Death of a Taxman

Benjamin Franklin once remarked in a letter that, “In this world nothing can be said to be certain, except death and taxes.”

And, such is the manner of hackneyed clichés, the ringing inevitability holds true for each and every day we draw nearer to the former. Well, unless you’re the Queen of England, in which case you would be exempt from taxation. Who would’ve thought that good ol’ Blighty would become a tax haven for Germans, eh?

Now, I’ve had to study the intricacies of the UK tax system and the combination of allowances, tax bands, marginal relief, capital gains, life time transfers and numerous other onerous concepts almost makes one wish that one’s demise would befall in ghastly certainty a great deal sooner.

The point, though, is that death becomes us all. Even Keith Richards will one day pop his clogs, much to the chagrin of those in belief of his legendary invulnerability. Even the might of a Caribbean palm tree could not finish the leathery old fucker off. Still, one day it’ll hit him, and it’ll hit him with fiery fists of unrelenting fury right between the eyes.

However, despite this menacing sword of Damocles hanging over our heads for our entire life, it’s surprisingly hard to imagine that it’s there at all. I mean, we all think we’re invincible until our atria finally give up the ghost or our liver limply waves a Guinness-stained white flag (just let me have one more drink, you selfish bastard). I know I’m going to die, but I’ve never entertained the thought. Maybe I’m too young to realise my mortality or maybe my life has never been placed in peril such that I’m lead to ponder becoming a rather tasty banquet for our earthworm friends.

That leads me to another facet of death: somebody or something will always benefit out of the death of others. When we die, our putrefying corpses will contribute to the Nitrogen cycle and help ease the planet’s burgeoning population problem. When my parents die, they’ll contribute to my bank balance (although the downside will be the bastard of all taxes, inheritance tax). When Manchester United manager Alex Ferguson dies, he’ll contribute to my interminable joyous delight and inject new verve in my rejoicing of life, safe in the knowledge that an arrogant, pompous cunt of a man no longer resides of this earth.

So what have we established? Well, that death is assured and that when one does eventually breathe one’s last, some good arises in one form or another. These two axioms arise logically, but what is not governed by such reason is the prospect of what happens to us once we have departed this mortal coil. Nevertheless, a third axiom can be stated: the living are incapable of ever knowing what happens in the afterlife – if indeed one actually exists at all, and I’m inclined to think that it does not. It’s rather like falling into a black hole; until one actually ventures past the event horizon and undergoes the experience, one cannot know for sure what will occur beyond that point of no return. However, once the experience has been endured and the most highly sought understanding in physics proliferates, there is no way of going back to tell anybody of one’s new found knowledge.

So basically, it’s pointless to consider death and all it entails while one remains alive: live life the way you want to and, in the words of Blue Öyster Cult, (don’t fear) the reaper.

For he, like the taxman, is a cunt.