“He looks well” said Jontey

“I’ve seen him in better form” I replied, wincing inwardly at the complete ridiculousness of the statement.

“Ack, you know what I mean” he whispered as I absentmindedly stroked the brass handles on the box.

“Actually, I haven’t a fucking clue what you mean, I fail to see how he can look well, In fact, he looks the exact opposite of well, he couldn’t look less well if we put a match to him”

“Ah here” he pleaded “It’s just one of those things people say at a wake, if they have nothing to say”

“I know it’s one of those things people say and it’s a perfect example of how thick people can be” I chided.

Jontey shifted uneasily, aware of my distaste for sentimentality at moments such as these, especially when it was one of our own. “Still though” I chuckled “have to hand it to Noel, cause of death, run under by a fucking Micra, must be a first”

“Aye” said the junior sibling, “tis a quare unique way to go alright” trying to supress a sly grin.

But that’s what happened I’m afraid. Two days prior, our dear uncle Noel Farmer left the premises of Hannigans bar crossed the main street in Virginia, paused for breath against PJ Grogans Micra. Here promptly fell asleep in a sort of upright position against the rear passenger door, head and elbows cemented to the roof.

Shortly after, an equally drunk PJ vacated Healys, with an anxious rod for a young lady in Ballyjamesduff, hopped into the driver’s seat and sped off. PJ never saw Noel fall against the kerb like a sack of roosters nor heard the crack of his temple against the stone. Such was the concentration of blood in his lions; it had prevented any means of concentration in his brain.

The purple huish bruise nestled above Noels right ear amidst the sparse grey hairs was the only outward sign of the inside haemorrhage which resulted in his current and permanent state.

“C’mon” I said “We’ll bounce before that hoor Nora comes back” Jontey nodded in agreement, blessed himself awkwardly and we left for Healys. The funeral was in the afternoon and we had some mourning to do. Besides, neither I nor the brother had any interest in listening to Noels philandering widow keening over the coffin of a man whom she only ever viewed with varying degrees of distaste or disinterest.

We sat in silence, the comfortable silence that can only be shared between brothers until such time as the boredom and the drink inspired speech.

“D’ya remember the time he ran for the council?” said Jonty

“I do indeed, the posters called him ‘a hardworking man for the Workers Party’”

“I never knew he worked?”

“He didn’t, didn’t believe in it, believed in the Welfare state as a natural stepping stone to a socialist Republic”

“Ah right” said my less than politically astute brother, “how many votes did he get again?”

“Three”

“Including his own?”

“Well he hardly voted Fine Gael”.

“Aye” said Jontey wistfully “he hardly did..”

The silence resumed until the fifth pint was tested and approved when the younger sibling inquired “here, if Noel was so involved in all that communist stuff, why the hell is heading to the chapel in an hour?”

“I suppose it’s dear Noras last chance to twist the knife. D’ya know what she said when I told her Noel always wanted the Internationale to play him out? ‘ oooh I don’t think the choir knows that one Pat’……sarky cunt. And then turns to her sister with all this crap about a Red Army soundtrack in a Catholic Church, I tell ya, that usurper is more Soviet than the bloody KGB”

The last time we spoke was in the corner of Hannigans. His countenance was haggard, but his humour was up beat and his speech coherent. The subject was Baudelaire interspersed with laments over the softness of draught stout.

“Well lads! Rebuilding the wall again?” Carney the smart arse quarryman interrupts lecherously to a chorus of sniggers from his passing entourage.

“Ah good man Shane” replied Noel in an almost convincing tone of welcome.

“You’re keeping well? To be sure ya are, a lad like ya, well I tell ya, if we were it won’t be to Daddy we’ll be going for a good price on shale”

Carneys face smartened.

“Ack, I’m only messing with ya a vic. Come on join the discourse. Illuminate us with your knowledge of Marxist principles on the common ownership of property or elucidate on the dictatorship of the proletariat eh? Or maybe if you don’t like the big words we could just have an auld rant about the Cuban embargo?”

I could see his neck redden along the collar of his checked shirt, from the nape to his impeccable hairline a dark crimson hue had risen through the pores and the ugliness of ignorance presented itself in a very real way.

“Your one rare prick Farmer, who’s the missus mounting tonight?”

Unphased by the vitriol with a vacant stare, the uncle promptly replied

“share and share alike, the cornerstone of a fair society young Carney” and then as an afterthought

“Il tell you one thing about the missus though, I didn’t claim her from the land commission” returning to his pint as the last syllable was uttered.

If he was aware of the effort needed to restrain the young quarry man it was not apparent as he took a long deep slug from the glass, wiping the remnants of the yellowing head off his lip with a grimy sleeve. ”Stick to rocks child, a head like yours is suited for nothing else” he bellowed without looking beyond

“A fucker like that deserves a good kicking” I told him as an animated Carney was shuffled to the far end of the bar by his sympathetic companions.

“Well you’d have your boots worn out if you had to kick every small minded wanker in this parish” he continued “horizons no broader than the beds they were born in, if I wasn’t so inclined Id pity them, the plebeian gobshites”

I considered the old mans wisdom for a moment and continued to consider giving that insulting bastard a good hiding.

Noticing the whiteness of my knuckles as he made to leave, Noel placed a reassuring hand on my shoulder “learn to relax kiddo, a lad like ya must learn to if you’re aiming going to keep your mental faculties in a town like this”

He smiled a sad vacant smile and then jerked slightly, as if reminded of something uplifting “ Anyways I must be off, I have Shiraz and Cicero waiting for me in the loft”.

As he reached the door however, he doubled back, and spoke low and solemn into my ear “But seriously lad, learn to relax, or you’ll end up like meself” after a bronchial breath uttered his final solitary word in my company …….” tired”.

A few minutes later I came upon my prostrate uncle with Fr McArthur whispering the act of contrition in his ear like an idiot. I remembered a bullet ridden Garland in Noels history books ‘ It’s a doctor I need not a bloody witch doctor’

I shouldn’t have been surprised when entering the church to see that my dear uncle had gained that typically parochial level of popularity that can only be achieved by death. The place was packed. Standing room only in the foyer where myself and Jontey found just enough space unfortunately in close proximity to Carney and his gang of spud heads.

From the alter I could hear the warbling’s of McArthur and grimaced at the recollection of Noel explaining to me on my confirmation day to “ignore the words of an overrated tradesman and them who quote him”

At the mention of God calling his servant home I said to myself, “He wouldn’t stand for this, so neither would I”. However, instead of marching up the aisle and ending the farce in a display of passion and fervour I simply placed myself on the cask of holy water to my rear. On impact the barrel duly collapsed in an implosion of old mahogany and brass sending a torrent of Lourdes finest cascading through the foyer, blessing my haemorrhoids and the corns of at least two dozen holy.

The first of the O faced pious to react was Carney, hauling my sodden self-up by the collar and against the wall. “What sort of a fuck are you, to be coming to your own uncles funeral pissed and wrecking the place?” he spat.

To which I replied “What sort of a fuck are you to be here at all?” swiftly raising my knee for an accurate and timely rendezvous with his testicles.

“As for the rest of ye” I shouted, commanding the stunned attention of everyone within ear shot, “If the man in the box was so well liked when he was upright, he’d be getting a state funeral today” after which I crossed the wet and foetal Carney and made my exit.

“Jaysus” says Jontey catching me at the gate “that was some show”

“Was no show brother” I replied “That was the changing of the guard” as I shook excess water from each trouser leg and continued stone faced and determined towards town.