Séamas O'Reilly: The Queen's funeral got me thinking about my own 

In place of bible verses, I’d ask that the congregation is shown the first eight minutes of Pixar’s Up and that bit of My Girl when McCauley Culkin dies

Seamas O'Reilly. Picture: Orfhlaith Whelan

While the Queen of England’s funeral was going on this week, it got me thinking about death and commemoration. 

I’ve been to a lot of funerals, but most were during childhood, and all were variations on a similar theme.

Quiet, sombre moments in Catholic churches, followed by a cold, rainy visit to a graveside, and an after-affair which began still and contemplative but eventually became mostly indistinguishable from the weddings, communions, and confirmation celebrations to which I was more accustomed.

The same food and drink, in the same massive quantities, and so liberally distributed it was hard not to be happy just for that reason alone.

Meeting cousins for the first time in a while, more stretched and freckled than before and playing complacently to the consternation/delight of nearby adults.

Watching uncles, aunties, and family friends, chatting while holding saucers, then wine glasses, then pints, and witnessing several of them becoming, steadily, less steady on their feet.

I was doubtless shielded from much of the sadness of funerals as a child, so there seemed a pleasingly adaptable sense to these proceedings, blurring the lines between mourning and celebration, and the behaviour expected for both. 

Now that I’m an adult and, let’s just say, less likely to involve a church in any such event, it’s got me wondering what my own funeral would, and should, look like.

The Ceremonial Procession of the coffin of Queen Elizabeth II travels down the Long Walk as it arrives at Windsor Castle for the Committal Service at St George's Chapel. 

It’s safe to say my funeral will be different to that of the Queen. I do agree that my coffin’s procession should be broadcast on Cbeebies, Television X, and the Fishing TV channel, and that any world leaders attending should get there by bus, but I would insist that no horses or cannons be involved, and request that any of my sceptres and diadems be kept out of public view throughout.

As for the service, itself, it’s hard to say. I’ve talked to plenty of people about this over the years, and often hear my friends say the same things; that they want their funeral to be “joyous” and “fun”, or “more a celebration of life than a marking of death”.

I’d like to think I would feel this way if I got premature notice of my passing. 

That I’d assign upbeat music for the service, and funny jokes in place of the usual sombre bible verses. 

That I’d make a video to be shown during the service, filled with my trademark, self-effacing wit, in which I slagged people off but in a fun way that made them realise what a good sport I was, and that life goes on, and they shouldn’t feel too bad about it, but it’s OK if they do because, I mean come on, look how wonderful and funny and free-spirited I was, right ’til the end.

I’d like to think that I’d have party poppers and balloons, lay on streamers and a bouncy castle.

That I’d tell everyone to come in fancy dress, so the whole gathering can stand bedecked in floppy pirate hats and astronaut suits; that they’ll go to wipe away a grateful tear for having known me, their one true, perfect, hilarious friend, only to scratch their eye with a costumed hook, or realise their space helmet is blocking access to their face, and laugh at my comedic genius one last time. 

Better still, I hope that I’d tell everyone to come in fancy dress except for one person, either chosen at random or specifically because I hate them, so that everyone can laugh at that person for the duration of the service as a further, additional, light-hearted gag in my memory.

It’s a wonderful thought, but I have to admit I probably won’t do any of those things. 

People have had a lifetime of being deliriously happy in my company, delighted by my charismatic wit, that easy way with I have with children and the elderly, and my boundless generosity in performing, again and again, my many excellent skits and routines. I have given them all the joy they deserve. Now I want them to be sad.

I want people to be really, really sad about my death. 

Not just a little bit sad, I’m talking borderline catatonic here. If the watchword of the queen’s funeral was muted dignity, mine will be raucous self-abasement. 

Crying, wailing, collapsing to the floor, and making a scene. Ireland has a long a tradition of keening, the practice whereby people, mainly flame-haired countrywomen, were tasked with leading funeral guests in mourning, with protracted wailing and singing that induced the crowd to follow suit. 

I will hire 15 such people and, since keening largely died out in the 18th century, I reckon they might not have had much practice lately, so I will also arm them with pepper spray.

In place of bible verses, I’d merely ask that the congregation is shown the first eight minutes of Pixar’s Up and that bit of My Girl when McCauley Culkin dies. 

Instead of a peaceful, reflective image of myself perched near the front, I will commission a portrait of myself in which I, too, am crying and in pain, because it is sad and unfair that I have died, and the rest of you live on.

At my graveside, instead of dirt, people will be offered the chance to throw themselves in alongside me, to be buried alive to spend eternity as close to me as possible, and many will likely do so now that some great light, and all joy, has left the world forever.

And then, to show that this was all planned, I finally ask that this article be read out in its entirety, albeit with the bits about the queen’s funeral removed because they will — hopefully — no longer be topical, except for the joke about my funeral being shown on Television X because I cannot believe that actually happened and don’t think it should be forgotten.

The details matter, you understand. At times like this it’s good to think, long and hard, about all those things you want your loved ones to remember.