This man who comes into the bar says I never miss a funeral because I'm trying to canvass a big crowd for my own.
London, England - Monday last. I'm at a removal. The deceased is an Egyptian. Nineteen. Killed in a road traffic accident and he may well have been a joy rider.
This is no sad piece. I promise you that much. The deceased is happy he is dead because people speak his name.
The queue for the wake of the teenage joy rider went on and on. They came from all over. No one was sad.
None of his family showed at the removal. It wasn't that they fell out with him, or maybe they did but they too were dead.
Credit where credit is due. The Egyptians are every bit as good as the Irish at funerals. The monumental sculptors are revered in Egypt. The country would be gone broke long ago but for them.
The Irish and the Egyptians are very good at planning their funerals. When I was a boy and beyond that time, until recently enough, or even a small bit after that, it was not uncommon for Irish people to buy their burial plots in advance of their deaths.
This makes perfect sense. It was a case of wouldn't it be nice if we were all buried side by side.
And on this leap year Saturday, when women are allowed to propose on the one day in four years, how romantic would it be if the lady framed her request by asking: "How would you like to be buried with my people?"
The buying of the burial plots makes perfect sense, if you think about it - and I have. The Egyptians built their own tombs well in advance of their demise.
If the Irish county councils were in charge of the Valley of the Kings, there would be no pyramids built. The rules now are for modest memorials. There was a time when some of our people spent more money on their headstones than on their houses.
There is some logic behind the building of impressive memorials. We are likely to spend a lot more time in the burial plot than at our current address.
I think it is time to end the suspense. I get this feeling that if I do not tell you the name of the deceased you will move on to the next page or scroll - Tutankhamun he was and is.
The poor boy fell off a chariot, probably, broke his leg. Got an infection and died. He was mummified and his tomb was covered by the desert sands.
Tutankhamun, who once ruled all of Egypt, was as lost as the names on an old Irish headstone covered in lichen and eroded by wind and rain.
Howard Carter found Tutankhamun's tomb in Egypt about 100 years ago.
The tomb was full of treasures, and 150 or so have been transported from the Cairo Museum to the Saatchi Gallery in London. I was there to pay my respects.
It was the second London wake in two days. The first was the day before in Twickenham.
England beat us fair and square. Our boys weren't beaten because of a lack of courage. They gave their all. Be nice.
The treasures of Tutankhamun were as everyday as pots or boats - or a bed or pure gold. All were items placed in the tomb to help Tutankhamen to make the transition from this world to the next.
The exhibition was fascinating. The death story was one of the most memorable experiences of my life.
And as I wandered through the gallery, the journey brought me back 3,000 years to a time and a place where art was treasured and the people who lived then were as worried about the hereafter as we are now.
There was a sadness came over me in the midst of such splendour. Tutankhamun was a human being after all and not just an exhibit.
The next time the contents of his tomb are allowed out of Egypt I will be a mummy myself.
It was now or never and so I found myself reading the 'Book of the Dead' and wondering if the woman in the green coat would kill us all with her raspy cough.
The late Father Pat Moore used to say the Irish do death very well. We are the Egyptians of the western world.
This story may or may not be true. The lack of sources never stopped me before and I'll let you decide for yourselves, but the mobile phone story does have a ring of truth to it. I'm 99.9pc sure the story is true.
The deceased had three ears. Two ordinary ones and the third was his mobile. He was never off the phone.
Just like an Egyptian, the dead man's family decided to equip their loved one for the perilous journey through the afterlife.
They put his phone in the coffin. And right as he was about to be lowered into the grave, the phone went off.
The ring tone, I'm told, was 'Glory, Glory Hallelujah'.
We have no information as to who it was made the call.
It may well have been from someone who didn't know the deceased was dead or it could have been a mourner with a sense of humour.
Maybe the dead man asked for the practical joke.
The ancient Egyptians believed we died twice. The first time was when we stopped breathing and the second was when the last person spoke our name.
I pass a country graveyard sometimes on my drive to Cork. I often brought my mam that way on her journey for chemo.
She told me her aunt was buried there. The aunt was very nice to mam when her mam died. Mam was only a baby.
I got into the habit of saying a prayer for the grand aunt I never knew. I asked her to take care of me, even though I don't know her name.
Next week I will call to our beloved Auntie Lena. She'll know and I will say my grand aunt's name as I pass by. I'm sure she has family who remember her every day.
Wouldn't it be nice if we went back through our ancestors and just said their names?
The saying of the name is a thinking of, a remembering of their days and deeds, a keeping alive. The saying of a name means our ancestors and our friends only die once.