I’m a bit of a worrier. But not about the usual stuff. Most of my worries seem to stem from novels I have read or films I have watched.
I spend hours thinking about how to make my house Velociraptor-proof. Where I would hide, should the UK suffer the awful fate of a Zombie-apocalypse (I’ll be in Centerparcs, as I’ve mentioned before). I worry about all the cockups I could possibly make if someone were to lend me their time-machine for the day. (Note to self: do NOT kill own great-grandfather.) And I worry about who would feed the dog if I were suddenly entrusted with a magical ring by a mysterious wizard and sent out on a Great Quest.
Friends tell me that perhaps I am thinking too much, and confusing reality with what I saw on TV last night. There may be some truth in this: on the odd occasion that I spend a insomniac night channel-hopping, it inevitably affects my dreams and sense of reality over the next few days. I once spent a feverish night hallucinating about being marooned on an island, chased across the beach by a giant inflatable white ball.
They tell me I should really spend my time worrying about more likely concerns; mortgage payments, the inevitable wilting of my dashing good looks, and the very real possibility that they’ll film another damn series of “Lark Rise To Candleford”.
But I have one worry greater than them all.
It reared its ugly head recently during a Friday-lunchtime pub outing, when the typically surreal-but-morbid conversation got onto the subject of organ donation.
Now, I don’t personally have a problem with donating most of mine. In fact, I would be surprised that any of mine could be used for anything other than filler in cheap Pasties (instead of a donor card in my wallet I have a business-card for Ginsters), as I’ve never taken care of myself. I’m tempted to leave it to medical science; I would go to Heaven a happy soul if I knew that any part of my body would be used as part of a hilarious practical joke by medical students.
But there is one part of my body which I would not donate: my brain.
My reasoning is simple: I have a intense, paranoid fear that it would be acquired by some crackpot who would wire it up, plug it in … and I’d wake up as a disembodied cauliflower floating in a jar.
I don’t wanna be a brain in a jar! I know what would happen. They would add a speaker so that I could tell people who pass that my nose was itchy, and no-doubt they’d all find it very amusing and I’d be the star attraction at the school science fair. Maybe I’d get left as a conversation starter on a mantelpiece, or bought by someone as a friend for the parrot. Then they’d go out one day and leave my lid off, and the cat would have a go at me and eat part of my memory (perhaps the important stuff, like my encyclopedic knowledge of Morecambe and Wise scripts). My only hope of an end to the torture would be to annoy everyone around me with dreadful anecdotes about the good ol’ days when I had a body, until someone loses their temper and throws me on the compost.
Don’t laugh. I’m getting anxious just typing this! Such is my dedication to the medium of The Blog that I’m baring my soul in front of you all. And its not as far fetched as you might think. I’m sure I watched some documentaries on it recently (on one of my 3am, sleep-starved channel-hopping sessions) where this very thing happened – and as we all know, they’re not allowed to fib on television. Though now I think about it, one of the documentaries featured Steve Martin, and one involved Tom Baker.