Camilla Long Gives It To You Straight
“Oh get over it you fucking losers!” I shout at the family who’re in their garden, burying their pet guinea pig in an old shoebox. To show my distaste at their faux sadness, I walk over to the Mother, Father and the two kiddy-winks and bellow “MAN THE FUCKING FUCK UP YOU PATHETIC BASTARDS! IT’S A FURRY LITTLE FUCK-FACED CREATURE YOU’RE PLANTING, NOT YOUR NAN, GRANDAD OR YOUR AUNTIE GEORGINA WHO LEFT YOU 500 GRAND IN HER WILL”. I am the grief law, and if you don’t like what you hear, beat it, Buster.
During last week’s massive namby-pamby sob-in over David Bowie “oh – boo-hoo! One of my favourite musicians who meant so much to me during my awkward comprehensive school years and beyond has passed away – ooh, I feel so sad and ooh, I want to do a really big snotty cry into my simpering hands and….and…just…ooh” I had the temerity to suggest that everyone should just MAN THE HECK UP ( OR WOMAN THE HECK UP ) or get your folks to pay the four grand a term it costs to attend a decent independent day school where you can experience having the humanity squeezed out of you like Tyson Fury angrily crushing the last knockings from a tube of toothpaste.
The way everyone was banging on, and on – and ON, over on Twitter and Facebook the other day you’d have thought someone really important had died, like the person who airbrushes my picture byline.
In fact so pissed-off with all the alligator tears (note to sub: not sure if ‘alligator’s right, could you check and make good? Ta. ) I took it into my own hands to draw up some grief ground rules which those social media mental midgets would do well to take note of. So here are the parameters with which I think we should all adhere to when someone you know or are aware of, pops their clogs:
Crying, Sobbing & Snotting: Papa; matron; nursey and all the chums I met during my gap decade.
Feeling A Bit Down In The Dumps: Ned the gardener; my driver and the Syrian cleaner who won’t grass me up for paying below minimum wage.
I’ve Got Absolutely Nothing: The dreary woman who sits at the back of the editorial office, tutting and moaning every time I hand her my copy; anyone who’s ever drawn breath on Planet Earth, ever. Oh yes - me (I don’t like me much).
Amongst some of the people Tweeting away or “Twatting away, more like” about my cool – or as some remarked “nihilistic” observations - concerning the whole Bowie thing, was a so-called “comedian”. This “comedian” had taken it upon himself to get upset about the death of someone he felt an emotional attachment to. So I tweeted “Did you know them personally? Did you visit their family ski lodge in Klosters? Did you attend the same Gymkhanas? Did your Daddy go to school with his Daddy?” No reply from the “comedian”, so I retorted to his non-retort with “Get a life you LOSER”, to which he replied with er…something that got 1,893 retweets (whatever), to which I came back with this zinger “Oh fuck off four-eyes”, which my friends Tabitha and Rupert both favourited, after I texted them and told them to do so.
That’s the way you deal with people who refuse to accept that death is simply God’s way of telling us all to grow the fuck up and get with the programme of not giving a shit about anything, ever.