THE FINAL COUNTDOWN

Epic Eulogies

- Ian Kirke

If my own experiences are anything to go by funerals are usually pretty sombre occasions. I suspect the only exceptions to this general rule are when genocidal maniacs such as Hitler, Genghis Khan, and Pol Pot kick the bucket.

Culture shapes what rituals are followed and how mourners should behave, with religion very often presiding over the occasion. Although I fervently hope that my ultimate smoking is some way in the distant future, I nonetheless have an uneasiness with final curtain calls. Not with death itself, but the manner in which the subsequent ceremony is often facilitated. I am not religious, principally due to the fact that I will never grasp why a deity would sanction the death of a child under any circumstances.

When I attend a place of worship to bid farewell, I therefore feel something of a fraud and obliged to collaborate in a tradition I don’t endorse. I can’t sing either, so I usually mouth the words to hymns that have absolutely no relevance to my view of the world. At this juncture I may sound like some heathen and perhaps I should immediately reflect on the potential embarrassment I may encounter at the Pearly Gates, or more likely somewhere a hell of a lot warmer (I was brought up in the Christian faith, learning the Lord’s prayer by rote). Funerals just frustrate me or did until Conrad resonated with my view on life as he departed his. I met him briefly at a family dinner and I was aware of his reputation. Larger than life, a keen amateur painter, and a player. Waiting to be seated in a Cardiff restaurant the day before we met, I struck up a conversation with a local man who mentioned that he was from Maesteg, a small town around thirty miles due north. Conrad had lived there! The stranger smiled and reinforced the reach of his rascal rating. Anyway, back to the funeral.