a sneak preview. You lucky, lucky things.

In Memory of Sir Sven, by Peter Hawkins. Published in ETHEL Monthly: August, 2110

This month we mark the tenth anniversary of the death of Sir Sven McCarthy-Stuart; author, playwright, actor, philanthropist and leading ETHEL campaigner. Sir Sven died of natural causes in 2100 at his Somerset country home; he was 121. He is most often remembered for his literary works, but his contribution to the lives of ordinary people in the twenty-second century is often underestimated.

Sven McCarthy was born in 1979 to an Anglo-Irish parents. His birth records were lost in the Great Data Theft of 2009, but it is known that he spent his childhood in Bath, Somerset. He had one sister. His early years were unremarkable: he achieved respectable school grades, A-Levels and a degree in English and Drama. His twenties were spent “drifting around looking for an ambition”, as he put it, in an interview with Time in 2025. He met James Stuart in 2005. They moved to Sydney, Australia in 2008, where McCarthy took his MA in Creative writing. This was a turning point for him and after some years writing columns for local and national publications McCarthy published his first novel, David and Felicia, in 2015. This exploration of mortality and loneliness reflected the concerns of an aging population and he became an overnight literary success. McCarthy used his fame to campaign for equal marriage rights for same-sex couples and he and Stuart were married in 2021, taking the name McCarthy-Stuart.

After his initial success McCarthy-Stuart spent the next thirteen years in a literary wilderness after releasing an ill-received science-fiction series and an ‘alternative romance’ which, despite a reasonable critical response, is still voted as ‘Novel Least Likely to Recommend’ in readers’ polls across the globe. He moved to California and then New York to follow an acting career, but this had a tepid reception and was short-lived. McCarthy-Stuart returned to form in 2034, when he published Fifty is the new thirty, in which he again reflected on a world where growing old was a treatable disease. It was in researching this novel that he first became involved with the called the ‘Extending The Human Experience and Lifespan’ project.

In 2038 he established the McCarthy-Stuart Foundation, helping to fund research into the use of technology in keeping people alive beyond their normal lifespan. Funding from the McCarthy-Stuart Foundation helped ETHEL develop the first electronic brain-stem, and establish the first ‘Consciousness Uploading and Neurological Transfer’ technique. Although an advocate for the cause, McCarthy-Stuart was not a scientific man and instead preferred to investigate the potential social effects of keeping people alive forever. For his work in this area, he was awarded a knighthood in 2051. In 2083, on a visit to England, James McCarthy-Stuart was killed when he was hit from behind by a truck delivering sex toys to Clone Zone. In his eulogy, Sven said he had “died with a smile on his face. It’s how he would have wanted to go.”

Sir Sven continued to serve as the President of the McCarthy-Stuart Foundation until the day he died. He worked with the ETHEL project and lobbied governments to pass legislation allowing the uploading of human consciousness into specially cloned bodies with artificial brain stems. He planned to be the first person to experience ETHEL’s CUNT. It is an historical irony that he passed away shortly after his 121st birthday, and just two weeks before the ETHEL’s CUNT was approved for general use. Sir Sven had outlived all his peers, and Lolo Hughes, President of ETHEL, spoke at his memorial:

Sir Sven had always planned to live to 120. To have made it to 121 was a personal victory. In his youth, many dismissed him as a fantasist and a dreamer; blunt, cynical and vain. But today we remember a man who was all those things, but used them for good. He may have been a flawed character, a self-important narcissist, a crank, but he loved life. Thank you, Sir Sven.

Sir Sven was chryogenically frozen and his remains are stored at ETHEL headquarters in Basingstoke, Hampshire. Last week ETHEL announced plans to begin phase one testing of the ‘Technical Utility for Resurrection of the Dead’. They did not comment on whether Sir Sven would be resurrected but, since he wasn’t the first CUNT, I suspect he will be the world’s first TURD.

Sometimes they get it right.

The nights are drawing back out again already, if you can believe it.  Time seems to just fly by these days, and the shortest day of the year has already been and gone.  I was in the car on Thursday looking at the fog coming down and icing up the pavement, when I realised that in six months it will all be over and it’ll be another British summer.  Clearly recognising the cycle of time is a sign that (a) I’m getting old and (b) I think too much, but these are the kinds of epiphanies that hit you while you’re waiting at the lights.  I always say that I love winter till Christmas (and summer till my birthday) but this year I am really hoping it snows in January, February and March: if the Australian Government agree I’ll be spending next Christmas on the beach.  I realised in the car that this could be my last wintry Christmas ever.

There are any number of reasons that moving to Australia is preferable to living in Britain (I have obviously been persuaded that it’s a move worth making since I spoke about it in July) and I am beginning to look forward to it, but I think the complete reversal of the seasons will be one of the hardest things to handle.  I’m used to dark afternoons in December and a nice temperate evening on my birthday, and it will be the wrong way around down under.  I’ve been trying to savour the season, but finding time to enjoy it has been impossible.

Last week’s cop out list post could have been written by anyone: every single person I have spoken to seems to have been surprised by Christmas this year, and the number of things we all try to fit in before the big day just gets longer and longer.  Even trying to do the fun things gets to be a bit of a chore: another Christmas party, more meeting people for drinks that means shopping has to be moved to tomorrow lunchtime, make sure that you only take stuff to work on Friday you can leave there till the new year.  What a headache!  Friday was the last day at work and I tried to squeeze in so much work in the morning it turned into a comedy scene.  The anticipated early finish got earlier and earlier so that I found myself actually wishing I had more time in the office rather than hitting the red wine early doors.  And I was dressed as an elf.  I was finally wrenched away from my desk just before midday and the minute I was out I realised it didn’t matter: everything would still be there when I got back.

If you start drinking at lunchtime and you don’t have to go back to the office you know you are in trouble; especially when you have a party with your co-workers later the same night.  In an effort to break up the cocktail chaos, I had insisted that we all go to Light Up Bristol.  I had been expecting an enormous rowdy fayre with toffee apples and screaming kids, but at least there would be fresh air and a limited bar.  When we arrived it was completely different.  

 

Firstly, it was almost silent.  Light Up Bristol projects a light show onto the Council House (Bristol’s ‘City Hall’) and the Cathedral, all set to music.  There were no waltzers, hawkers or chip vans: everyone was transfixed.  There were a couple of kids racing around and jumping about, but even they sat down and watched after a while.  Second: the concept was so simple.  Project light onto a building; play music over it.  What’s complicated about that?  And yet it was totally effective.  The few of us who had walked through town to catch the show watched with our mouths open as our toes shrivelled up and our fingers went numb.

Pascale put it best: sometimes they get it right.  There are one hundred things to complain about in Bristol – the inept local council and rising taxes, the gang violence and gun crime, the laughably poor town planning and the non-existent transport policy – but every now and then something happens here that makes the shit all worthwhile: sometimes they get it right.  This is what Christmas should be about: quietly taking time to appreciate the good stuff; getting cold and not caring about it because you are enjoying the simple things.  I’ve got two weeks off to enjoy this Christmas and I plan to take it easy and enjoy it all.  This might be last one I spend with my friends and family for a while, so what is the point in racing around like a mad thing?  Take a breath, chill out and take it easy.  Everything else can wait.

 

Happy Christmas, all!  

The Ladyboys of Bangkok

Ingredients

17 Thai Ladyboys x 2
£50 of free money
4 friends for a stir-fry dinner
2 nightclubs
1 ferry-boat
(add suncream as required).

Method

Where to begin? You will need plenty of free time for this recipe, and matching stamina. It’s a delight though, and will leave you feeling replete when it’s over. I started on Monday, quietly, by having an easy night at home doing not very much. I find this is the best way to go about a Monday evening: it takes a hell of a lot out of you getting up on a Monday morning so I think the evening is best spent recovering from the shock. As it turned out, this was the only night in I had this week, as James had managed to swing half-price tickets to see The Ladyboys of Bangkok for the following night.

Forget anything you know about female impersonators: this show was quite simply astounding. James I rolled up to the venue expecting a seedy, crass, sexually risqué event (note how we still went along anyway), but what we got was none of those things (well except the risqué part, perhaps). The theatre they had constructed on Bristol’s Castle Park was a giant replica-Thai nightclub complete with bar, mini-restuarant and gardens. The audience sat at tables throughout the auditorium to give it a proper ‘revue’ feel. This gave us great fun speculating with everyone at our table about ‘where exactly do they put it?’ during the interval. There’s nothing like talking about the truly personal with total strangers: how many euphemisms for ‘breasts’ can there really be?

On a Tuesday night most of the gay venues in Bristol are closed, so the place was rammed with the staff and regulars thereof, not to mention the most ostentatious drag-queens I have ever seen: the atmosphere was electric before the curtain even went up. When it did, the crowd went wild. The show itself was nothing like we had imagined: it was just amazing. No crass, cheap, penis gags. No nudity at all (though some extremely skimpy costumes that boggled the mind with their gravity-defying engineering). Considering they’re telling the same joke over and over again (men dressed as women, ha ha ha) it was fantastic fun and never got boring. Artist after artist rolled up, looking amazing, to lip-sync to classic and contemporary numbers, each deserving and receiving more applause than the last. My favourites were the Pussy-cat Dolls (amazingly less trashy than the real things, given the circumstances), the Can-Can, Tina Turner, and an exceptional impersonation of Shirley Bassey singing “This Is My Life”. The standing ovation at the end was well-deserved.

Aside from the quality of the show, there was of course the small matter of the quality of the impersonators: how convincing were they? Alarmingly convincing is the answer. All of them could have passed for women in every day life, though there were two or three that were something else! In the programme, and at the start of the show, they reassure you that everyone in the show is a ‘male Thai national’, but even with that knowledge there were a couple that made you think again, such was the tranformation they underwent for the show. Perhaps they live life as women full-time, and why not? If you can pull it off like they can, go for it, I say! At the end of the show, by which time me and the strange woman next to me (cheering as though it were up to us to keep the whole thing going) had become best of friends, and could only declare that yes, we were jealous of them. Absolutely remarkable.

On Wednesday we had friends over for dinner and it was all we could do not to rave about the show all evening. Fortunately we managed to talk about other things as well, or else everyone might have become quite bored, but not before we had planted the seed of a return visit to show everyone else what they were missing. Thursday was KTN night as usual and then the weekend was upon us! Hurrah!!!

Friday was my last day at the AHRC and after much wailing and gnashing of teeth I said my good-byes to my co-workers and cleared my desk. I think I would have quite liked to stay there permanently, visiting post-graduate fairs and advising people on how to get funding for Arts and Humanities courses, but I think it’s for the best: at the end of the day it’s just another office job and I don’t want that again. So, on to the weekend.

That night was a free night out, thanks to the miracle of mystery shopping. A friend of mine introduced me to the company and this was my first time – a mystery shopping virgin. I always thought it was a funny thing to do but everyone I’ve told seems thrilled by the idea: £25 for a night out, the only stipulation being you must visit their choice of bar at least once after 10pm. What could be simpler? Doing two venues in one night meant double the funds, so it was only fair that I take my visiting friend, Basket, along with Jim and couple of others to share in the free booze (what on earth would I do with £50 worth of drink on my own that my liver would stand?). I think we were rumbled in the first venue (Babylon), since my every request was anticipated and resolved before I even opened my mouth, but Po Na Na was great fun and I think we pulled it off there. I wasn’t really expecting much of the night but going to places I haven’t been for about ten years was a refreshing change and it turned out to be a BRILLIANT night. I think have the charm of a night out is the anticcipation, or rather the lack thereof. Invariably, if you think it will be an amazing night, it turns out to be mediocre, but when you don’t plan them, or you do it on the spur of the moment (remember all those ‘cheeky ones’ after work, hoochies?) it turns into the stuff of legends – The Ladyboys of Bangkok are a case in point.

Battling the inevitable hangover on Saturday morning, we headed out for lunch in the sunshine. The British summer is upon us and anyone who lives here knows that while the sun shines, you get the hell outside and enjoy it. Thus, instead of the mooted Wagamama lunch, I demanded somewhere with a terrace to “get some sun on your pasty legs”, and the waterside Mud Dock fitted the bill nicely. After a lovely salad lunch in the sun with friends, we saw Basket off at the train station and returned to the city centre on the ferry boat. Can you believe this is a commuter service? It’s a lovely way to travel – congestion free, on time and value for money to boot – arguably the best transport system Bristol has to offer, and yet wholly under-rated. James and I promptly switched from citizens of Bristol to excited tourists as we disembarked from the ferry, splashed around in the city’s water features and photographed the whole thing for posterity. The rest of the day was spent chilling out at a barbecue recovering from our phenomenal sunburn, before taking friends back along to see the miracles of make-up and implants at the Thai Pavillion. I know I’m harping on about it, but if you get the chance to see it I insist you go – you will not believe your eyes!

Next week: More summer fun, more barbecues and doubtless more drinks. Perhaps I should start some kind of a cocktail book…