I was playing paintball at the time, it was my brother’s birthday and we were between games when the lady running the field burst into tears and let us all know the heart-breaking, hope-thwarting news. Apparently Steve Irwin had died, so he was suddenly not a dickhead anymore and we were required to be devastated. We all know what we were doing the moment Princess Diana died (with the possible exception of her driver) and this was essentially Australia’s equivalent.
Naturally, we couldn’t give a flying fuck at the time and we all nicked off for another round of capture the flag. Later however, I learned that Irwin had died after receiving a fatal stab wound from a stingray, filming a TV series quite accurately titled ‘Ocean’s Deadliest’. Heart warming irony.
History is filled with ironic deaths that I could talk about, but rather than dwell on the past, which can be checked for errors and lavish exaggerations, I’d much rather speculate on the possibility of darkly amusing deaths that might happen in the year of our lord, 2011.
With the same vigour and passion that Steve Irwin had for the preservation and welfare of all creatures great and small, Bear Grylls seems intent on swinging them all against a tree by their tail until they’re dead, or at least severely brain damaged. Then he takes a single bite out of them, explains that it tastes exactly how we thought it was going to and then chucks the poor thing’s remains into a bush.
Despite boasting that he’s had more battle experience than the AK-47, Bear Grylls spent four years in the SAS Reverse as a Patrol Medic. Two of these years were spent in military rehabilitation after some forward-thinking animal-conservation campaigner handed him a faulty parachute. Now he spends his time running around forests, like a glorified boy scout, doing things that are only impressive bearing in mind that his cameraman is doing it all with only one hand.
How He Will Die:
There are really two obvious options for Bear Grylls. If he were to trap himself in a burning building when filming ‘Worst Case Scenario’, and somehow were to be ‘Grylled’ to death I would applaud lightly. However the ideal option would for him to be attacked by a Bear. The Bear would pick him up by his legs, swing him against a tree and knock him unconscious. Yogi would then take a single bite, say ‘Tastes like black pudding’ and discard the rest of Grylls’ body.
The whistle-blowing, do-good hippie editor of WikiLeaks has been getting on everybody’s nerves for the past year. Governments get up to nasty, secret squirrel shit, okay Julian? It’s the way the world works. We don’t need to know about what goes on behind closed doors so long as the sun keeps rising in the morning and the price of milk stays down.
And you’re suddenly not so ‘The People Need to Know Everything’ now that you’ve been done for sexual assault and pissed off the Swedish government. For somebody with the sword of righteousness wedged so firmly up their ass, you’ve got a couple of flaws locked away. Maybe I’ll start a WikiLeakLeaks and follow you around, writing down every occasion in which you don’t wash your hands after you pee. Clearly Julian’s naive enough to believe that modern governments are evil, tyrannical capitalist pig-dogs, and their enemies are simply misunderstood and mis-portrayed.
Assange is also really whiney and he looks like the sort of person who runs World of Warcraft servers and wears sandals with socks. He’s the sort of person who’d tell on other kids at school if he saw them smoking and drinking. He’s the level 91 Elf King of those people.
How He Will Die:
One day, he will take his own life in shame when he works out that displaying the secrets of Western governments for all to see will be exclusively useful to conspiring agents who’ll use the information to aid their own secret agendas, thus perpetuating the entire problem. If you leak information, you’ll then have to leak the information of the people who you’ve leaked the information to and find out what they’re doing with the information you’ve leaked to them.
Simon Cowell seems to think he’s God, and in a way he’s right. He’s personally responsible for a lot of modern pop music, yet he now spends his life critiquing it to shreds in much the same way as the Lord does with humans. Of course, God is allegedly responsible for making Simon Cowell in his own image, which is a bonus playing card for any atheism advocates out there.
Every week on that god-forsaken show, Cowell criticises poor teenage girls with a degree of pedantry formally reserved for aeronautical engineers, overlooking the fact that anyone can release a successful pop song. You don’t need looks (Susan Boyle), you don’t need a good voice (Gwen Stefani), you don’t need musical ability (Britney Spears) and you don’t even need to actually exist (The Gorillaz). Summing all that up, Big Foot could release an album and so long as enough money was pumped into it, it would be invariably shoved down our throats by Top 40 radio stations whether we liked it or not. But Cowell would have you believe that your looks can’t be enhanced with make up, you can’t be taught three chords on a guitar and recording studios can’t auto-tune the living fuck out of your voice until you sound like a mosquito playing bagpipes. Lies, Simon, you witless, ignorant, music-raping dick.
What I hate most, is how he clearly stays up all night writing sharp, scything comments and then tries desperately to fit them into the show the next day, regardless of the suitability. A man could stand on stage and perfectly bust out the guitar solos on Dire Strait’s Sultans of Swing, and Simon will response with some god awful pun about what colour pants the man is wearing, just so he can maintain his reputation of being difficult to please. If it were actually hard to please you, Simon, the show would be called ‘Any Genre Other than Pop Idol’, because they’re the styles that actually require an ounce of artistic decency.
How Will He Die:
If a reality show contestant doesn’t kill him soon, I imagine, through some insistence of his own, Simon Cowell will become knighted in his later years due to his ‘service to the British music industry’. However, as her Majesty, or his Majesty as the case maybe by then, taps Simon’s shoulders with the blade of the knight sword, they will become overpowered by a sudden moment of clarity. Visions of the past will play in their mind; the first 1960s rock movement in Britain, the broad majestic experimental era in the 1970s, the vast development of stadium concerts in the 1980s, the redefining dominance of BritRock in the 1990s and the critically acclaimed Indie revolutions of the last decade. The monarch will suddenly remember why Britain was great, proud and the cultural centre of the world. They will become tearful with the memories of the green English pastures, monumental Scottish highlands, captivating Irish coastlines and… Um…Welsh cheese-on-toast. And in that moment of patriotic reminiscence, in the company of the British hierarchy, standing resolutely in front of the entire global audience, the King or Queen will take that sword and chop the absolute fucking hell out of Simon Cowell. And England’s green and pleasant pastures will seem just that little bit greener.
God love the guy, but he’s got to be on his way out. At least one member from Top Gear must be running out of time, considering the shenanigans they get up to. Richard Hammond already faced death back in 2006 so it’s either Clarkson or James May to have the next shot.
Clarkson frequently generates controversy with his rather contentious humour, although that’s mainly due to modern audiences, so widely filled with politically correct Tory fuck-heads, who’ll type nasty letters every time somebody makes a joke. When Clarkson referred to British Prime Minister Gordon Brown as a ‘One-eyed Scottish idiot’, the first to complain was the Royal National Institute of Blind People. Why do they even own televisions?
How He Will Die:
Clarkson pisses a lot of people off. The Labour Party, The Greens, the Royal National Institute of Blind People, Greenpeace, John Prescott, Norfolk, Toyota, Hyundai, Piers Morgan, the Malaysian Government, Mexico, and the list goes on. It’s possible that one of these candidates could be the one to put the bullet through Clarkson’s head.
Or maybe he’ll drive into something at high speed and die. Or maybe he’ll get on another Concorde, one of the dodgy ones, and plough into the side of the mountain. Or maybe James May will sicken of his practical jokes and run him down. Or maybe the Department of Transport will have him assassinated. Or maybe Top Gear will drive through America again, make too many jokes about hillbillies and get shot. Or maybe the Stig will turn feral and attack him. There are many possibilities.
But I like to think he’ll die in an appropriately cool way. Like driving a Porsche away from an Apache Helicopter to showcase a new 911, but not quite making it. His tombstone would say, ‘An Aston Martin would’ve made it’.
One of the Mythbusters
I swear, Jamie Hyneman and Adam Savage are letting their guard down. Back in the early days, if they pulled a Christmas cracker, they’d be three sheets of ballistic-proof glass, Kevlar bodysuits for both of them and two ambulance crews standing by. These days, they seem happy to detonate kilograms of TNT whilst standing in a corrugated iron shed only a few metres from the target. But I don’t want Jamie or Adam to die. They’re smart, technologically savvy and the former looks kind of like my dad. Their ‘Build Team’, however could do with some culling.
The thing is, and I’m no Chaos Theorist, but if you spend your life setting off explosives, you will eventually fall victim to an explosive. I read an article by some mathematician on Chaos Theory (No, not Jurassic Park, you smart ass cunt) and he used the concept of moving cakes from one bench to another all day for your working life. The article said that if you did so, it was mathematically only a matter of time until you dropped one. The problem was, at the time, I worked in a café so I MOVED CAKES FROM ONE BENCH TO ANOTHER. Even though I became conscious about dropping one because of that article, I still managed to drop one. So the Busters are bound to get nuked, right?
How They Will Die:
As previously mentioned, they’re gonna get exploded to death by an explosive explosion. Something awful has to happen to one of them soon. If you have five people in a workshop working with dangerous things like explosives and electronics and gas-powered chicken launchers, somebody is bound to get hurt. One of them has to buy the farm soon. I like Jamie, because he reminds me of my dad. I like Adam, because he’s entertaining. I like Tori, because he’s a funny frat-boy. I like Kari, because she’s hot and I want to ‘Bust’ (Destroy) her ‘Myth’ (Moot). But I have no troubles with Grant dying. Yeah, he’s a smart Asian, but it’s not like we don’t have heaps of them.