In every parish, you’ll find him. A man defined not by his work, his faith, or his good deeds — but by his unerring attendance at funerals.
Meet Irish Pat, who approaches the death notices like a socialite scanning the festival lineup. His sole criterion for attendance? A quick check of the catering arrangements.
Pat seldom knows the deceased. His philosophy is simple and pragmatic: where there’s a hearse, there’s a ham sandwich. He arrives with calculated tardiness — just after the first hymn — wearing a tie that has attended more wakes than weddings. He lip-syncs the prayers with the vague timing of a buffering video, nodding solemnly through the “Our Father” while mentally planning his assault on the buffet.
His greatest challenge is not grief but evasion. He becomes a master of stealth, melting behind pillars, shrinking behind oversized floral tributes, and studying memorial cards with theatrical intensity — all to avoid the dreaded question from a relative:
“And how did you know our dear Uncle Seamus?”
(He didn’t. He misread the name as Seán and was lured by the whispered promise of vol-au-vents.)
When cornered for the obligatory condolences, Pat shifts into performance mode. He clasps hands with grave sincerity, heaves a sigh laden with unspoken memories, and delivers his signature line with Oscar-worthy conviction:
“A terrible loss. A wonderful, wonderful person. Salt of the earth.”
This heartfelt tribute is applied universally — to strangers, to a man he met once in a pub in 1983, or to a woman he’s fairly sure he saw at a bus stop.
Then his true pilgrimage begins: the funeral reception. Here, his devotion is laid bare before the altar of the buffet table. With a plate piled high, he offers a quiet grace:
“The Lord giveth… and may He bless the hands that made these sausage rolls.”
Pat has never been seen to shed a tear during a eulogy, but he has been observed looking genuinely distraught at the sight of an empty gravy boat.
Some call him an opportunist. Others insist he’s a cultural preservationist — ensuring no funeral pastry dies alone.
But if you see Pat at your wake, take it as the highest compliment.
It means you’ve officially been inscribed on the roll of honour:
The Free Dinner List of the Dearly — and Deliciously — Departed.
