Day of the Dead should be a UK annual holiday

Death faces all of us. Yet how reluctant we are to face death. We know that there is one inevitability, one immutable fact of life, over which we have no control, which is that one day we shall not be living. And our reaction to this? Well, generally not to think about it, talk about it, plan for it, confront it. And when we die, it is left to the living to deal with the aftermath of our death. 

So what is it about death that is still a taboo? There’s no better time to consider this question as on 1^st November is the Day of the Dead, a holiday particularly celebrated in Mexico, but also in other cultures, which focuses on gatherings of family and friends to pray for and remember friends and family members who have died.

Why do we in Britain not do the same? Why do so many bereaved people grieve alone? Why do we not discuss the implications of our death in advance? It’s not that we can avoid it – death, I mean - yet we avoid discussing it?  Everything that happens after death is for the living.  When I’m dead, I certainly won’t be aware of what people said, thought, or did to me (or my body).

Most of us probably think about death in a kind of abstract way, but not about its implications for those we leave behind. When and where, if ever, do we consider our own death, mortality, or what it will be like, in a paradoxical kind of way, not to exist? At funerals? When we make our wills? Imagining our own obituary?

I have known people who have been terminally ill to discuss and plan their own funerals. My mother, only a week before she died, decided on and shared her funeral arrangements. My dying sister-in-law did not once talk about her imminent death, her funeral, or anything associated with this. People who decide to determine their own funeral arrangements do so mainly for two reasons; they want a say in the organisation of how they will be remembered, and they want to reduce the pressure on whoever is organising the funeral.  I have made clear in writing how I would like my funeral to run, and I hope whoever has to organise it respects my wishes.

How little we think about our own death and its impact on those around us may be reflected in our attitude to will making.  More than 60% of the UK population do not have a will. Research claims that most people suffer from ‘wills apathy’, or say they plan to have one written when they get older. And yet one of the major negative outcomes from death is familial conflict over the estate of the deceased.  We have a lower rate of will-making than many European countries. Similarly we have a lower level of organ donations compared with a number of other European countries.

None of us know when we will die, yet we will.  

Imagine for a moment that you leave home one morning to go to work, on holiday, for a walk, or that you go to bed one night, and that it is the last time you did any of these because you died.  Sudden death happens. My father aged 47 went to work one day, apparently fit and well, and never came home (except in my dreams).  A close friend in his 50s went to bed and never woke up.  Then there is the more predictable death too that comes from sheer old age, or following a terminal illness or the alcoholic drinking him or herself to death; my mother dying aged 93 after suffering from bronchitis and COPD, or my sister-in-law aged 54 from pancreatic cancer.

Is it possible to imagine our own death, and consider the impact of, and issues that will arise, say, in the first seven days after the event? How will relatives, family and friends be told about it? How will organs be donated (or not, as the case may be)? Who will register our death? Who will arrange our funeral? How will our partner, children, those closest to us, manage?  Who among our family and friends copes best?

And then over the following weeks our funeral is attended to, our estate and probate is managed. Family, friends grieve for us. Months pass, and anniversaries, birthdays, holiday festivals come and go. We are remembered, or not; people are still grieving over their bereavement. We are dead. They go on living, living with their grief, bereaving for their loss.

The Day of the Dead is echoed in many countries as All Saints Day, a feast day celebrated on 1^st November, or All Souls Day, a time to pray for departed souls on 2^nd November.  Though these are primarily religious occasions, for many European countries these days have long been holidays in which people take the day off work, go to cemeteries with candles and flowers, and give presents to children, usually sweets and toys.  The Day of the Dead is for those of us alive to celebrate our deceased loved ones, to share with others their lives and what they mean to us.  It is both part grieving and part coming to terms with death.  It is about both supporting and sharing with each other; about celebrating and holding our memories in a safe place.  The Day of the Dead becomes an annual stopping off point on a journey where grief lessens but becomes ever part of us as the years go by. We should make it a national holiday.

In acknowledging others’ deaths, we can recognise our own mortality, knowing that we can be certain of our own lives being celebrated, in the way the living wish to do it, through festivity, crying and laughing, eating and drinking, visiting graves and taking a holiday, or even dressing up in masks.  Then the living will see death not as a taboo but an inevitability to be faced openly and without apathy or fear.  

Mike Campbell, Vice Chair, Bristol and District Cruse Bereavement Care, writing in a personal capacity.

I was thinking about the latest UK Uncut targets, and read the call for action at www.ukuncut.org.uk/targets/banks. And decided to turn it into something that could be performed during a bail-in. Angry, poetry too, I hope.

The bankers Are gamblers Who took us for a ride. “We’re too big to fail So bail Us out”, they cried. WE bailed them out with taxpayers money Billions of pounds After THEY had run the global economy Into the ground. They gambled recklessly with our money. They lost. And two years later they couldn’t give a toss. Another million Another trillion What do we get? More people in poverty More people in debt. Time to switch From a system that serves the super-rich. No contrition, just big bonuses No regulation, just more excesses Just a coalition which acquiesces And bails-out the bankers. Bloodsuckers, cankerous And a cabinet of millionaires Who have no cares For the rest of us. They’ve just allowed the bankers’ bonuses Which should instead Be spent To prevent Cuts in public spending That will hit education, health, housing, Libraries, woodland, The poor, the sick. It’s just a bloody con trick. And this is how it goes We’re given this propaganda, a lecture That the crisis was caused by a bloated public sector. That we binged our money on luxuries Like healthcare and free education and council services For the elderly, for people with disabilities, For school sports, free school meals and children’s services And now the country’s bankrupt it’s our fault! So … prepare for the assault But don’t believe the lies. It’s just a guise To privatise The welfare state. To appease the circling money men Again And again. But as the cuts in public spending start to bite We’re not all in this together. We’ll fight To ensure that bankers take responsibility For the austerity That as we’ve stated THEY created. We’ll have our say No ifs, no buts The banks must pay Say ‘NO’ to cuts. As UKuncut is unveiling The Big Society Bail-In

Magical Mystery Tour

I shared the following reflections with Andrew Haines, Chief Operating Officer, First Great Western, after a particularly awful rail journey from IOW to Bristol. Rather than vent spleen ... I arrive 20 minutes early at Shanklin station. “A ticket to Ryde?” “Don’t need it, not a day tripper” I reply. 14.36 my return ticket says. "No such train" the station master regrets. Help! I look forlorn. "Run for your life" he kindly suggets As I dash on to the 14.17. Joking, to a future paperback writer or four, I say “The Fastcat link to Portsmouth’s cancelled” But the joke’s on me. "It’s true" the train manager adds. I’ve got a feeling about this journey, I think. Arrive at Ryde Esplanade. No ferry from Ryde Pier Head. Wait! The taxi man instructs. We wait and wait and wait. At last we’re on our way to Fishbourne To catch the 15.30 car ferry. A long and winding road to our next port of call (actually only 3 miles) Missed connection: Won’t make the 16.08 from Portsmouth to Bristol "Perhaps we can make the 17.08?" "That’ll be the day" my companions chorus. 40 minutes instead of 15 on the ferry And a coach awaits to take us to the Harbour Station. Two peel off to London, the other three towards Cardiff. But bad news – the 17.08 is cancelled. A guard shouts “go to Fratton and pick up the next train from there” Fratton? Sounds ominous! Another station, another platform correction. And hello goodbye to the other two as they pass through. Mad or what? “Do you want to know a secret?” we’re asked by a local man As we wait another hour for the next train, “This is the worst station on the planet” The three of us look at each other: there’s no reply to that. It’s now 18.15. An announcement: “I want to tell you that we are sorry for the delay to the train to Salisbury, Bristol and all stations to Cardiff” 18.30 and two rather grubby carriages arrive for the Wales and the West. The toilet’s broken too But at least there’s a place for us on the train. When I get home I’ll claim my compensation Or perhaps I’ll cry instead. So to Temple Meads Arrive at 20.40 Two hours and two minutes late. But hey, I feel fine. And to First Great Western Don’t let me down again. Please, please me instead. THE END