My starring role: playing dead at my own funeral
It was the brochure that finally convinced me the odd offer my son was making was one that I could not refuse, writes Tom Rowley
HAVING recently shuffled into the over 60 age pool, everything in the Post Insurance brochure jarred. The big heading offered “Over 50s Funeral Plan” and underneath a supposedly reassuring message — “Taking care of not being there”.
Alongside it was a photograph of a granny with her son and daughterin-law and grandchildren, all blissfully happy on a beach despite the ghostlike silhouette amongst them of a grandad who had obviously kicked the bucket — but not before taking out the insurance policy.
The whole insurance plan was aimed at 50 to 75-yearolds. From the age of 50 onwards, a payment of €15 a month — “less than the price of a cup of tea a day” — would cough up €4,700 to cover your funeral expenses. And then there was for me the hilarious line — “If you contribute a little more, you could also help with any outstanding bills you might leave behind”.
Ah come on, I thought, odds are that Paddy Power bookmakers would never be that cruel to the loyal, departed me.
The Post Insurance folk seem to be out to get a death-like grip on all those over 50 and scare the bejesus out of them about making sure there is enough money to cover their burials. In fairness I’m sure there are many people who would take the plan so as not to burden offspring or relatives with having to dig deep to cover their burial costs.
For me it smacked of people eager to get their hands on your money now because, as we have all been told a thousand times, there are no pockets in a shroud.
My experience is that once you cross the 60-year line, odd things begin to happen. It’s as if the body clock briefly goes into a jolting spasm that sends all the little cogs and wheels whirring madly. And when this hissy fit is over they never again settle back snugly into the old, time worn grooves.
All of which might explain the sudden interest with the ages of people. Someone dies and your first reaction is not sympathy but what age was he or she?
It gets worse, you begin trawling the death notices, mining for comforting nuggets along the lines of ‘‘peacefully in her 96th year” or “surrounded by his loving family after 98 fulfilling years”.
So the offer from son Thomas came as a welcome antidote. He was making a short 20-minute film he had written and was directing and there was a small part for me in it.
I would be in two scenes, having a heart attack during a confrontation at a Christmas Day dinner and later laid out as a corpse in a funeral home.
Great, I thought, feck that shower at Post Insurance, I’m going to be able to be at my own funeral and all it will cost me is the price of a few pints afterwards to celebrate.
Thomas, in his films, likes exploring odd, bizarre ideas. In this one it was an aspiring actor about to audition for a part who obsessively practices his few lines of dialogue.
On the day, trapped in a bubble of nerves, he makes a total hames of the audition. But afterwards, as he goes through life, whenever in stressful situations, all he can remember to say are the lines he rehearsed.
So, at the alter on his wedding day, when he is straining to say “I do” to his beautiful bride, he instead blurts out: “Give me a double whiskey and babes, make it snappy.’’
It was filmed at various locations in Dublin and comedian and presenter Kevin McGahern was recruited to play the main role of Henry, my deluded son and the aspiring actor in the film.
Kevin is a lovely Cavan lad, best known for his parts in Hardy Bucks on RTE2, as host of the Republic of Telly and his insightful three-part series last year for RTE, Kevin McGahern’s America.
After a few days with him I could see why the ladies love him. As one said: “Sure his big Cavan accent would make ya melt, so it would.”
And so, on a June day far too warm for a Christmas dinner gathering I had my heart attack, all shocked facial expressions, clutching chest, grimacing weirdly, before crumbling to knees and keeling over.
I had at least seven heart attacks as the scene was re-shot over and over. The heart stood up grand but my knees were wrecked for days after.
But the best part was the funeral home in Rathmines where I was reposing.
The original idea had been for an open coffin and in a weird, macabre way I was looking forward to lying there playing dead, mainly for the thrill of being able to step back out once filming was finished. In the end the coffin was closed but it had a large-framed photograph of me in ‘happier times’ — giving a thumbs up to life on top.
I walked away from it all feeling alive and liberated. After a few pints to celebrate, I went home and ceremonially burned the Post Insurance brochure.
Then a few weeks later the Post Insurance Grim Reapers were back, on the radio. The hurried rush by the voice-over at the end of the advert setting out the list of ‘conditions’ and the ‘subject to’ clauses and codas weirdly reminded me of how a priest would rapidly whisper the Last Rites prayers into the ear of someone on the brink of expiring.
In fairness, I don’t think Post Insurance is the first, or last, to go after making a living out of death.
A long time back Brendan Behan had the Pru (Prudential Life Insurance) in his sights when he offered his advice on what should happen after you shuffle off this mortal coil: “If you meet the undertaker, Or the young man from the Pru, Get a pint with what’s left over, Now I’ll say good-bye to you”.
‘I walked away from it all feeling so alive and liberated’