Shane Warne

I scroll down Facebook and see a friend wrote RIP Shane Warner. I think What? And I swap over to the news to see he died of a (suspected) heart attack in Thailand. He was 52. 

I was surprised, as I guess we all were.

My first thoughts were, you know, in a lot of ways, 52 is probably a good age to die, (it’s too young, sure, especially if it is you) as you are still young and vital and the deterioration of age hasn’t set in, (you can still get up off the floor in one fluid movement) and you can avoid all of that old age nonsense. (anxiety. Fear. Regret.)

He’d had his career.

He’d had a good life. An excellent life, according to many.

That was my first thought. You only get to be young forever, once, you know. That infinite life stretching out in front of you is only the privilege of the newly minted, where life will goes on and on and on with no end ever appearing in sight.

Of course, 52 is too young, he had fame and fortune and by all reports was living his best life, so I imagine one couldn't help but feel pissed off at dying at that age.

He was in Koh Samui and I automatically think of too much cocaine, (too much cocaine causes heart attacks) but maybe that is just me. (That wasn’t the case, though. He’d never done drugs, from all accounts, except for that infamous diuretic, of course)

I made a coffee.

Shane Warne doesn’t really mean anything to me. He’s just a slightly annoying ocker character somewhere on the periphery of my life. I kind of view him a bit the same way I viewed Steve Irwin, brash and irritating. I acknowledge that a lot of people think highly of the two of them.

But, it has to be said that not only has everyone spoken highly of Warne, they have spoken glowingly. Presidents, rock stars, the famous and the not so famous have spoken unanimously of what a fine, lovely, generous, funny guy he really was.

It can be said he was universally loved by the people who knew him.

Not a bad way to be remembered, hey.