The voyage was due to start a half past four on Tuesday. The urn had arrived home and all was set for the good send-off.

There was black and white pudding with plenty of fried bread and a big pot of tripe and onions with plenty of pepper. There was a firkin of stout on tap in the garden so you could pull your own pint. There was Paddy in abundance.

This was going to be the most unconventional funeral ever.

“I wonder will he go to heaven?” said Buckets of Blood O’Toole, one of his old shipmates,
“I don’t think so,” said Horse.Feathers McRory. “He always hated going aloft, but he always had a soft spot for firemen and all hands down in the stokehold.”

“He may be reincarnated.” said Scoops O’Neill. “He loved seagulls and he may come back as a seagull.”

Two-Foots Breslin stood at the end of the stairs, the grease running down his chin from eating fried bread. “Wherever he goes, I bet he will start a Union or some sort or organisation. I’ll bet he is looking for conditions already!”said he.

As it was getting near the time for the flushing, all hands were getting into position to see the trip to sea begin. They were two-deep on the stairs and four or five across the landing. The bathroom was full but the toilet was kept clear for his nearest and dearest to do the flushing.

They made their way upstairs with the urn, your man’s remains inside. As they did, the lads broke into song with:

“Off to sea once more.
Oh, a man must be blind
To make up his mind
To go to sea once more.”

Flat Calm Flanagan was talking to Paddles McKeown on the landing. “It’s a pity his story can’t be told. He has seen quite a bit: he was on ships, boats and barges, on lightships and lighthouses. He saw the wall go up and the wall go down. He rubbed shoulders with Dev and shook hands with Alfie Byrne. He was at funerals with Charlie. He stood at Stalin’s grave. He was in sail, steam, and motor… ah well C’est La vie.”

The toilet bowl was snow white, well-washed and had a lovely smell of lavender. The woman moved in with your man’s remains, all hands uncapped. The woman shook the ashes into the bowl and with one quick flush he was on his way to sea.

His mates broke into song: “Wrap me up in my tarpaulin jacket.
No more on the Docks
I’ll be seen.”

His last trip took him through his adopted village of Crumlin, where they said he was a runner-in. Now he is a runner out.

Down by Pearse College on his port, side to Sally’s Bridge, hard to starboard, then straight ahead along the canal to Ringsend, over the bridge into the village, through Irishtown, across the main drain, hard to starboard and down Pidgeon House Road, then out to sea at the Pidgeon House Docks. Out in the three-knot current, eau de vie.

“A lovely way to go out of it,” said Snake Hips. “No flag-waving, no shots in the air, the last flush of life.”

“All hands downstairs,” said the lady of the house. “There’s drink and grub for all.”
The day finished up with the singing of Bert Gordon the Mad Russian’s song

“Let’s be happy.
Let’s be gay.
Let’s forget
He’s passed away.”
C’est La Vie