Primal Sneeze

A tap on the shoulder. I turned to the lady in the pew behind me. Howya, Primal. Tell me, is this woman any relation of Michael who lived in the last house on our row? Yes, Mrs. K, she was a sister. That’s grand then – I didn’t come over here for nothing then.

Nothing surprises me anymore about funerals. Not my own family ones anyway. A woman turning up at my aunt’s this week just on the off chance she knew her didn’t even raise a smile. We have a history incredulous internments.

The evening of my father’s we decided to take the hearse on a circuitous route so it could pause for a moment outside the house where he was born and reared. We were seconds too late. As we approached we could see a Hymac tear it down to make way for apartments. Someone mumbled, the feker, he’s gone now and he’s took the shaggin house with him.

As is compulsory in this country, there was a right royal session. The pub closed only when the last two mourners were left. Myself and a mate. Both full as ticks. We parted company and I rang for a taxi. Jayzez, before ya ask, I’m not working tonight. At the befores of a funeral. Primal’s auld lad. I’ve been on the tear with him all evening. I just left him there now.

I stumbled on and two sound young lads pulled up and offered me a lift. Never one to question a gift horse’s dental work I hopped in. We had a great chat. They commiserated with my loss. Wearing the black suit, pointed out one, I was a danger to myself and others on such a dark night. I was lucky they had picked me up. I agreed and thanked them wholeheartedly. Really sound lads as I said. Only when the were driving off did I see the blue lights atop the car.

The following day was relatively uneventful. Except when one of the druid’s little helper’s phone rang and she couldn’t extradite it from her pocket under the robes. We were treated to Com’on Barbie let’s go party for what seemed an age. The poor lassie was having a bad day. The top came off the stick used to ring the gong and rolled under the coffin. As she crawled beneath to retrieve it, Com’on Barbie let’s go party began again.

My mother’s is mostly a blur. We were very close and I was younger then. First of all, I was nearly late. The father had agreed at the last minute to bring proceedings forward by half an hour as there was to be a second service in the church that evening. Frantic phone calls were made to everyone except me. I was having a quick pint (the drink again, see) with the guy who was taking me when I did get the call. Luckily he had one of the unmarked cars (the cops again, see) from work that day and he hit the siren and lights and we sped down the N7 and up through the town. The prayers had begun and the stare I got from the druid for the noisy way I interrupted proceedings could have cut steel girders.

I must have looked as if I was about to completely break down later as I wheeled the coffin out of the funeral parlour with the undertakers and people rushed over to support me. Yes, I was upset, but mainly it was the painful and bloodied fingers from catching them on a bolt under the lid as it was being closed.

The following day I made sure I was on time. Others didn’t. Including a then government minister, now an EU commissioner (you can figure out who). He had to stand outside. It was a scorching hot day but just as the coffin was being brought out there was an unmerciful downpour and we paused in the hallway. Not being seemly to run for shelter, the minister commandeered his minder’s jacket (the cops again). Such a pity it wasn’t a different ceremony where cameras would have been plentiful. What a picture it was to see him there holding a coat over his head while his soaking Tonto tried to cover his holstered gun with both hands. I still don’t know whether that was out of respect or just to keep it dry.

To cap it all, there had been two druids officiating. The local one and one who introduced himself as being from the college. A cousin works there and had asked him to come along to make a big show I reckoned. He came up to me at the graveyard as we waited for the crowd to arrive and shook hands. He had only spoken to my mother a few times but said she was a wonderful woman and seldom missed his morning mass in the college. We came close to ordering a second grave when I told him she’d never went to mass there. Another woman of the same name always did though, and still does as far as I know. Once again I looked distraught and about to cave in. It is next to impossible to carry a coffin when your shoulders shake and tears well up trying to stifle the laughing.

If you think this is weird, wait ’til you hear about weddings in our clan. Or weirder still, my other encounters with the cops.

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