Obituaries Somerset

Let’s be honest: nobody wants to read obituaries. They’re usually sad, formal, and full of phrases like “passed away peacefully” when we all know Uncle Bob went out arguing with a TV remote. But Somerset obituaries? They’re a whole different beast.

Where pigs fly and vicars ride lawnmowers

I stumbled onto the Somerset County Gazette death notices by accident, and now I can’t look away. These obits are gloriously unhinged. One recent write-up celebrated a man who “could eat a dozen pasties in one sitting” and once wrestled a runaway sheep into a phone booth.

Local tradition demands you mention the deceased’s favorite hobby, and in Somerset, that means mud-sledding, competitive bell-ringing, or “collecting farm machinery that doesn’t work.” I saw an obituary for a woman who “loved to bake scones, but only if the butter was from a cow she’d met personally.” That’s the level of detail we need.

Surprising fact: obituaries are the original social media

Before Facebook, Somerset folk used death notices to settle scores. One nineteenth-century entry quietly noted: “Mr. Higgins goes to meet his maker, taking the secret of his award-winning cider with him. Good.” Today, the snark is more subtle but still there. A recent tribute for a village postman ended with: “He never lost a letter, though he did return a hedgehog by mistake.”

Playful exaggeration is mandatory. You cannot write about a Somerset resident without mentioning the weather. “Despite 47 years of rain, she never owned an umbrella, claiming they were ‘for city folk and quitters.’” Another obituary bragged that the man “once defeated a traffic warden using only a stern look and a jar of chutney.”

Obituary | Helen M. Labouliere of Somerset, Massachusetts | Hathaway

What about the famous Somerset farewells?

The Bath Chronicle once ran an obituary for a man whose final wish was to be buried in his favorite deckchair. The family complied, and the headline read: “He finally got a seat at the front.” I’m not making this up. Another local hero left instructions for his funeral procession to be led by a tractor playing “Bohemian Rhapsody” on a cassette deck.

You want surprising facts? In rural Somerset, the average obituary is longer than a wedding announcement. That’s because you have to list every village fete committee ever joined, plus the year they accidentally set the church roof on fire with a sparkler. It’s a documentary, a eulogy, and a confession all in one.

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The secret to a good Somerset obituary

If you want to write one for your grumpy aunt, remember the golden rule: exaggerate her quirks until they’re mythical. Did she hate the city? Say she “once chased a London tourist three fields down with a pitchfork for asking where the nearest Starbucks was.” Did she love gardening? Claim her “potato crop was so mighty, it briefly scared the local council into considering a bypass.”

And always include a bizarre final anecdote. “In her last days, she demanded to be cremated in her favorite fleece, and the ashes were scattered onto a pile of manure. She would have loved that.” Pure poetry.

So next time you’re feeling down, skip the news. Go read Somerset obituaries. They’re funnier than most sitcoms, and they prove that even in death, the West Country is overrun with stubborn, glorious weirdos. Just don’t read one for a person named Mabel—you’ll cry, because she probably did make the best scones.