The crowd at the junction of Ringsend Road and South Lotts Road was swelling by the minute. Friends, colleagues and neighbours of the deceased had gathered to pay their last respects. The remains would, according to The ‘Evening Herald’, be arriving at St Patrick’s Church, Ringsend, at 5.30.

“Will ’e be comin’ down South Lotts?” a voice from the crowd enquired. “I think so,” came the reply. “I thought it was the Mater he died in”. “No, sure wasn’t he carted off to Vincent’s in the ambulance.”
At this juncture a man with the ‘Evening Herald’, obviously an intellectual, read aloud from the death column. “Suddenly at St Vincent’s Hospital, Elm Park,– St Vincent’s Hospital, Elm Park,” he emphasised. He sounded like Fred Elliot out of Coronation Street. “He’ll be coming South Lotts so,” said a lone voice. A man on the periphery of the crowd said “do ye think the deceased would ‘prefer’ the scenic route?” Smiles and a muted chuckle filled the air.

It was almost twenty past five and some people were getting worried. As if ‘anything’ let alone the ceremony could start without the main participant. “Here it is now, here it is,” they said.

The hearse approached and came gently to a halt. The rear door was then opened and the coffin withdrawn. Six pallbearers lifted the deceased shoulder high. They then commenced the short journey over the bridge to Ringsend church. They walked behind the hearse slowly and respectfully. About one hundred mourners saying farewell to their departed friend.

Behind them came the mourning coaches with the bereaved family. Some family members had got out and were mingling and accepting condolences from neighbours and friends. Small groups of people talked and reminisced of happier times spent with the deceased. Those who knew him from his working days brushed shoulders with those who spoke of his football prowess. Others recalled his jollity while having a few pints in his company in Fitzer’s. Many just recalled him as a nice man from Stella.

Every thirty yards the coffin would stop and a fresh group of pallbearers would take over. Precision was essential. Two men, one at the head, the other at the foot, would hold the coffin in a steady position while six replaced six as pallbearers.

I had been walking at the rear of the cortége and was standing still during one of these changeovers when suddenly my knees buckled. Initially, I was unaware of what was happening to me as I lost control and was pushed to the ground. I remember shouting out “Jesus what’s happening” as I found myself ‘prostrate on Bridge Street’. The mourning coach was driving over me.

The driver had taken his eyes of the cortége in front of him. And when the coffin stopped for the changing of pallbearers, he kept going. Eventually the Merc stopped and I was helped to my feet. I felt sore and I could feel blood on my jeans at the knees. Bloodied but unbowed I continued on over the bridge to St Patrick’s.

As the cortége turned into Thorncastle Street, a large crowed assembled. Some people were proppin’ up the chipper while others stood outside the post office. Fitzer’s closed their doors; they always did when a coffin went past. Respect was paramount. The driver of the offending Merc apologised to me. I accepted his apology.

As I sat in the pew during the ceremony I covered my bloodied knees with my hands. I laughed to myself despite my discomfort, at the thought of being knocked down at a funeral by a mourning coach.

While walking home after the funeral service I couldn’t help but chuckle to myself. I thought about my friend, who had made me laugh on many an occasion. I felt that with the help of some ‘divine intervention’ he had plotted in my unfortunate funeral experience just for the last laugh.