Tales from the afterlife

I sat into the Ford and switched on the sat nav — no longer sat-nag Saxon Sally — but my new guide Mahhy.“Morra, Boss! Whah way are dey hangin?” he enquired.“Ballaghaderreen today,” I said.“Yer noh serious! Shure nohhin goes on up dere! I spose ih musby a funeral?”I told him it was too early for this but, if he really had to know, the mother’s people are buried up there. His acceptance of this seemed to suggest that, in his unstated view, it was preferable to have died there than to be living there.

Despite his protestations against the autobahn genre, I took the motorway. His only comment during his 80-minute huff occurred where a black-and-amber flag flew from a bridge near the exit for Knocktopher. “Sicken yer arse, wouldn’t ih?” Coming into Naas, he went, “Take de nex leff here and geh us offa dis feckin ting. Keep on den for Manooh, Boss.” He added, “D’ya mine if we doan go be Mullingar. De memories are bad abou dah place.”

“What memories?”

“Sure, issen dat where I finished up meself?”

He couldn’t hold back the sobbing. His story; about 10 years ago, he had attended a wedding in Mullingar, where no guest was denied liquid nourishment. The celebrations went on into the late evening and, along with his comrades, the hunger descended upon him. In a local curry outlet they became engaged in an episode of ‘handbags’ with some Longford fellows. Mahhy got ‘trun’ out through the plate glass door, which was regrettably closed at the time. He had only vague recollections of his siren-augmented trip to Beaumont Hospital.

“Next ting, I came to. I felt grand apart from a sly headache. Buh I had nare a head, nor body for dah maher. I had oney de tinkin. Bajays, says I, I must be in Limbo or Purgatory or wan a dem places an I’ll have to wait till de lassday to geh meself back togedder, neider today nor tomorra. Dey mussen a known about de nigh I gev wih Bahhy Behhy in Kinnegad or I’d a bin in a worse place altogedder. No details, youssir, buh she’d give ih back ta ya small.”

He recalled for me his incorporeal surprise at finding himself (not all there, of course) in a satellite. A message soon came through from an invisible chap who called himself Mister Bigbang, suggesting that he could kill the time (“four-five billon years”) in the sat-nav profession. “So, I am where I am, youssir!”

He recounted some details of the working conditions. Rest-days could be postponed and accumulated to be included in mannual leave — every million years. Other satellites would take over his duties on Sundays during the summer when he took a few hours off to listen to hurling matches on the wireless. Buffaloon-fluent Norbert Delaney or Cloughjordanian-speaking Phippy Ryan usually filled in. Mahhy himself had increased his clientele lately because of complaints about Saxon Sally — including mine. She had died at the stake in 1533 at the hands of the popish and had a “ting abou ih ever since”. Her satellite has a sticker of the Queen on the back bumper.

On the way back, pleas to stay clear of the motorways were successful so we came down-country through Athlone with places like Roscrea and Cashel to be endured later.

“Would ya do me a small turrren, Boss?” as we crossed the Shannon. “Would ya ever go be Clomacknize?” I listened to the basis for the slight
detour; “Dere’s a fella called Flann down de way in my line of sahellies. He ast me a favour if I was passin’. He was berrad down dere a good bih back and he’d like to know whah dey wrohe on de headstone.” Further interrogation revealed that this Flann was/is Flann Sinna, High King of Ireland, who died on 25 May 916 AD at Lough Ennel, 1098 years ago to the day.

Clonmacnoise
I deForded at Clonmacnoise. Mahhy asked me to leave the wireless on so he could get the Cork-Waterford game in Thurles while I’d be searching for Flann’s stone. I  got to see the High Cross of the Scriptures, specially erected for King Flann himself. It was all holy carvings. The guide told me there was a small inscription bit asking for prayers for Flann.

“Jays, he’ll be delighed to hear dah,” exclaimed my man when I got in out of the rain. “Loh a feckin’ good ih done him. Anaways, ‘twas asey enough to do de favour. Would ya believe dere’s a righ owl bah furder down de line, an’ she wanted de same information abou her own grave, an’ for somewan ta bring up a churn of asses’ milk — when dere time comes. Yer harly plannin’ on goin’ ta Egyp, are ya Boss?

Harly.