Advice From A Darwin Award Winner

Of all the possible ways, why did it have to be this one? I could have gone out in a blaze of blood-splattered glory, careening off a cliff in a stolen car, going over the top of a World War 1 trench, blown to smithereens while defusing a bomb, a heroic casualty who sacrificed himself so that others might live. If not a heroes’ death, I could at least have met my end while having some fun. A heart attack in a Thai brothel, an explosion on a powerboat, a stage diving accident at a Phil Collins gig.

But no, I had to die in the most prosaic way possible, didn’t I? By stepping on an upturned garden rake left by Wayne, our careless gardener. Thwacked me right between the eyes, it did, and everything went black. I must have watched the tape back a hundred times and it gets worse with every view. My body lies spread-eagled on the path that bisects our front garden, where the landscaping project remains unfinished, blood from an invisible wound on the back of my head pooling on the paving stones, a dribble really, not even the gushing torrent that would injected some drama into the scene, that would have made the kids swoon on their way home from school. And why was I wearing those awful Terry Toweling white socks with my jeans? The sight of my ankles sticking out from my turnups like bandaged bunnies emerging from their warren is a source of eternal regret. I’m not one for handing out words of wisdom, but if I had one piece of advice for you lot down there, I’d say this: Underwear choices matter.

Needless to say, the others laughed themselves silly when they watched the video. You see, there’s not a lot to do for us here, in the after death, and the topics of conversation are fairly limited, what with there being no football or anything. If you think death is a preoccupation out there in the living universe, wait until you get here. We’re obsessed by death. It’s a lived experience for us, you see, the one thing we all have in common. So, one of the ways we stay chipper during the eternally long evenings is by watching video compilations of each other’s deaths on the celestial screen. The blooper reels are firm favourites, especially with the kiddies, and—well let’s just say—my accident had them rolling in the aisles.

Marcel, the Frenchman, ribs me mercilessly.

“Make way, clear the floor!” he’ll shout whenever I come into the room. “’Ere comes ‘Oward, the clumsy crétin.”

Marcel bloody Lafayette.  It’s all right for him, he’s one of the nobles, having had his head lopped off during the revolution. And don’t we all know it, the way he flounces around in those flared pantaloons of his, carrying his head like a trophy, regaling us all with his exploits. You see, the thing about the after-death is that the way you died counts for everything. If you think the Hindu caste system or the British class structure is rigid and unfair, just wait until you get here.

You have your nobles at the top—those who died in heroic circumstances, for causes and what-not. A conceited lot and very fond of their own voices, I try my best to avoid them.

Then you have your adventurers, those who lost their lives in daring mountaineering expeditions, while completing ultra-marathons, round the world solo yachting expeditions, and the like. Crushing bores, the lot of them.

Next, your novelty acts, or grotesques, to give them their proper title, because we all love a bit of gore, don’t we, it piques our curiosity, provides a talking point. Here, I’m talking victims of bombings, infernos, and the fellow who was pushed into the woodchipper. You should see the state of him, put me right off my dinner when he seeped into the canteen the other night, and I’m not one to turn down food, as my Margaret never got bored of reminding me, God bless her down there, trying to muddle through without me. Actually, last I looked, she seemed to be coping all right thanks to Colin, that slippery neighbor of ours, he always had his eye on her, but that’s another story.

Now, where was I? That’s right, I was talking about the hierarchy around here. Suffice to say, I’m right at the bottom of the pecking order, a member of the group known—rather cruelly, I might add—as the Darwins. We’re the weak ones who through acts of carelessness, incompetence, and suicide exited the gene pool and thereby contributed to the advancement of human evolution. You’d be surprised by how many victims of gardening accidents there are, besides me. Who knew, for example, that you could strangle yourself with a hose? But there are plenty of non-gardeners too, an ungallant gallery of sad characters who met their end in cartoonish ways. There’s Bonnie, who got that superb nature photo of the mother bear and her cub. And Brandon, who did some pioneering research into the human body’s capacity for absorbing bottles of Jägermeister. The answer, apparently, is seven. Then there’s Ron, who as a prank decided to put a lit firework up his—well, I dare say it seemed like a good idea at the time. You’d think our acts of self-sacrifice would get us some credit round here, but no.

I suppose there’s no point grumbling about it. Dwelling on the past doesn’t get you anywhere. As you living people like to say, what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. Oh.

Recently, I discovered a new source of motivation, a reason for getting out of bed in the morning. (I talk figuratively, of course, we don’t have beds). It was Norman who suggested it. Norman’s an old gent from the East End who got wrapped up in a nasty business with a sawn-off shotgun and some Bethnal Green gangster types. One morning, he collared me in the Harrow branch of B&Q, where I was drifting about in the landscaping aisle, as usual. He was testing the heft of a solid-looking spade, running a spectral finger along its blade and nodding in satisfaction.

“Howard,” he said, “I’m getting sick to the back teeth of seeing your long face in here. Stop moping about and do something with your death.”

“Do what?” I said.

He gestured to his trolley, which was laden with sacks of quicklime and serrated saws of various shapes and sizes.

“Take revenge, young Howard. It’ll earn you some respect with the higher ups here. You’ll be able to walk around with your bloody head held high.”

I gave it some thought. And the more I thought about it, the angrier I became. How could Wayne have been so careless, leaving his tools scattered all over my front lawn? Garden rakes might be an underrated hazard, not quite up there with chainsaws and sledgehammers, but a hazard, nonetheless.

Now, all this talk of vengeance might have put you all on edge down there. I know what you’re thinking; do the dead have free rein in the land of the living? That breeze behind my back just now, that seemed to come from out of nowhere, was it perhaps a ghost trying to push me in front of that oncoming bus? Well, rest easy. We’re not omnipotent beings, able to interfere in your world willy-nilly. But we can influence things around the margins, with a little perseverance, by using a bit of nous, as Norman would describe it. I’m talking about moving everyday objects around, whispering suggestions in your ears, that kind of thing.

Norman followed the direction of my eyes as they scanned the shelves of the hardware store, and a wry smile teased the corners of his mouth.

“Wouldn’t it be ironic,” he said, “if your gardener were to experience the kind of unfortunate accident that befell you? A well-placed hose with a wheelbarrow stationed behind it, full of nails. A strimmer with a faulty cable, a cement mixer with—”

“Hold on Norman.” I held up a quivering hand. “I’m awfully sorry, but this is strong stuff you’re proposing here.”

Truth be told, the whole enterprise was beginning to turn my non-existent stomach. Wayne might be a careless man, but he’s a careless man with a wife and two kids.

“Thanks for your help, Norman, but I have something a bit more subtle in mind.”

“Suit yourself,” he said, and turned his attention to a particularly mean-looking nail gun on aisle seven.

I knew just the man for my assignment. I found Marcus in the TV room, watching repeats of Yes Minister. The rope he’d used to hang himself with when the bribery scandal broke was draped over his shoulder like a hemp ponytail. He glanced up at me with his doleful eyes.

“Can’t you see I’m busy?” he said.

I chortled at his self-deprecating joke. Busy isn’t an excuse that works here, in eternity.

“I have a project in mind,” I said. “And with your experience of running political campaigns, I figured you might be just the man to help me.”

“Very well.” Marcus rested his hands on his chinos and hoisted himself up from his chair.

I explained my predicament and within a few minutes, we had formed the skeleton of a plan. Over the following days, weeks, or perhaps it was years, we put our strategy into action. We placed the issue of garden rakes in people’s minds. And we were effective. Go on, admit it, you’re thinking of one now, aren’t you? Thanks to us, rakes started cropping up in all sorts of locations, but we were strategic about it. We chose places that unsettled people; crowded railway station concourses, kids’ playgrounds, on the penalty spot of Wembley stadium during an England World Cup qualifier. Call it supernatural product placement if you like. And sure enough, people started talking.

“Who put that there? Lucky I didn’t trip over it.”

“Bloody hazard, leaving it lying around like that. Someone’s going to have an accident.”

“Look at the prongs on that thing. Mark my words, it’ll have someone’s eye out before long.”

Then Marcus had the brainwave of leaving a garden rake on the doorstep of the Home Secretary, and another one resting hazardously against the car of the chair of the Health and Safety Executive, and suddenly our campaign was elevated to a whole new level. Urgent questions were asked in Parliament, research was commissioned into garden accidents that unearthed what one MP described as a hidden epidemic of gardening fatalities, a green paper was prepared, and—finally, triumphantly—legislation was passed to ban garden rakes from civilian life. Henceforth, the common garden rake would be reclassified as a weapon of war, its use reserved for the battlefield.

Marcus and I threw a little party to celebrate our victory. Brandon brought along a couple of bottles of Jägermeister and a thoroughly enjoyable evening was had by all. Even Marcel stopped by to pay tribute to what he called my révolution du jardinage.

Now, I can be confident that no more victims of garden rakes will join me in this place. I believe that the unique features of my death, the niche aspects of my demise, put me in a strong position to lobby for a promotion up the hierarchy and into the grotesque group of the dead. Hardly Premier League, but it would be a start. Marcus says he’ll plead my case. It won’t be easy, but is anything easy in death?

While I have good reason to be satisfied with my work, any course of action carries with it the risk of unforeseen consequences, even in the after death. Last week, we had a man arrive here, all coated in dirt and smelling of a damp autumn day, who says he suffocated in a pile of fallen leaves. We had a right laugh at his expense, the poor sod, and voted him straight into the Darwin group.