I wrote this article in 1986 … on a typewriter … for a now-defunct newspaper, the National Times on Sunday. Forty years later, the philosophical nature of the article seems more relevant than ever.

Some people see man’s mortality bound and cast in the withering of a single rose. Others gain a sense of our mortal state, wandering through the dank and eerie tombs of a previous civilisation. While others see our human condition symbolised by the seasons: birth in Spring, maturing in Summer, ageing in Autumn and death in Winter.

But not me. I have, of late, seen our mortality reflected as a harsh light falling on the smooth, symmetrical beauty of a tubeless car tyre.

To fully explain the symbology of a steel-belted radial regarding the meaning of life and, indeed, death, I must relate a tragic story I heard in recent days. Not so long ago, an eager and earnest worker for a local tyre manufacturer met his demise at the tractor tyre end of the works. The worker concerned fell into the industrial-weight jaffle iron, which pops out tractor tyres at a moderate rate under high pressure and using superheated steam. The demise of the unfortunate chap is not as significant as the fact that his poor widow was presented with the mortal remains of her loved one embedded in an extra-strong-grip-tread tractor tyre.

The absurdity of the situation is immediately apparent. Was the poor woman expected to roll the dearly departed down the aisle at his funeral, or donate him to a children’s playground? Did his boss dare to say he was a tireless worker for the company, or simply inform the widow that, under the circumstances, it would be illegal to cremate him? Was he due for retirement?

Despite the absurdity, somehow the fate of us all is written in the moulded walls of his performance-rated sarcophagus. For some reason, we humans imagine that we are due a noble end – dignified by our achievements or glorified by our heroics. Yet, daily, people choke on fish bones, keel over in bus queues, and conk out in flagrante delicto. We could do an Elvis Presley or a Mama Cass and turn up our toes, reaching for the ketchup. Or we could go out – as we came into existence – with one big bang like the Space Shuttle crew, to be remembered in an endless stream of NASA jokes.

Our mortal state is, alas, no more meaningful than a written guarantee that our sciatica won’t last. So the next time you are passed on the road by a set of high-tech radials, you may well nod your head and sigh, ‘By the Grace of God, unvulcanised go I.’

But what of immortality? While many people dwell on our mortal state, others look to the Heavens and dream of an afterlife to come. Most religions claim – in a vulcanised context – that we will cast off our outer tread and continue our journey through eternity as a sort of spiritual inner tube.

Well, I’ve pushed my trolley around the philosophical Supermart of Afterlifes, and I can say that immortality is an ‘iffy’ alternative to non-existence. The Islamic view of Heaven holds no appeal. It’s all very well carking it for the glory of Islam, but the Islamic Heaven must be, by now, overrun by throngs of youthful, blood-lusting, megalomaniacs zooming around paradise in beaten-up 4WDs, itching for a border dispute and plotting to infiltrate and hijack Hell or one of the lesser Heavens.

The Hindu concept of reincarnation has no special appeal, either. I like the idea of getting several shots at our absurd existence, but I absolutely refuse to be popped off by some Heavenly Soul-Flow bureaucrat because he needs a few more souls to feed, say, a locust plague in southern India. A Yiddish Heaven, if it exists – and scholars argue this point – would be too much hard work, constantly reciting the Torah and spending eternity trying to avoid Jesus.

The Christian Heaven would not be much better. I was brought up on the Catholic notion of the Hereafter. A Christian Heaven would, I believe, be full of sanctimonious, hat-wearing matrons and over-zealous do-gooders. We’d probably even have to let in the Baptists, which would lead to a cheerless eternity.

I’d rather spend the next few millennia with the crew they’ve got down below. They are a more jolly bunch, and some of them are only down there for eating a pie on a Friday or for sleeping in on a Sunday and missing mass. I mean, they know how to enjoy themselves.

And what, for goodness sake, would a Christian Paradise offer our vulcanised friend? Would he rise on the last day to inherit the earth as a steel-belted radial or would he be offered a more glorious eternity hooning around Heaven as the main traction on some celestial Porsche? Who knows? I certainly do not.

All I can conclude from this tale – whether or not we are heading for an abrupt end and a longish stay in Club Eternia – is that, at least, we no longer have to ‘walk through the shadow of the valley of Death’. Obviously, these days we can drive.