Gervase Phinn: Black comedy

My sister, along with members of her art group attended the funeral in a small church in rural Connemara. Prior to the requiem mass the deceased man's daughter invited my sister to view the body which lay in an open coffin in the front room of her small cottage. On the walls surrounding the coffin were her father's paintings. The artist himself reclined in the casket clutching a set of paintbrushes and a palette. One aged aunt, leaning over the coffin, stared for a moment at the corpse before remarking to the daughter: "You know Bridget, sure your father's never looked better."

Death comes to all of us but people in the country can still find humour in this situation. Those in rural communities see life and death at first hand every day and perhaps therefore have a better understanding of such things. Some of my favourite stories, which I am assured are true by the tellers, include the following.

The cortege was leaving the crematorium. It was a bitterly cold day and the ground was dangerously icy. Two elderly women, instead of using the steps, decided that they would exit via the ramp up which the coffin had been wheeled. One of the women lost her footing, slipped and nearly fell but, grasping the handrail, managed to right herself.

"Dear me!" she said to her companion, "I nearly went full length." "You would have thought they would have put some ashes down," replied her friend.

Some years ago, in a mining village in South Yorkshire, a veiled figure in black arrived at a cinema followed by what appeared to be a funeral party. She handed the usherette a sheaf of tickets, and noting the look of surprise on the young woman's face, said solemnly, "Ee, lass, my Jack never did care for funeral teas and such but he did enjoy a good cowboy picture."

The owner of a butcher's shop in North Yorkshire died. His friend, a lugubrious character called Tommy, attended the funeral tea along with the other mourners. Among the spread on the table, he observed some sausages on cocktail sticks.

"Come along, Tommy," said the widow, "will you not have a sausage?" "No thank you," came the reply. "I'd soon as not." "Don't sausages agree with you then?" asked the widow. "Well," said Tommy, shaking his head, "I've got nowt against sausages, but I think black pudding would have been more seemly at a funeral."

The undertaker having been upstairs to measure the corpse joined the silent and sorrowful family group in a Wensleydale farmhouse. He waited for a moment before asking in a solicitous voice, "And when would you like the funeral to take place?" There was a long pause. "Might I suggest Saturday?" "Aye, that'll be all right," sighed the widow sadly. Another long silence ensued then the eldest son announced, "Nay, that'll not do." "May I ask why?" inquired the undertaker. "It's t'bull sale at Hawes," came the reply.

YP MAG 30/10/10