Is It Really Too Much to Ask? by Jeremy Clarkson Read Free Book Online Page A

wouldn’t.
    The process is called resomation and it works like this: you are placed in a silk bag with some water and some potassium hydroxide and then you are boiled until you become a greeny-brown paste.
    Hmmm. Even if we leave aside the question of how you might manage in the afterlife as a paste, we must also address the question of reverence for the deceased. Many people may wish to urinate on John Prescott’s grave, but chances are, when there is such a thing, no one actually will.
    Think about it. Churchyards are rarely vandalized and no one plays ball games in them. Ships that go down with hands still on board are designated as graves and may not be investigated by diving teams. The ashes of those who’ve been cremated are scattered in places of great beauty. Not chucked in a dustbin lorry. This is because we have a respect for the dead.
    And I’m sorry, but where’s the respect in turning grandad into a paste and flushing him down the lavatory?
    Yes. You are given some powdered bones after the resomation is complete, but every day you know that the paste is out there, too. It’ll haunt you. Wondering if you’ve just caught a fish that ate it. Or whether you stepped in it on the way to work.
    Needless to say, the engine behind the concept comes from the murky and dirty world of environmentalism. The Scottish company responsible says that cremating a body creates 573lb of carbon dioxide and that with its new system this is cut to virtually zero. What’s more, the company says that if we dissolve the dead, there will be less pressure on space in graveyards.
    This is like arguing that Prozac upsets the ecosystem and, once in the water, causes all fish to turn right. It may well be true but it’s better than having the streets full of middle-aged women sobbing because they’ve got a parking ticket. And shampoo. Washing your hair in ‘peace soap’ made from mung beans may well ensure Johnny Polar Bear has a home for many years to come but you will have a dirty beard.
    It’s the same story with this caustic potash business. Melting the dead may be practical but it is also absolutely horrific. Because let’s be honest here; let’s cut to the chase. We are talking here about boil-in-the-bag, aren’t we? And that’s just not on.
    Boil-in-the-bag works – just about – for parsley sauce. But not for your mum. She breastfed you. She raised you. She was only ever as happy as you were. And you are going to boil her in a bag and make her into paste. To save a polar bear. It’s the worst thing I’ve ever heard of.
    If all we’re bothered about is the environment and to hell with the dignity, why do we not throw our dead into the sea or into landfill? Or why do we not simply feed them to our dogs? This makes perfect sense, if you think about it. There
are no eco-implications at all. No grave is required. The dog gets a tasty midday snack. Everybody’s happy.
    Except, of course, we’re not happy, are we? Because you cannot feed your nearest and dearest to Fido. It’s bad enough clearing up the dog eggs on a normal day. But clearing them up when you know they are Uncle Ernie? It’s just a no, isn’t it?
    So’s resomation, and I can’t believe the Belgians will actually go for it. Because if they do, and my fears about death are correct, all they’ll have to look forward to after a life in Belgium is being used by God for all of eternity to stick his wallpaper to the wall.
    11 July 2010

Don’t misread the whiff of Cameron’s armpits
    Have you ever watched a vast swarm of starlings reel around the sky in Africa? Or a million-strong herd of wildebeest? If so, I’m sure you’ve marvelled at their ability to communicate without actually appearing to do so. But you know what? I think humans can do exactly the same thing. Back in the 1980s the Comedy Store in London would allow a queue of wannabe comedians each to have ten minutes on the stage after the main performers had finished. By this time of night,