i wrote this by mistake.

THE LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT OF CCL: SCAFFOLDER, ALARMIST, TUMMY PUNCHER, BELLETRIST, PROPER DOCTOR, GENERAL, TIT, AND SOMETIME NASTY PIECE OF WORK (UNMARRIED). WRITTEN ON THE SECOND OF SEPTEMBER 2008, BECAUSE THEY ARE CLOSING IN AND I CANNOT STOP THEM.

1.I REVOKE all previous testamentary dispositions, along with anything pleasant I might have said to or about anyone.


2.I APPOINT as executors of my will CLAIRE LINDSAY and JOW LINDSAY, if they haven't died by the time I do. If they have, then they have lost, and all my money and possessions, contrary to what follows in sections 3-5, should go to NAMBLA (North American Man-Boy Love Association) to punish their spineless capitulation and bad haircuts.

3. I MAKE PROVISION of TEN POUNDS (£10) for The CCL Foundation For The Promotion of Vicious Sibling Rivalry, Backward Farming Methods, Lead Piping, Oil Spills, Misunderstandings, and Racism. I also make provision of TEN POUNDS (£10) for the CCL Memorial Prize, awarded annually to the pupil of my alma mater who swears at their teacher the most in a school year.

4. I BEQUEATH the following:


To MARY COOTE, because she asked first: a jar with the word 'BISCUITS' written on it, a Joni Mitchell record, and a pair of glasses that make her look like the kind of man who voted Republican because he was afraid Russia would invade and force him to own just one car if he didn't. She may not under any circumstances have my ship in a bottle or my braces - these are to become the property of whomever is her bete noire at the time of my death.


To ANDREW MCEWAN: my baseball glove. Whoever is giving him the glove should put a hand on his shoulder and stare into the distance, jaw clenched. This tableau should remain unchanged for at least ten minutes. If Andrew attempts a premature withdrawal, he should be beaten around the face and told to 'pull yourself together, for God's sake' because I'm 'dead and histrionics won't change that fact'. The beating may, if deemed appropriate, progress to violent, unlubricated sodomy, at which point he/she may 'lose' himself/herself, breaking down into wails and sobs and screams of 'WHY?!' with every deep, fissuring thrust.

To ANDREW BAZELEY: a pair of ginormous talons dripping with viscera. Also, a small red bouncy ball and a pair of dice, that finally he might fulfil his ambition of being known everywhere he goes as 'Bounce and Chance Bazeley'.

To A R B DEERY: a pile of stinking, rotten bones, and all the flies coming off it that he can catch. He also gets all my Aylett paraphernalia and my ladder made of candy. He cannot have my sister, because without reciprocity, we are nothing but beasts.


To FRANK LAZARSKI: My Copy of The Dream Songs, my shaving brush, and all my legal troubles. Frank should also be put in charge of ChrisFest - an annual Mass Games celebrating my life through song, dance, gymnastic feats and ritual slaughter.

To ANNE MEADOWS : my radio, because she is radio greedy, but that is fine.

To JOSHUA SEIGAL: all the philosophy books he can carry - seriously, a one-trip library plunder with no bags or help from anyone - and a stern beyond-the-grave admonishment to 'tap that shit whenever and wherever that shit be tappable'.

To HELEN SIVEY: a cascade of unwanted greasy tupperware, all the gross things I've collected in jars, Biddy White's Leaving Home Cookbook, a pair of my tighties, AND A BAG OF JEWELS! JEWELS! JEWELS!

5. I GIVE the following:

a) The sum of TWO HUNDRED POUNDS (£200) to the Democratic People's Republic of Korea ('North Korea') as tribute to leader KIM JONG IL

c) The sum of TWENTY POUNDS(£20) to WARREN BUFFET, from whom we could all learn a thing or two. Way to go, Warren.


6. I EXPRESS the wish that following funerary arrangements be carried out. Upon my death I should be dismembered. My limbs, head and torso should be dragged along by pieces of string tied to the back of a limousine with a banner on the bumper reading 'just dismembered'. My pulpy, road-bruised flesh should then be gathered up and dumped into an inflatable paddling pool, along with my internal organs and any colostomy bag waste gathered in the last few weeks of my life. My two closest surviving relatives should then wrestle in the slop, surrounded by mourners throwing wads of dirty money into the action. The moment a winner is declared, a bag of maimed, half-starved doves should be opened to the sky. The ones that can still fly should be shot down with BB guns; the flailing remainders should be stamped to death and tossed into the wrestle-mulch, which by now will need a little blending for what's to come. This should be done by the mourners, each of which will be issued with a Krups hand blender before the service begins (not, I repeat not a Moulinex Optipro blender - the handling is atrocious, and if we want to get this thing done before Bodyshock : Guy with Fucked Up Face I Mean Totally Fucked Up Man, I think we're going to need a little more horse power than the Optipro provides!) The resulting batter should be poured into a mould of my face and baked, and then eaten. Everyone must enjoy themselves - not just pretend to.