2. How to write a suicide note.

Well we've all done it, haven't we. Toyed with the idea of ending it all. Popping one's own clogs, as it were. At least anybody with any notable sense has. And I'm not talking about actually or nearly going ahead and doing it, but just the mere inkling of a consideration that it might be an option. Obviously, I have not taken it that seriously, or I would not be here writing this kindly and informative blog entry.

One reason why I have not bothered the local sub-editors with my untimely departure is due to my failings as a writer. I would want to do 'it' properly and leave a top range, properly hand-written, suicide note. This, in itself, is a problem. We don't really write notes or letters these days, do we. It's all emails, Facebook updates and tweets, all lending themselves to the most basic of spelling and grammatical errors, not to mention incredible flippancy of content and expression. You know the kind of babble I'm talking about. I'm not going to waste my time satirising the content of Facebook or Twitter. Do it your bloody self. You're probably all busy self-satirising, as I type.

Suffice to say, nobody's life is so bad, surely, that they could fit all they want to say, as their last message to the world, in a 140 character tweet. Imagine the number of times you'd have to edit and rewrite that in order to fit in all the important facts, sentiments and people. Wouldn't be a terribly appropriate form, would it? eg. 'U all 8 me. I can't s& it ne mor'. Lacks the kind of warmth and sincerity that you should be looking to convey.

Plenty of guff out there about how to actually do yourself in, as such, but precious little about this important aspect of your self-aggrandising demise - your last message, not just to your loved ones, but the world at large. You are your brand and, as such, your last missive should be commensurate with this. In the absence of any official courses on the writing of suicide notes (and I shouldn't be surprised if there are some - there are, after all, courses available on blog writing. For fucks sake!), I thought I might detail a few well-meaning suggestions.

So, here is my advice, on the off chance that you should need to opt out in this regrettable manner. You may be too old and knackered to leave a beautiful corpse, but at least you can finally get things off your chest and, for once, get it right, despatching a curt, informative and amusing suicide note.

1) Please handwrite it. Your loved ones, such as they are, need to know that you mean it. Shaky (but still decipherable) handwriting on a tear stained sheet of thinly lined A4 is more likely to have the desired effect than a spell-checked word document. Besides which, a suicide note written on your computer would surely give rise to far too many confusing and unwanted decisions: What kind of font are you going to use? What size font? Do you emphasis by using Italics or underlining? And what if the printer runs out of ink, what are you going to do then? Suddenly cheer up and pop down to fucking Rymans? If you're going to do that you might as well just do a Powerpoint presentation, with graphs and pie-charts and whatever other bullshit you get on that. No. Just keep it 'old school', otherwise you'll lose focus and carry on living, like a berk.

2) Please use your best shaky handwriting. Whilst loved ones will eventually come to understand your despicable and selfish act, one thing they will not forgive is not actually being able to read your last words. You don't want people staring at your note with squinted eyes, saying 'What does "it all got too munch" mean?'

3) If in doubt, get it proofread. There are people you can pay to do this, unbelievably. (I should know, I once paid to go on a course. Not really much of a course, mind. All you get is a big book with their mysterious, and expensive, hieroglyphics explained, and their good wishes.)  It might be instructive to have an objective eye cast over the thing, just to make sure. The last thing you really want is to spoil the effect by putting in too many commas and them all tutting like a herd of grieving Trusses (Trussi?) This is your definitive life end statement and you don't want a load of moaning grammar heads picking little pissy holes.

4) At its best, a good suicide note should read like a disturbing version of a BAFTA award winning speech. Try and remember to include all the important and relevant people. You want folk to be sad, not merely pissed off.

And, finally, 5) Jokes. Any decent piece of writing is all about contrast. So at least one well-meaning and heartfelt quip would be appreciated. It doesn't have to be all doom and gloom. You should aim to leave the bastards crying and laughing and wanting more, and regretting that they ever spoke to you like such an unmitigated plop of putrefied excrement.

And before you all sit there, judgementally thinking how flippant I'm being, remember I have considered this course of action myself. Although to be fair, the furthest I got with this largely involved having a strop at teatime and trying to stab myself. The only effect this achieved was to cover my shirt in baked beans and make my dad refer to me as a 'daydreaming little prick'.

There are, ultimately, many reasons as to why I've never removed myself from this mortal plane: laziness, indecisiveness, poor planning. Dare I say, even being able to see a speck of hope in the distance.

The main reason, however, is the fear that I'd never be able to leave a definitive suicide note.

And this is why writing, writing anything, is so hard for me. Everything that I write is an aspect of myself, an endorsement of my brand and it has to stand for something.

And I'd just hate to be on my deathbed, drifting away, and think of a better definition or a more appropriate synonym. I'd never forgive myself.

1. In which the coward, Quigley, indulgently bares his soul for the hopeful amusement of an audience in single figures. (at least).

Somewhere, between aspiration and achievement, lies the reality of my battered, withered carcass. I am a wreck of a man, a 45 year old manboy, given to long and consistent periods of failure and resulting bad humour.

Aspiration can be considered a dirty little madam, implying the need for power, wealth and an assortment of grown-up shiny toys to play with. I'm not one of those. I've never really felt the need for a working lightsaber, for example. If I ever need a lightsaber, I'll be quite happy to effect one out of cardboard and paint and foil and I'll just have to accept the derision of the business lads, busy playing Darth Vader on my ass. For example.

My aspirations, then, have tended more towards the abstract, seeking to extricate myself from humble beginnings (ie. thick) through writing things that make money.  For certain reasons this has not happened: bad genes, environmental factors and poor quality fortune would all be examples as to why I have not converted aspiration into achievement.  Fear of failure.  And did I mention laziness? No? How remiss of me.



  



One area in which I have been terribly remiss, is in the area of 'general knowledge'. If I knew more 'stuff', would it make me more intelligent?  I've always considered myself like 'Sherlock Holmes' in this sense. Absolute genius at certain subjects, but ignorant of the content of entire other, possibly important, subjects. Geography, for example. Ask me to point out Estonia on a map, and I'll more likely sarcastically point at a cup or something. The truth, for me, is that I don't actually care. Ignorant, possibly. But I currently have no need for that knowledge. Rest assured if I ever go there, I shall attempt some rudimentary effort to locate it before travel.

In truth, as far as fictional characters go, I am more akin to Gordon Comstock, 'hero' of George Orwell's 'Keep the Aspidistra Flying'. This powerful and moving novel relates the failures of would-be writer Gordon, that most annoying species of writer, the writer who regards and defines himself as a writer, but without actually doing any of the writing, necessary to merit such a description. This unconsummated obsession leads to the rest of his life being compromised and unfulfilled.

                                       


I am Gordon Comstock. Nothing to be proud of. As far as fictional characters go, I'd much rather ally myself with Luke Skywalker, or possibly even Jabba the Hut.

A typical fault of the aspirationally unfulfilled is to blame one's background. And one shouldn't do this, should one, as there are plenty of examples of individuals who've succeeded  despite their humbleness. Instead, the biggest failing of those pursuing artistic pursuits lies in fault of temperament. Weak wills and a cartoon like showing of non-defiance. This will in turn lead to all other manner of hallmarks of the failed, chief amongst them being the God of all excuses, displacement activity.

Useful to a degree, to feed the artistic sub-conscience, for some, writing is 100 per cent distraction and nothing on the writing effort. Popular displacement activities include tea drinking, bath taking, shopping, housework, re-alphabetising CD collections, making lists of all the things you really need to do (eg. 1. Make lists; 2. Don't make lists, in order to free up some time for proper writing), re-pointing chimney stacks and terminal illness. All acceptable alternatives to the actual business of knuckling down and working.

So where does this leave me, apart from writing a fucking blog? (Not that there's anything wrong with that). Well, I may have aspired towards being among the ranks of the intelligent and creatively fulfilled, but have to accept,  now, once and for all, that I have failed. These are not 'my people' and they don't want me. 


Instead I must ultimately reconcile myself with the fact that my people are the failures, the freaks and the idiots. Retarded, remedial or just plain thick. The ill-informed. The disabled, the unwashed and the poorly teethed. The criminally inclined. The unlucky, the bemused, the suicidal. The directionless.  Lazy, bewildered and dull. The terminally fearful.

I should end my life accepting my place among them and seek solace and companionship with them, leaving behind a trail of burning books and pointless ideas.

If you can think of anything else, do let me know. Did I mention I'm also terribly submissive...?