RIP Liam

Uncle Liam had the perfect Irish funeral weather for his sending off. 
He was a nice man. A simple man. A gentle man. 
He represented an older version of Ireland. He always wore a shirt and a tie and a jacket. He went to mass every week without fail but didn't try to impose his ideas on others. He was amiable andt never loud or confrontational. He was a bachelor who lived his whole life in the house where he was born. He cycled everywhere. He was mightily pissed off when his bike was stolen sometime last year. Perhaps one of the very rare occasions when a mumbled swear word might have passed his lips. Another thing that passed his lips less infrequently was the porter. For he was a genuine lover of the stout. He was not a drunk but a connoisseur. Every single evening without fail (except on Good Friday and Christmas Day), he went to the Goat pub for his two pints of Guinness. Every single day. On his bike. In his shirt and tie and cardigan. He'd sip his two pints and have a chat. 
Last Wednesday, half way through his second pint of Guinness he dropped dead from a massive heart attack. Aged 84.