You are commissioned by Mr. Del Trotter of Peckham Springs Ltd. to carry out a survey of the population’s like/dislike of mineral water. Mr. Trotter would like to discover people prefer his product, though he doesn’t say it outright.

So you head down to a predominantly Muslim area of London with your clipboard and approach people on the street asking “if you had the choice, would you prefer to drink a) mineral water or b) beer?”

The results: When asked, a staggering 95% of the population said they prefer to drink water! [The remaining 5% were recorded as "don't know" - they may have said "tea"].

It’s wrong isn’t it? Pure wrong. It’s cheating. You wouldn’t take on such a commission would you? You wouldn’t lie like that.

The Catholic Church did. The Council for Research and Development of the Irish Bishops’ Conference yesterday released the results of a survey on the “Factors Determining School Choice” [in Ireland, north and south]. A survey carried out by their own researcher.

You can read about it on the Irish Independent website or, if you have money to spare, you can read a different slant on the Irish Times website. If the Catholic Communications Office got its act together you could probably read the full text of the press release on their website too. But they haven’t published it (yet).

Here are some of the “findings”:

- 98% said they were aware when applying to enrol their child that the school choice was a Catholic choice.

Insinuation: 98% of parents selected a Catholic school.

What the parents were really saying: More than 3,000 of the 3,200 primary schools in the country are Catholic. Of course we were aware.

- 94% said that education was a shared responsibility between parents and the school.

Insinuation: 94% said that education was a shared responsibility between parents and the Church, as the school is Church run.

What the parents were really saying: Education is a shared responsibility between parents and the school.

- A clear majority believe that Holy Communion and Confirmation are best prepared for within the school.

Insinuation: Hey, look at us. Aren’t we great? Look at all we do for you? Look at the trust you place in us. Look at how much a part of your lives and the community we are.

What the parents were really saying: We couldn’t be bothered / don’t have time to do this ourselves. Shur we wouldn’t know the first thing about it, and anyway, we’re only going ahead with the Communion business to keep Granny and Grandad off our case.

- 60% believe that the school’s teachers should promote the religious life of the school.

Insinuation: 60% truly prefer a Catholic education for their children.

What the parents we really saying: As above - you fire ahead with this religion business and keep Granny and Grandad off our case.

- In the preamble (in the Irish Times) it said “three new State-run schools will soon open, but the question of faith formation in these schools has still to be resolved”.

Insinuation: Look at the results of our survey. Clearly you need to hand the management of these schools over to us. It’s what the parents want.

Del Trotter would love this researcher.

Below is this morning’s 3 Day Outlook from Met Éireann, the Irish National Meteorological Service.

It will remain cold and unsettled for the rest of the Easter weekend. Good Friday night will be very cold, with a mixture of clear spells and scattered wintry showers. Frost and a risk of icy patches also. Holy Saturday will remain very cold, with sunny spells and occasional showers. Some of the showers may be heavy and of hail, with a risk of thunder. Some showers of sleet or even snow are possible on mountains. Breezy, with moderate northerly winds. Frosty for a time on Saturday night, but less cold conditions, with outbreaks of rain or sleet, will develop during the night and there is a slight risk of snow, mainly over high ground. Easter Sunday will be mostly cloudy at first, with outbreaks of rain and drizzle, clearing from the north to sunny spells and scattered showers. Some of the showers may turn wintry later. Frost on Easter Sunday night. Easter Monday may have a few sunny spells, especially in eastern areas at first. Cloudier in the west, with outbreaks of rain, tending to become more widespread.

Earlier in the week there were predictions for Holy Thursday.

Met Éireann is attached to the Department of the Environment, Heritage and Local Government. It is an official government service.

Whether we like it or not, the State it seems, wants us all to be Christians. Or she believes in a Christian climate. Weather - you like it or not, I don’t like the forecast for this country.

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.

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.

I always look forward to Sarah Carey’s column in the Sunday Times. Even more so I look forward to reading the full version on her blog. She wrote an excellent piece a couple of weeks back on how non-believing Irish parents are being forced to have their children baptised etc. You can read it here in all its unedited glory.

She points out that the majority of our primary schools are owned and managed by the catholic church. Religious education is part and parcel of the curriculum. Parents can opt to have their children excused from these lessons but come first communion time these children want to participate, simply because the other children are. Children usually have one burning wish – to be like all the other children, she wrote.

This is something which has been nagging at me for a long time now. I have friends who took their daughter to Euro Disney the week her classmates were having their first communion. They felt she had to be distracted from the peer pressure. She is an extremely bright individual and now that she’s older she is nonplussed that her pals are in confirmation mode.

Other friends, a Lutheran and a non-practising catholic, have had their kids baptised in a catholic church, partly to placate the paternal grandmother, but mainly, as they explained, to mark the occasion of the arrival of these new family members.

In both cases there was an occasion to be marked. The latter is obvious, the former less so. First communion is usually at the age of 7. This is when a baby becomes child. They know right from wrong at this stage. Again, at 12, confirmation time, another change takes place. They become teenagers. They reach puberty.

There are rites of passage here. All societies down through the ages have had these. A boy’s first hunt. A girl’s first period. More rites than you could shake an anthropologist at. Modern western society has some subtle ones too. First drink. First car. First sexual experience. Yet there isn’t a modern rite to mark passing from infancy to childhood and then through puberty. Perhaps first communion and confirmation fill this void. Perhaps there is a subconscious need in us all to mark these milestones and both parents and their young sense this. Perhaps my friends were marking an occasion by taking their daughter on her first foreign holiday rather than just avoiding peer pressure.

Sarah hit the nail on the head in her article. I’m just giving it another tap and hoping I’m not splitting the timber.