It's just struck me, what if Pete Best ends up being the last surviving Beatle?

I've just realised that Halesowen is almost the same word as Hallowe'en.

And aren't hale-stones one one of the Seven Plagues of Egypt!

And isn't Mark Owen the self-styled Damien Thorn of Take That!

Nightjar wrote:

And isn't Mark Owen the self-styled Damien Thorn of Take That!

No.

If my son and brother (or heirs direct, or adopted, per stirpes, to any degree of generation) die before me my estate is split into thirds - one solely to charity, one to my to those entirely on maternal grandmothers family, and one to a list of mandatory beneficiaries (friends etc, a mix) which include a garden where the poor can pick herbs and plant named things in memory of their own loved ones, in the name of my gran.

All jewellery belonging to my maternal grandmother is to be included in the third share, post taxes, to those in her blood or adopted line. 

All instructions as to ash scattering stand regardless, under supervision of executors before proceeds after tax are signed off and released to beneficiaries.

All clauses null and void in the event of my son surviving me (or per stirpes) for, up to and including 31 days of my own death. Such survival will be result in the entire proceeds post taxes and expenses - with the only further sub clause being that grand-daughters are given preference over ownership or sale of all items of jewellery.

There are a couple of other clauses - mainly funeral music, acceptable coffin lining fabrics, and styles/fabrics of clothing, as well as make up advice - forget the lipstick, heavy on the mascara. I advise all here to register their wills.

You don't want to be caught short in some dreadfully naff shroud that some Zone 6 Gomez and Morticia have poured you into while mutually mast*rbating. Don't tell me they don't - I've yet to meet a normal one, and I ****ed the apprentice that sorted my father.

Sort your wills out! To the letter. It's the least you can do because probate aren't all that nice otherwise - and within six months your estate will be paying out commercial interest rates to cover the first payments in your own legal name. 

Being a south London boy I don't blame my father for the mess he left, (but compared to his ex parents in law who had sorted all this out in the early 1970's, things were rather stark) - but I could've been doing without being dragged into court over the illegal Tarmacking over of two fields by a gang of Romany gypsies who were responsible for a significant percentage of cut and shut cars.

Standing in a dock with stairs that lead to actual cells is really quite intimidating.

About a year ago, by accident, I brought a dinner party to a standstill by describing my new assistant as 'young, adorable, gorgeous, lovely, with enormous bouncing t*ts and not a bad bone in her body'. The song I compared her to was 'my love grows where my Rosemary goes'. Which has just come on the radio. 

Evidently it's been a bone of contention among various married couples ever since. I myself barely escaped censure for inviting her to a working lunch a friends husband was hugely keen to attend and apparently raved on about, as his most marvellous day at work ever. I was subsequently spoken to as almost a pimp.

On reflection I was even more in the ballpark when I linked her with said song. I am unattracted to femininity, and even I was knocked practically unconscious by the heady stench of abundant fertility. Her army boyfriend had the most lovely eyebrow scar that she was most unimpressed to find me tracing with a finger at the bar.

Had he not brought along two northern squaddie mates of his I might have sacked her on grossly trumped up charges of incompetence. I never knew I found Preston accents so hot on guys in berets with access to cheap hotel rooms. I could barely sit down the following morning at the cafe downstairs.

Internal bruising is a very real disorder after a spit roast, especially as one tries to discreetly walk down the Brompton Road without crying. The number of windows that aren't at hand height is a cruelty. Paracetamol are not to be underestimated. There are valuable life lessons to reflect on everywhere, as mr social work tells me with zeal.

Shortly after the dread and fear inflicted in June 2016, my maid had resigned to move to Madrid and my entire career and relationship with my son was falling to pieces (both continued sliding like Gemma Collins on an ice rink, on a sharp downward trajectory for the following 18 months*), I had a couple of 'friends' round - communist Nigerians - and we were having some dahl and opium on my terrace (the weather was so sticky). 

They decided to tell me this horrifying song - every beat, every word - reminded them of me. I don't think I've ever been so offended. I packed their jar and manifesto in their bag for life and showed the pair of them out. Never had them back.



I spent the following weeks putting myself back together in the Yucatan and Arizona via Mexico City, Dallas, and NYC. As well as a plastic surgeon in New Jersey who does the Real Housewives of...

My brothers contribution to this horror was that 'Pearls A Singer' was far more apt as a life theme - and that he was entirely on the side of his nephew who was welcome to move in, any time, for good. I had thought at least I was worthy of a number from Cher's Heart of Stone album.

*When back in Britain during Christmas 2005, Kat Slater delivered a line I still think is the best ever - 'I never asked for easy, I just fought fings would be less like roller skating down the Himalayas wiv a rocket up me ar*e'. Never a truer word spoken on a television screen.

I still have to apply at least three coats of foundation to a mark on the side of my mouth that was scarred by an incompetent application of acid. I should've sued her. Instead I lay there in silent agony while she shared her views on Jews and boasted about her new villa in Majorca.

I'd look at least two years younger if I hadn't run into her touting her talents online. Still - a valuable lesson - the hairline of Theresa from the Real Housewives is warning enough to anyone not to let a random scalpel go anywhere above the ankle.

I paid the b**ch in cash for the damage she did to me. Her and her accountant must've soaked themselves at such a tax friendly scam. I couldn't even leave the house due to the mess, and cried almost the entire way from Terminal 4 to Mexico City. I was so upset I sharply pulled the shade between my compartment and the very friendly man facing me.

I had to go back through economy to delicately negotiate in the galley for extra red wine to be supplied. Only a promise of taking Valium at the sound of an agreed alarm kept them refilling. Benito Juarez is a b*tch of an airport to find your way out of at 4am.

I need to revise my will, thanks for reminding me. It's complicated because if I peg out while I'm still working, my brother gets a load of cash from my work life insurance, so he has to be given a smaller bequest to compensate for that.

Speaking of dramatic thoughts, said brother is in hospital recovering from hole-in-the-heart surgery. He's fine apparently. Though it was only on Monday that I found out that he was having surgery, or indeed that he had a h-in-the-h to begin with. No-one had seen fit to mention either fact to me.

Oh dear, I'm very sorry to hear that. Being kept out of the loop is never pleasant. Maybe they are all due the benefit of the doubt because of your moving troubles etc. Aren't those genetic from birth defects? Have you had your own checked out?

Fangirl Three wrote:

I need to revise my will, thanks for reminding me. It's complicated because if I peg out while I'm still working, my brother gets a load of cash from my work life insurance, so he has to be given a smaller bequest to compensate for that.

Yes, you can't allow things to go where you don't want them going. We could all drop down dead at any given moment.

We all owe it to ourselves and loved ones to sort it all out, have difficult and awkward conversations if necessary, openly welcome dialogue and questions, and have everything up front so nobody gets any nasty surprises.

I'm a great believer in wills not just as practical essentials, but as loving tributes to those named in them.

I really have absolutely no idea what put me in mind of wills and death and betrayals the other night. Is this the sudden dramatic thoughts thread? I think I must've been meaning to post somewhere else.

My thoughts don't seem to have especially sudden or dramatic.

It did cross my mind that I might have the same thing. But I don't have the symptoms my brother has had over the years and which were apparently signs of it - unusually slow heartbeat, and once he collapsed on a Tube train.

And I had an ECG a few years ago which didn't show up anything.

Anyway, he is recovering now, though there was a scary phase yesterday when he had to have two further operations to ensure a complete fix.

He told me not to come and visit him as he wasn't in the mood to chat! I didn't mind though, I remember when I was in hospital 2 years ago I wanted to be left alone to heal.

He's in Addenbrookes, he was there when Boris Johnson visited on Thursday.

Oh dreadful. As if recovering from heart surgery wasn't bad enough.

I think it can be symptomless?

Yeah I agree on hospitals or generally feeling ill. I like to be given the strongest and most relevant drugs, and then left alone with a few magazines.

It occured to me this mysterious morning that I could have Novichok poisoning. This time tomorrow I could be frothing at the mouth on a park bench.