Irish funerals are a part of Irish life. To an outsider, I’m sure, they seem strange. I’ve written about them before and it is often said the only difference between a funeral and a wedding is one less drunk. Oh, and no cameras.

The very first I was brought to was of an old man whose family had recently moved here from the west. Days before he died, a keener* had been sent for from Mayo. The sight of a body at the age of four coupled with the keener’s performance frightened me off and I flatly refused to be taken to any more for years, which was much to my parents’ embarrassment - you see, mourning families may not remember who was at their loved one’s funeral, but they will never, ever, ever forget who wasn’t.

So important is it to make an appearance, to show one’s face, that we even offer two opportunities: funeral-lite the night before the burial and funeral-full that day. Funeral-lite is quick, with the minimum of ceremony. It suits people who can’t take time off work the following day and afterwards there is ample time for those gathered to form queues and shake hands with the bereaved. Howya, eh, eh, howya. Eh, sorry for your trouble is responded to with thanks for coming, eh, eh, thanks. Ad nauseum. That you can’t remember the family members’ names, nor they yours, is irrelevant - they will remember you if they didn’t see you.

Funeral-full is a much more lavish affair, though generally less well attended, which is lucky for the family as, while once they were expected to lay on soup and sandwiches, or soup-sandwiches, these days a full sit-down meal is the norm. The graveside also sees more howya, eh, eh, howya, eh, sorry for your trouble and thanks for coming, but not much, which again is lucky for the family who are either pissed off with it at that stage, or having neglected to remove their rings the night previously, are in need of surgery on crushed and swollen fingers.

While the tradition of keener has died out, some of the older families still hold a wake. The starter pack. A third opportunity to shake hands, although those who do attend usually partake of funeral-lite and funeral-full too - the professional funeral goers who have replaced the keeners. I can’t tell you anything more about wakes - the trauma inflicted on me as a four-year-old has led me to avoid them since.

In fact, I avoid most funerals. All breeds of them. Sugar-free. Full-fat. I hate the he was a great man crap. The don’t speak ill of the dead fear. Dying doesn’t change what a person was. The only different between a live bollix and a dead bollix is one is dead.

I hate shite from the priests who offer their brand of religion as support for the family. The family that doesn’t believe a word of it. I hate the professional funeral goers that knew the deceased well - they met them in the shop the odd morning.

I have buried both parents. Both with all the religious pomp. Because that’s what they wanted, not me. I merely did what they had asked of me. (I know of a young man who was recently cremated as he had asked. His parents buried his ashes at a second ceremony, not spread them at the Devil’s Bit as he asked. That galled me). I hated having to shake hands with people I didn’t know. I felt like standing up and saying anybody here who isn’t a good friend of the family please fuck off. I came close but was held back by the, more stable, sibling. I hated people asking if there was anything they could do - yeah, shag off, I don’t know you. I welcomed the support of close friends, more so before and after, the funerals but I hated the intrusion of strangers who felt they had to make an appearance.

I go to the funerals of people I was close to. People whose family I am also close to. If I was close to someone, but not their family, I stay away because otherwise I would be in the way - I would be just another stranger mouthing rubbish and showing my face.

For this, I am a continual source of amazement in the locality. I didn’t see ya at so-and-so’s funeral, Primal. I wasn’t there. Were ya sick? No. I just didn’t go - I don’t know the family. But you knew so-and-so himself. Shur ya used have a pint with him. I knew him. I may have chatted with him in the pub but we weren’t close. I’m talking to you now and we both have pints in our hands but I won’t be at your funeral either. For fek sake, you could’ve at least shown yer face.

A neighbour is being buried as I write. I can name two of his brothers but couldn’t tell one from the other. The other brothers and sisters I’ve never met. Obviously I’m not there. And for the next month or more all I will get is I didn’t see ya at so-and-so’s funeral, Primal.

* A professional mourner. From the Irish, caoin : to cry.

Let me ask you this: What do you, the regulars, read when you arrive at this blog? I could ask why, but let’s start with the easy one.

The answer is the latest post(s) and comments. That would make sense - you want to read the latest. Let’s call it the news.

There is a bunch of other junk accessible by the menu at the top of the page: About, FAQ, Mo Rogha etc. Do you / have you read these? The answer is you may have flicked through one or two at some point but seldom, if ever, opened them again. You may check Mo Rogha once a week for an update - for the news. But you don’t want the same stuff rehashed over and over again.

Now what about those of you who come upon this blog for the first time - what do you read? Well, you read the first page of posts, maybe the second. You click randomly on the other junk. Some of you click on a subject of interest in Sneeze Types. Based on this, you decide whether to return or not. Fair enough. You can’t be expected to read every damn thing. It’s not as if you are a judge for some awards thing and have to read everything in case you’d be accused of judging a book by its cover.

How can I say all this? From my stats of course. The trends are clearly visible. Regulars read the news while newcomers read a small sample. Actually, now that I notice it, almost all judges for awards things read exactly the same way as newcomers. But that’s okay, because judges have certain powers that allow them see content through a book’s covers.

My point is this: If you read a blog or newspaper regularly then all that interests you is what’s new - the news. The Irish Independent was slipping for a long time and finally lost my readership when it ran front page stories about the death of someone unknown outside the dinner party circle. To me, this simply was not news.

Following a brief and passionate affair with the Irish Examiner, I decided to settle down and spend the rest of my life with the Irish Times. No, I didn’t love her, but she was the best I could get. I would grow to love her.

Sadly, this relationship is failing too. On Saturday, Madam (as we must address her) announced “major developments”. I won’t bother inserting a link as you need pay an expensive subscription to view the article. Yes, even this article, an advertisement, intended to tell us how great her paper will be, is pay-per-view.

So what are these major development? Basically, magazines and supplements (which are magazines on poor quality paper). Maga-fukin-zines. Every fukin day. As if my recycle bin isn’t already under enough pressure, now Madam wants to burden it with more. Madam, I DO NOT WANT a health magazine. I DO NOT WANT a property magazine. I DO NOT WANT a motors magazine.

I WANT NEWS. I want news from a newspaper. Just like I want news from the blogs I read.

If Madam wants to dish out more fodder for my recycle bin, fine - I’ll work something out. But here’s the insult to the injury: It will cost 10¢ extra Monday through Friday and 30¢ extra on Saturday for all the extra junk I just don’t want. Why can’t I just have a newspaper? If I feel the urge to read a Guide to the 100 Best Wines why I can’t go buy it separately? Once I’ve read it I won’t have to read it again for a year - the interim issues will just be rehashing the same stories.

I am scratched and torn and bruised. And that’s only from the keyboard. You should see the injuries I’ve sustained from the manual work I’ve been doing this week.

If you were French, you might ask ouate de phoque à yeux bain duane? But you’re not, so don’t ask.

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At the post office

Is that O-N or A-N? - An Irish lady making out a cheque to An Post.

In the checkout queue

Three years I’m here. Three years and I’m still a blow-in. - If you know small towns, no explanation is needed.

In the pub

You’re like the back of my bollix - you see nothing but shite - The barman reacts to a customer’s constant complaining.

Same pub - same day

They do curries like in the Chinese, but you get unlevelled bread with them, like in the bible - The local chapter of Mensa discuss the menu for the new Indian takeaway.

Note: The lads might want to skip down to the best bit

From her, to him

For things I might have said to you
In anger or frustration,
For times when words of mine have been
A source of provocation,
…I’m sorry.

For unkind actions, thoughtless deeds
Or inconsideration,
For jumping to conclusions,
For rejecting moderation,
…I’m sorry.

For timely things I haven’t done,
Forgetting or omitting,
For knowing sometimes I was wrong
Without, in fact, admitting,
…I’m sorry.

For conversations we have had
When temper stole affection,
For looking in a negative,
Not positive, direction,
…I’m sorry.

For being too insensitive
And just a bit unwise,
For failing to perceive the need
For loving compromise,
…I’m sorry.

From him, to her

For screaming when the sun did burn
The seat upon my moped blue
For throwing up upon the rug
When you were puking too
…I’m sorry

For cellotaping four grain forks
To the bumper of your sister’s car
For belching loudly in my pint
As you sat silent at the bar
…I’m sorry

For nights spent plucking fluff
From deep dark downy navels
For days spent greasing grotty gutters
While you recited 9 times tables
…I’m sorry

For sand and silt upon the quilt
The one your granny made us
For grabbing big chunks of your arse
While you cried “stop be jayzez”
… I’m sorry

For all the things I love to do
Like humping you and farting too
Kicking cats and shit like that
And grunting groaning on the loo
…I’m sorry

I am led to believe, and believe me, I am not easily led, that a small number of international readers (one - Sam) will be visiting Ireland for the first time to attend the blog awards. A greater number (one + ) will be returning to Ireland, the land of their forefathers, or four great-grandfathers, around then too. So being all efficient and stuff, I’ve decided to combine Poetry Middle #1.01 with a brief introduction to Hiberno-English for Sam - it may also serve as a refresher course for returnees.

I will take questions after class. Family and friends only. No flowers. Donations, if desired, to the Brewer’s Droop Research Fund.

Hey diddle diddle,

The cat’s on the fiddle,

The cow hopped over the moon

The little dog laughed, to see such craic

And the dish did a runner with the spoon.

Polly, stick on that kettle there

Polly! Would ya stick the kettle on

Polly! For jayzez’ sake, Stick - The - Fekin - Kettle - On

‘Til we all have tae.

Ah fuckit whip it off again

Well fuckit whip it off again

Y’might as well whip it t’fuk off again

They’ve all shagged off.

Jack Sprat could eat no fat

His wife … she was a Murphy

One of Guard Murphy’s young wans

The sisters are all in the guards as well

Barring Rose now. She’s in the hairdressing she is

Works in that place beside the Chinese chippers

Cuts hair for wans off the telly an’all so she does

Now what was I saying about yer man Sprat again?