flower-bedecked coffin of Dan Doonan.
Grouped around admiringly, reverently
clutching their drinks, were friends and foes alike, and with drink they were
all very much alike. Funeral cliches were flying in the teeth of the dear
departed.
'A fine man, ma'am, it's a great day
for him.'
'You must be proud of him, Mrs
Doonan.'
' One of the
finest dead men ter ever walk the earth.'
' I was
sorry ter see him go!'
' So was I -
he owed me a pound.'
' It's hard
to believe he's dead.'
' Oh he's
dead is he ?' said Foggerty, who'd been speaking to him all evening.
The corpse looked fine, fine, fine . New suit, hair cut and greased, his boots highly
polished and loaned by an anonymous donor were firmly nailed to the coffin for
additional security.
The tables in the next room were
swollen high with the food. Two wooden tubs steamed with baked potatoes, their
earthy jackets split and running with rivulets of melting butter. Hot pig
slices, a quarter inch thick, were piled high on seventeen plates. In the
middle, was one huge dish of brown pork sausages, and bacon, still bubbling
from the pan. On the floor, floating in a bucket of vinegar, was a minefield of pickled onions. The temporary
bar was serving drinks as fast as O'Toole could pour them.
'God, there hasn't been a night like
this since the signing of the Treaty.'
Many people die of thirst but the
Irish are born with one.
O'Connor the piper tucked his kilt
between his legs, puffed the bladder of his pipes and droned them into life;
soon the floor was lost in a sea of toiling, reeling legs.
Uppity-hippity-juppity-ippity-dippity-dippity
shook the house. The centre bulb danced like a freshly hanged man.
There was a clapping a
stamping-and-cries-of-encouragement.
The faithful few in Dan's parlour
soon deserted him for the dance.
Alone in his room he stood, his body
jerking to the rhythm now shaking the house. The party was swelled by the
arrival of the victorious Puckoon Hurley team, many still unconscious from the
game. These were dutifully laid on the floor beside Dan's coffin - the rest
joined into the frenzied dance.
The Milligan pulled his trousers up
and leaped into the middle, but he observed his legs and stopped. 'Hey, you
said me legs would develop with the plot.'
'They will.'
' Den why
are they still like a pair of dirty old pipe cleaners ?'
' It's a
transitional period.'
'Look, I don't want transitional
legs.' He stood in the middle of the leaping bodies and spoke, 'What's dis book
all about, here we are on page-page - ' he looked down, 'on page 74 - and all
these bloody people comin' and goin', where's it all going to end ?'
' I don't
know. Believe me, I'm just as worried as you are.'
' Tell me
why ? - tell me - give me a sign!' A bottle bounced off Milligan's head. 'The
Queen,' he shouted and fell sideways like a poleaxed ox.
Three fights had broken out in the
midst of the dancers but the difference was hard to tell. The whole house now
trembled from roof to foundations. In the next room the great family bible
shook from the shelf above the coffin and struck Dan Doonan, throwing him from
the coffin and catapulting him from his boots. His wig, a life-long secret,
shot from his head and slid under the table next to the cat. He fell among the
unconscious members of the Hurley team, who were starting to recover. 'He's
drunk as a lord,' they said, dragging him across the hall and tucking him in
bed.
' Good God,
look at the size of that rat,' one said, seeing the cat pass with a wig in its
jaws. 'He mustha' put up a fight.'
Placing a bottle of whisky by the bed
they drank it and stumbled from the room.
It was 4.32 in the morning as the
crow flies.
The last mourners had slobbered out
their drunken farewells, their voices and great posterior blasts mingling into
the night. Mrs Doonan drained an empty bottle, scratched her belly, and made
for her bed.
Somewhere in the night, Milligan,
drunk and with lumps on his head, was wandering through the
Grouped around admiringly, reverently
clutching their drinks, were friends and foes alike, and with drink they were
all very much alike. Funeral cliches were flying in the teeth of the dear
departed.
'A fine man, ma'am, it's a great day
for him.'
'You must be proud of him, Mrs
Doonan.'
' One of the
finest dead men ter ever walk the earth.'
' I was
sorry ter see him go!'
' So was I -
he owed me a pound.'
' It's hard
to believe he's dead.'
' Oh he's
dead is he ?' said Foggerty, who'd been speaking to him all evening.
The corpse looked fine, fine, fine . New suit, hair cut and greased, his boots highly
polished and loaned by an anonymous donor were firmly nailed to the coffin for
additional security.
The tables in the next room were
swollen high with the food. Two wooden tubs steamed with baked potatoes, their
earthy jackets split and running with rivulets of melting butter. Hot pig
slices, a quarter inch thick, were piled high on seventeen plates. In the
middle, was one huge dish of brown pork sausages, and bacon, still bubbling
from the pan. On the floor, floating in a bucket of vinegar, was a minefield of pickled onions. The temporary
bar was serving drinks as fast as O'Toole could pour them.
'God, there hasn't been a night like
this since the signing of the Treaty.'
Many people die of thirst but the
Irish are born with one.
O'Connor the piper tucked his kilt
between his legs, puffed the bladder of his pipes and droned them into life;
soon the floor was lost in a sea of toiling, reeling legs.
Uppity-hippity-juppity-ippity-dippity-dippity
shook the house. The centre bulb danced like a freshly hanged man.
There was a clapping a
stamping-and-cries-of-encouragement.
The faithful few in Dan's parlour
soon deserted him for the dance.
Alone in his room he stood, his body
jerking to the rhythm now shaking the house. The party was swelled by the
arrival of the victorious Puckoon Hurley team, many still unconscious from the
game. These were dutifully laid on the floor beside Dan's coffin - the rest
joined into the frenzied dance.
The Milligan pulled his trousers up
and leaped into the middle, but he observed his legs and stopped. 'Hey, you
said me legs would develop with the plot.'
'They will.'
' Den why
are they still like a pair of dirty old pipe cleaners ?'
' It's a
transitional period.'
'Look, I don't want transitional
legs.' He stood in the middle of the leaping bodies and spoke, 'What's dis book
all about, here we are on page-page - ' he looked down, 'on page 74 - and all
these bloody people comin' and goin', where's it all going to end ?'
' I don't
know. Believe me, I'm just as worried as you are.'
' Tell me
why ? - tell me - give me a sign!' A bottle bounced off Milligan's head. 'The
Queen,' he shouted and fell sideways like a poleaxed ox.
Three fights had broken out in the
midst of the dancers but the difference was hard to tell. The whole house now
trembled from roof to foundations. In the next room the great family bible
shook from the shelf above the coffin and struck Dan Doonan, throwing him from
the coffin and catapulting him from his boots. His wig, a life-long secret,
shot from his head and slid under the table next to the cat. He fell among the
unconscious members of the Hurley team, who were starting to recover. 'He's
drunk as a lord,' they said, dragging him across the hall and tucking him in
bed.
' Good God,
look at the size of that rat,' one said, seeing the cat pass with a wig in its
jaws. 'He mustha' put up a fight.'
Placing a bottle of whisky by the bed
they drank it and stumbled from the room.
It was 4.32 in the morning as the
crow flies.
The last mourners had slobbered out
their drunken farewells, their voices and great posterior blasts mingling into
the night. Mrs Doonan drained an empty bottle, scratched her belly, and made
for her bed.
Somewhere in the night, Milligan,
drunk and with lumps on his head, was wandering through the
Similar Books
