Oi, I don't careif you're not gunna publish this if I write my autobiography in this way. It's my autobiography, Hence *Auto*...bio...graphy! Oh bloody hell, just shut up and let me get on with it you stiff-arsed reject!

My death [fine... you have you got your breath back? Took your goddamn time!] Oh, err. My death was on the 25th of March, 2085, precisely 100 years after I first laid eyes on what would end up being the worst idea ever. I awoke to my alarm clock sitting on the desk looking at me and saying

"I knew I'm supposed to do something, precisely 4 hours and thirty-two minutes ago... like maybe WAKING ME UP! BLOODY INFERNAL DEVICE! What do you mean 'Silent alarm'? There's no bloody point, is there?

12:32 was a bit -coughfourhoursthirtytwocough- later than I had planned to get up on my 100th birthday, but hey, all the best laid plans give a swift, firm kick in the vulnerables.

Anyway, I threw on some clothes that had been in and out of fashion more time than dance music [coincidentally, both were currently frowned upon], and decided that I would find out if I was the only 100 year old who could make it across a road at a reasonable pace. I wasn't. I got hit by one of these throw-backto-the-1970's jobbos. For fu-mumblemumble-, they were crap then, they're crap now. Bloody teeny-bop-poppers bringing old things back into fashion! Ford Fiestas were only invented for scum who couldn't afford aught else... so it's quite fitting then. Hmphh! Kids... Oh, shat, when did I become one of those old farts who knife the ball when it goes onto thier garden? "One year old", my arse; "100 years young" my arse! So its sometime between 1 and one hundred that a guy becomes 'old'. I love it when things are that simple.

Anyway, the funeral.