Episode Twenty-Four of the Sensational Shrimpleton Saga: The Great Schism.

Last time, we left the Chief Operating Officer of Shrimpleton Town AFC – James Churchill Proudfoot a.k.a. Threefeet of the Yard – with severe worries about the Summer Gala he had predictably failed to organise properly on Cumberside Island.

But across the water in The Emerald Isle, things weren’t going swimmingly either at an event intended to upstage any Gala that had ever been held anywhere on the planet: the funeral of Joseph Aleksandrovitch Kelly……

Regrettably, tensions among members of the Kelly gang weren’t the only ones which affected today’s spectacular display of wealth and power on the sleepy streets of Arracrowe in County Tipperary. The other tensions concerned what might be described as matters of the cloth.

Local priest Father Finbar O’Fooligan would be playing Second Fiddle as far as the burial service for Joe-Boy Kelly was concerned today – despite the fact that the interment was going to be in his own churchyard in Holy Catholic soil.

For the subject of today’s funeral service only had one parent who was both Irish and Roman Catholic. Her name was Mary-Jo Kathleen Kelly and her relations were absolutely notorious in this neck of the woods. All the locals knew that the Kelly Gang didn’t just terrorise Australia back in the day; they were just a minor offshoot of a criminal family which had terrorised the entire of County Tipperary – and far further afield – for longer than anyone could actually remember.

But the father of the deceased was not Irish. Nor was he a Roman Catholic. As Joe-Boy had once told our mutual chum Jim Proudfoot, Zasha Ivanovitch Smirnov was from Siberia and had been a fervent adherent of the Russian Orthodox Church.

As a result, the funeral today was going to be conducted by no less a superstar of the Ecclesiastical World Order than Metropolitan Nikolas of ROCOR – the Russian Orthodox Church Outside Russia. (I believe there are a set of cards to be found in a brand of Russian cigarettes about Orthodoxy which feature his craggy features. If you find one – keep it: they are apparently very collectable.)

Nikolas had been flown in especially by private jet from New York City.

There was a Good Thing and a Bad Thing about this from Father Finbar’s point of view.

The Good Thing was that because his guest had grown up in an English-speaking country, O’Fooligan could understand perfectly what Metropolitan Nikolas actually said.

The Bad Thing was that because his guest had grown up in an English-speaking country, O’Fooligan could understand perfectly what Metropolitan Nikolas actually said. Because Nikolas never kept his mouth shut – and he was extraordinarily bossy into the bargain. So the service was going to be conducted precisely as required by Russian Orthodox dogma. And:

“You’d better get used to the idea Finbar, Buddy! First of all, I’m pulling rank on you! Ever heard of a Metropolitan Elite? Well – I’m one of them, kiddo! I’m a Metropolitan: One Down from the Big Boss – the Patriarch – and One Up from an Archbishop. That makes me a Field Marshall in comparison to your position as a Private Soldier here in your role as a lowly parish Priest. So I’m the boss – Capiche? “

“Furthermore” (he pronounced this `foither-more’); “Furthermore – you need to learn your own history, brother! Who’s the New Kid on the Block here? We are! Moscow split with Rome way back when because we knew even then that we were the future. Get this: The Great Schism occurred in 1054 and your guy in the Vatican has learnt precisely nothing new since, the Schmuck! Nothing’s changed in the decades and centuries since the split. So listen-up and pay attention, baby! Who knows? It’s never too late to learn from the error of your ways. Maybe you’ll be coming back to New York with me; swapping your outdated dogma for something far more enlightened – such as the Filioque Clause! How do you fancy being a Bishop?  Better pay. Nice place to live. A car. A pension. We’ve even got bigger candles! You’d get better conditions than you do working for these Roman cheapskates as well – even the uniform is better: Gold on Sundays; Red at Easter; Green – you should like that – on Palm Sunday. So much better then boring old black all the time! Whadd-ya say? ”

So as you can see, not only did the Russian from New York never shut up, poor old Finbar didn’t know what he was on about most of the time either. Previously, for example, he’d thought that Filioque was some sort of pastry; a Filioque Clause something to do with St Nicholas – or Santa Claus if you prefer…  (Blame the Metropolitan for that play on his own name, not me, please…)

However, the Metropolitan had a problem. Actually: three problems all caused by the same unavoidable inconvenience.

Firstly: the Orthodox Tradition demands that the body of the deceased be buried. Cremation is not allowed: the only flames the Dear Departed should ever face, according to their Holy Book, are those of Hell itself for the sinful among its followers.

Also, Orthodox theology insists that resurrection is a fact. Sooner or later – whether we like it or not it seems – we are all going to live again. How can you do that if you no longer have a body to be resurrected in? (The same way you can if your body has rotted away to nothing, I would have thought. But what do I know?)

Besides which, if you happen to turn-out to be an Orthodox saint, sacred relics – bits of you in other words – can become highly valued. This is one thing shared by their Catholic former brethren. Bejasus – you can’t beat a good old bone of a Martyr, so you can’t. (Although – important theological point here – they are not recommended for soup-making…)

Anyway…

The second problem Metropolitan Nikolas faced was that the body itself must be dressed in white and laid-out – usually in the family home – for three days before the burial. It is not unknown for bodies to be placed on a table but it is more usual to have it placed in a coffin instead: providing the lid is left off so that relatives can actually set eyes upon the corpse and thus convince themselves that their relative or friend has actually departed this Vale of Tears.

Thirdly, the coffin must be carried feet-first out of the house where the pre-burial visitations had occurred and then laid-out in front of the altar until the ceremony is finished. Then – in strict order of hierarchy – the mourners will have the opportunity to bestow upon the deceased one final kiss of farewell as they circle the coffin in an anti-clockwise – and only an anti-clockwise – direction.

All of these rituals have a deeply spiritual significance and the Orthodox faithful fear that any failure to either respect them or carry them out according to tradition could result in trouble for the Dear Departed’s immortal soul.

So Metropolitan Nikolas had quite a few doctrinal plates in the air to juggle.

Because, we must remember, the Dear Departed in this case was none other than Joseph Aleksandrovitch Kelly.

When the huge explosion which simple young Giles had inadvertently caused in Buckinghamshire actually occurred, Joe-Boy Kelly and his gang were not so much cremated in a huge fireball which enveloped and then consumed his entire mansion but actually atomised. Literally nothing of him – or Vladimir or Grigor – remained to be buried.

So what was the Orthodox Big-Wig going to do?

Nikolas had been a cleric for several decades. During this time, he had learned that however large and insurmountable any problem might appear at first glance, there was always a means of overcoming it. So he would now do what he had done in similar circumstances before, however occasionally. He spoke in confidence to the family of the deceased first. Then, having got their permission, he rang a contact he had back at home who was in touch with the world-wide Russian Mafia. These dangerous and ruthless criminals were alive and kicking right across the United States and could be found conducting their nefarious businesses in almost all of the bigger US cities. Nikolas knew several members of this organisation personally and had a few favours to call-in from them after helping them out in several situations – usually involving bodies – in the past.

Just the day after he had asked for this favour, a refrigerated package arrived at Shannon Airport on a flight from La Guardia in New York. A refrigerated van from Kelly’s Family Butchers was there to meet it. Next stop was a Meat Safe at a shop in Tipperary Town. There, a make-up artist of international renown was employed for several hours to perform a very specialised – albeit unusual – job. The fee was substantial but the artist knew it was in her own best interests not to tell anyone about what she had done. Ever. And you can probably guess the rest.

So, everything was set for Joseph Aleksandrovitch Kelly – or at least a version of him – to make his final journey in this Temporal World all the way from The Big House on the Hill to Christ the King and a send-off into a Spiritual Realm that any self-respecting criminal dynasty would be proud of.

The Russian Orthodox Metropolitan of New York City and the horse-drawn hearses were just a statement of this intent. The horses involved wouldn’t be the sort of cart-horses you might expect to pull a Brewers’ Dray – they would be fine white Arabians with closely-braided manes; their heads decorated with emerald green plumes and their drapes in Irish national colours. Irish people usually favour Fresian horses for funerals because of their black colouring and all those associations with death. But as we have seen – the Irish would not be having things all their own way today: white horses were part of a Russian Orthodox tradition.

Part of the plan to make sure the biggest funeral ever seen in the Emerald Isle involved the local police. Guards were strategically deployed to ensure nobody entered Arracrowe from about nine o’clock in the morning. In order to achieve this, they blocked the access roads from all directions with Garda Síochána vehicles.

One of these access roads was the single one leading down the steep hill into the town itself from the south.

Ordinary Guard Pádraig – Pat – McMullen was the man charged to block this.

Pat wasn’t exactly the sharpest knife in the drawer as even his closest family would admit. But he had been saved from the ignominy usually reserved for the Black Sheep of Irish families – the clergy – by qualifying for a job just one rung above it.

If he had been just a little older, he would have automatically inherited the family farm, as has been the case in Ireland for more years than even Methuselah would care remember.

But the first-born of the McMullen family had been his older brother Cormack, who duly took over when their father JJ – `d’ould wan’ as his sons would refer to him – died five years earlier.

Pat didn’t actually resent this – Cormack had not only been the Apple of his Dada’s Eye, he was the brightest of the remaining McMullen children; the Big Brother he would always rely upon if he had problems or got into any sort of trouble.

Pat looked-up to his older sibling for several other reasons. Chief among these was the fact that Cormack was truly a giant of a man who most people had to crane their necks to look up to. Only a total Eedjit would cross swords with him…

Pat parked his brand-new electric Hyundai Kona model across the byroad from the R515 main route which led towards the little town. The beacons were flashing and Pat was in an increasing state of panic about that. Besides which, his head hurt. So why was this?

The new car actually scared him. He had only been in charge – or, in his case, very definitely not in charge – particularly as far as doing this to the batteries was concerned – for less than a day.

He had initially been only too happy to move on from the Devil’s work – the Infernal Combustion Engine as he had misunderstood the term for most of his life – to something more fitting for God-fearing Catholics like a car made in Vatican City. Or was it Korea? – he wasn’t really sure.

Whatever – if the Good Lord had made cars electric, He could have made them a bit softer, couldn’t He? Just charging it headlong didn’t actually work – and it also hurt. Quite a lot. Hence his headache. Having pulled the dents he had made in the driver’s door out with a sink plunger, Pat had run out of ideas: he didn’t know any other way in which he might be able to charge it. Issuing it with a ticket – “I charge you with being an electric jalopy!”, for instance, hadn’t worked either.

Now, however, warning lights were urgently flashing on the dashboard to tell him his new patrol vehicle was unhappy. He’d looked at the handbook and ended-up no wiser about what was wrong with it than he had been before he had consulted the damned thing. But an instinct told him that leaving the blue-flashing beacons on now as the car was blocking the road to Arracrowe was draining whatever power still remained in its battery. So he turned them off.

In doing so, it suddenly occurred to Pat McMullen that a car semi-blocking a road with a man dressed in drab Garda uniform (he had forgotten to swap his hi-viz clothing from his previous patrol car) would not necessarily persuade any oncoming motorist to either stop or heed the warning.

So what was he going to do?

Ringing Sergeant McFuddleifan back at the Barracks wouldn’t do – McFuddleifan had called him a `Retard’ on several occasions in the past and threatened to have him sacked if he made another policing mistake of any note.

This wasn’t fair: the robbers he had allowed to escape from O’Leary’s Music store with a load of expensive guitars said they were fireplace designers.

“Sure, who doesn’t like a classy Fender these days?” said the leader of the robbers; “Look-ya; ‘tis written on all the boxes!”

And as for the ` Uachtarán Incident’ – well, that could have happened to anybody…

`Uachtarán’ is the Erse word for the President of the Republic of Ireland. Pat McMullen had never actually met one in the flesh but his path did cross with a retired one when this good lady was Guest of Honour at a Remembrance Day celebration at the Tipperary Show Ground on November 11^th. 2019. (I don’t want to embarrass this lady but I am reliably informed that her first name was Mary.) There, the ex-Uachtarán co-hosted the event with a minor member of the British Establishment.

This was not an uncontroversial event – many Irish Nationalist groups saw Ireland’s participation in what they saw as England’s Imperialistic adventure in The First World War as a mark of shame for all Irishmen who had taken part in it – whether they survived or not.

So not everybody in the Republic wanted the Remembrance Day event to go well.

Knowing this, the local and national Garda Síochána and the Irish Security Services were very keen to make sure no terrorist or other incident should take place on the day.

Security was very tight as a consequence – at god knows what expense to the reluctant (or otherwise) taxpayer.

On the day itself, Pat McMullen had been working a normal shift out of Tipperary Barracks. 

The local Garda had received information warning them that local criminals intended to take advantage of many peoples’ attendance at the Show Ground to launch a burglary campaign aimed at unoccupied houses. Particular attention was to be paid by the Tipperary force to unusual patterns of behaviour in the Town itself and local police must be on high alert for burglars in particular. This was very important: `Burglars’ was the key message slammed home by the Garda Big-Wigs in their comfortable offices to their lesser underlings who did all the work.

So imagine Pat’s excitement when – after listening to the local radio – he received a big hint about where one particular Burglar could be caught Red-Handed.

As soon as he heard this, he was about to share the` intell’ – as his colleagues always called it – back at the Barracks.

But then he had second thoughts. He’s been a lowly Guard – a footsoldier – his entire career: and that stretched back a long way now. There was no more sign of him becoming a Detective in one of the local units attached to the GNBCI  – the Garda National Bureau of Criminal Investigation – in Dublin now as there had been when he had first joined-up, god alone knows how many years ago.

Pat McMullen resented this. He’d lost count of the number of times when intell he had provided to the Pointy Heads in the police service had resulted in them taking all the credit – and the subsequent promotions which sometimes followed.

But here was a chance for him to do something on his own; by his own initiative – and then bathe, for once, in the reflected glory.

So he did.

Better still (in some respects); the entire thing was captured live in front of a large television audience and then repeated on RTE and even the BBC news all evening – and then endlessly shown again and again for much longer. There are probably clips of it to be found on the internet right now.

The Remembrance Day celebration had gone without a hitch. Demonstrators had been successfully kept away from the main event by the police; no terrorist outrages had occurred and no streaker painted in the Irish national colours had invaded the showground at any time, as had been threatened. The ex-Irish politician and minor Royal from across the water had stood side-by side and solemnly laid wreaths at a temporary memorial as both countries’ flags flew at half mast in the background.

It was all very solemn. The Irish Army band played both national anthems and an impeccably-respected One Minute’s silence then ensued.

When it finished, a female member of the band – in full dress uniform – marched forward from the main body of soldiers, turned to face the dignitaries; saluted and raised a bugle to her lips to complete the ceremony – a rendition of The Last Post.

You could hear a pin drop as she played the first few mournful bars. But as she continued, another sound suddenly disturbed the peace. It was a siren; getting rapidly nearer. Next moment, a Garda Síochána patrol vehicle – its blue beacons blazing – screeched to a halt and a Guard leapt out. In the blink of an eye, the unfortunate female soldier was pepper-sprayed and had her arms pinioned behind her back with handcuffs before she was unceremoniously bundled into the back of the car and driven away at speed.

The final shot the astonished Outside Broadcast TV Director had managed to focus on was the abandoned Bugle – flat as a pancake as it lay on the grass after the police car had run over it as it raced away.

As Pat McMullen has protested ever since – and as we have already seen – it was a misunderstanding which could happen to anybody.

Well: anybody with that affliction sponsored by a posh car brand like himself in particular.

What was it called?

Something-Lexia, that was the fellah!

It was amazing what you could get sponsorship for, these days, wasn’t it?

Late diagnosis of this condition saved Pat his job.

And – when all is said and done, `Burglar’ and `Bugler’ are very similar words which any Tom, Dick or Patrick could easily get mixed-up, couldn’t they?

Across the sea far away to the east, James Churchill Proudfoot couldn’t blame dyslexia for his current problems, though. At the root cause of all of his was – and always had been – an innate stupidity exacerbated (which is a word Jim would use repeatedly if only he knew what it meant) by acute laziness and lifelong delusions of grandeur.

The Summer Gala of Shrimpleton Town AFC was imminent.

Preparations for it – as he had told both employer `Chopper’ Ranjit Singh Chopra and what he liked to think of as his Spymaster (should that be `Spymistress’?) Lady Lynne Shrimpleton – had gone as expected.

Badly.

Lady Lynne at least shuddered when she thought about this.

But was she being unduly pessimistic?

Find out next time in the upcoming episode of

The Sensational Shrimpleton Saga…