More Creative Deaths...

"I’ve always assumed, and planned for, dying in the blaze I started in the offices of the daily mail (preferably empty but perhaps I could take out some senior editors with me).

But my grandfather used to tell me, bearing down upon me from all of his six feet and in a scary voice, “Make no mistake about it … Lions will come.” So I’m pretty sure the apocalypse may well come in the form of an army of lions or other big cats rushing through the streets. I would probably die just looking scared and unable to fight them. But granddad was right about everything else, and it would look interesting on a headstone (assuming the stonemasons survived the onslaught of lions of course)."

“I am resisting the forces of darkness in the shape of evil governmental machinery. I am usually standing in front of a crowd of people, defending my many children from approaching tanks. I am non-violent of course, in the ideal version. I am mown down but in the process make it possible for others to escape. In some other versions I have been forced to pick up a gun or some grenades out of self protection - I have to die in this story, obviously, because I have been forced to take up arms thus compromising my principles and destroying my enemies instead of loving them. In the less perfect version, my lover/handsome gentle husband will not take up arms and begs me to run away. I say - 'no, we have choice. This is our land and we must stay and fight, even if we die' or words to that effect - I am always much braver than the boy in the story.”

“How about drowning in alcohol?
Or chocolate-induced heart attack.
Or dying of laughter...”

“Mowing down Nazi terrorist devil worshipping types ina platoon jungle scene - saving all of my comrades butsacrificing my own life - whilst, at the very same time, delivering a totally improvised rock concert to thousands, scatting words off the top of my head that will be recorded as 'The truth about everything' and taught to everyone forever, but this speaking of too much truth, this 'lyrical malaria' if you will, is killing me. Every brilliant word takes me closer to death, as every Nazi terrorist devil worshipper type falls to his in the damp jungle (of my mind?)

Or, lost at sea.”

“OK, so death then.

I always thought it would be in some drunken accident - and it might still be - nothing too horrific, just something banal and pointless.

I would have to say though that the only way to go is following some huge misunderstanding with some foreign dude with a gun. Some kind of English arrogance meets tooled up gangsta - that kind of thing. For extra relish, make the encounter in London not abroad, make it daylight instead of night and have a thousand witnesses who will never come forward.”