Only In Ireland – the land of the foul mouthed plonker.

Was asked a week ago to read a few verses, at a church service to remember babies, who were lost before, during of shortly after birth.

Have been asked before to participate and was honoured to do so.

Towards the end of the rehearsal the piper, who usually performs a piped lament to finish the outdoor part of the remembrance, said “I have wurds to the lament, dum dum do do... a pom.” The coordinator asked, “ Have you got them with you? Written down?”

“No. Dems on me 'puter.” (Honestly. He speaks and mutters a lot and that is about the lilt of the accent – North County Dublin Accent).

“But I can recite dem.”

“Grand so,” adds the coordinator. “Pat can you write them down.”

I muttered to the lady sitting beside me ..On with the kid gloves now to try and get Billy to tell me the words.

After a bit of fitting and sparting ( pissing & farting) he had muttered the first few verses to me and I had written them down.

“That's all I remember but deres a few more verses.” He offered.

“Where?”

“I tole ya, on me 'puter.”

“Can we go over and get them?

“Nah, I may not be able to find them. I'll bring them over tomorrow.”

“OK” I said. “I will be at mass at 10 o'clock – give them to me then, or if you like give them to me 15 minuter before we start tomorrow.”

So Pat goes early to 10 mass, parks his car outside yer mans front door.

No sign of yer man the piper, not a squeak out of him. So off I got to mass, expecting to find him waiting when the service is over. But the green between his house and the church is devoid of life – not even a mangy mutt defecating, as usual, on the path. So he was not waiting to see me before or after mass.

In the afternoon I arrive for the remembrance, to find the piper in his kilt and top with his pipe under his arm, all prepared for the performance.

I get the poem, which has been left in the front seat for me and walk down the church to meet him and discuss how he wants his work delivered.

He storms up with steam coming out his ears and loudly shouts vile profanity at me. The F word and the B word and a hope he could Pee on my grave, because we had missed meeting that morning, citing a time scale when I was sitting in the car outside his door.

So I decided I could go home, or do the readings as I said I would but not his poem. I opted to clear off home – leave him to it. My Good Wife whispered “Michelle Obama – when they go low YOU go high.”

I sat down and looked at the poem for the children who died at birth, or after, or in memory of miscarriages that mothers had.

“Jesus Lord have mercy on lost children.” That was the first line I read. Jeepers this guy is asking mercy for children who we all believe are in Heaven. I read on and it got worse. “The love that we had to give to them. Has been placed on to others who are at hand....To know that our baby is in your Mother's care”

So my editing pen was put to good use. The first line was changed to “Jesus Lord welcome our lost children.” Baby became babies, is became are. So on I went: chop, chop, change, write, edit.

Well do you know what? Outside I explained the poem, said I was honoured to have been asked to read it. Reviewed it, pointed out the despair and the loneliness in the verses and the words and gave it my best radio and TV voice and education, pausing and speeding up, slowing as required. And I got a big clap and shouts of well done.

Then the piper started to pump up his bellows, get its wind up with a few thumps on the side of the bag, and tones the instrument, and then the priest walked away into the Sacristy and the crowd dispersed for refreshments. He blows a few notes and storms home silently. No march accompanied him, as I watched him stomp across the green. Hoping he would encounter what the dogs had left there over the week.

Later I realised that the day before when he said “I have some wurds...”

We were supposed to say “Will you recite them after you play the refrain tomorrow?

Typically Irish stupidity. I will only perform when asked to do so, I won't offer, or say I want to do it, and when I'm stupid enough to keep my mouth shut about what I want to do, and someone else gets asked to do the job, I will turn nasty.

Just like at the party when Jonny is asked to sing a song and says no, then when asked again insists he won't. But at the third asking agrees to perform.

Francie, my dad used ask once, maybe twice, and then called on another. He was popular with some, hated by the ones who insisted all week afterwards, that he would not let them sing.

Bloomin' Irish traditions.