Spare me the funeral I wouldn't be seen dead at

I'd definitely want tears; tears of laughter rather than pain, so I'd probably ask my wee brother to do a wee turn for me. I'd also want egg and cress sandwiches; and jam sandwiches and Scotch pies with beans. And lamb curry and nan, with a red onion and tomato salad.

I'd ask everyone to turn up dressed as their favourite dead character from history and have Goldie and Grant sing their versions of Wham! classics as folk filed into the crematorium. Then Deacon Blue's 'Dignity' on the way to the fire. It's a macabre notion planning for your own funeral; but I'd rather do the job than leave it to anybody else.

The older you get the more events you attend in churches, temples and mosques: births, deaths and marriages, and the odd confirmation or bar mitzvah. And of all of these events the strangest to come to terms with are the funerals. I suppose we can all accept wacky marriages where the participants make decisions for themselves. A humanist ceremony where everyone

dons kaftans and Birkenstocks and has a lentil-based lunch would be weird but ultimately acceptable. We know we would never allow 'Paranoid' by Black Sabbath or 'Fireball' by Deep Purple to be played at wee Charlie's christening. That would be an imposition.

Some years back the grandfather of my son's friend passed away. I always knew that John, who was 90, had led a fascinating life. I knew he had served in the Second World War and that he had come from humble stock and made good. What I hadn't realised until the day of his funeral was that he was a poor boy from an immigrant family who won medals serving his country during the war before amassing a multi-million pound business and becoming a patron of the arts. And I thought I knew him.

Much as I learnt so much about my friend John at his funeral, it was his life according to those around him. With John, at least corporeally, being absent from the event, it wasn't his agenda.

I'd quite like to set the agenda for my passing; I'd like to make some plans. But even the best laid plans can go awry. Another friend of mine, Tim, and his wife, had discussed the music they would have chosen for their funerals. Tim's wife, being a fan of Kenny Rogers had settled on an obscure track called 'Just Dropped In (To See What Condition My Condition Was In)'. Tim thought it an odd choice but meaningful to him and his wife.

Sooner than expected she passed away and Tim had remembered their chat. He knew that playing the track, as well as being cathartic, would help begin to heal the pain. Knowing that he had put the song on a compilation CD for his wife, he hurriedly grabbed it before leaving for the church to say a final and painful farewell. Gathered with a hundred or so near and dear, Tim announced in a wavering voice that he wished to play a song that meant so much to him and his beloved wife.

It was at this point that he realised that he wasn't quite sure which track number was Kenny Rogers. It was either six or seven. He went for track seven, it being a significant number in their lives. Heads bowed, the congregation listened silently to Sting singing: "De do do do, De da da da…"

Perhaps there is a God and that God isn't a fan of Country and Western. As I get closer to dying, moving further away from the time I was born, I am sure of this: there is plenty of sadness, no shortage of loss.

Perhaps we can mark the day of our loved ones' funeral with laughter and joy. And Goldie and Grant singing 'I'm Your Man'.

Bare-Facebook cheek won't raise a smile

A Facebook friend posted a joke up on her status update the other day. The joke relied on the notion that Irish people are stupid. (I never got Irish jokes when I was a boy because the Irish people I knew were the likes of Oscar Wilde, Sean O'Casey, GB Shaw and Dana: all deeply intelligent and talented, apart from maybe Shaw). But nonetheless it seemed somehow acceptable to tell these jokes back then.

Now, to our surprise, we have discovered that amongst its population the Irish have an intelligentsia, we Scots are a generous race, and not all Indians are doctors or shopkeepers. The lazy stereotypes are dead.

So I decided to challenge my Facebook friend about her questionable anti-Irish gag. She took great pains to inform me that it was crucial that we, as a society, were prepared to laugh at ourselves, puncture our own pomposity and not take ourselves seriously. I agreed wholeheartedly. But as an Indian British woman from Birmingham how was her telling of an Irish joke the act of someone laughing at themselves? I am still awaiting her response.

A bone to pick with new generation of bleeding hearts

I eat meat. I love meat. My grandfather loved meat and my father loves meat. My brothers love meat and my kids love meat. Meat is great and I love to eat it; lots of it. And in the joyous pursuit of meat-eating I call my life, I make no great distinction between different types of meat, other than as to taste. For me there is no better advert for the deliciousness of young, firm meat than osso buco, the slow-cooked Northern Italian delight that shows veal off at its finest.

Some people I know will eat lamb and beef but not rabbit or duck or veal. Their reasoning? Rabbits and ducks and baby cows are cute. I don't get this; I don't get this at all. What are we actually saying? As soon as a baby cow celebrates its 16th cow birthday it is fine to be slaughtered? Surely we should be much more concerned about the welfare of animals rather than the age at which they become eatable.

Or is it a question of aesthetics? Is it unacceptable to eat animals if they are cute? What about ugly animals? Can we eat the mingers of the animal world because they are less adorable? We need to grasp the nettle that we as a species are omnivores. We eat everything. We are not meant to be vegetarians; vegetarianism is a lifestyle choice and anathema to us, Darwinistically-speaking. Killing animals is not a pleasant thing to do. I personally believe that if you are unwilling to kill an animal then you are not entitled to eat an animal. I have shot and killed birds and eaten them. I would have no qualms about killing and cooking a small lamb.

I think half the problem with us in the western world is that we have broken the link between animals and meat. We think meat comes in cling-film from the supermarket. If we made the connection between a living beast that we slaughter for sustenance I think maybe we would look after the animals better and we would also get rid of this weirdly subjective pecking order that exists.