Pensioner wins the right to be buried in his garden. No, we’ve not lost the plot

MAYO Country Council consistently denied Marti n Neary’s planning application, until An Bord Pleanála overturned their decision and gave Martin the green light for a single, simple plot on his own where he can be buried, in his own back garden, so to speak.

Martin is a pensioner who lives at Mullenmadogue, Co. Mayo. He has doggedly endured many disappointments throughout a protracted battle between himself and council officials. Martin persevered because he was confident he had good case.

‘I was born in the place, have lived in the place, except for a spell in England, and want to be buried in the place.’

Buried! Gives a whole new lease of life to that old Irish marriage proposal, ‘how would you like to be buried with my people?’

Martin says he has no close relatives, and it’s just him, a bachelor with a bit of land, which we know is big enough to accommodate at least one coffin.

What a prospect! I can only imagine hundreds of single women being intrigued by Martin’s perspicacity in getting planning permission to dig his own grave.

Sadly, the mobile phone has changed the dating scene in Ireland.

The Lisdoonvarna Matchmaking Festival and other festivals of t hat il k, are all under t he cosh from Facebook, Twitter and are thousands of sites of dating-social-porn content.

Be careful though. You don’t want to wind up talking at cross-purposes with a Venezualan pimp.

With so many punters now staying home at night, the matchmaking events are going by the wayside. My intuition tells me that Martin is more likely to have dog sitting on his lap rather than a computer.

Surprisingly, Martin took a strong line and blindsided us by affirming to all concerned, that he didn’t want to be buried on ‘consecrated ground,’ a traditional burial ground. ‘I’m an atheist,’ he said ‘with no interest in religion.’

It would be nice to think that after his successful appeal the story would settle down, but the battle between Lisdoonvarna and Google, sounds like a battle for the soul of Ireland.

The other problem is that following Martin will come the cowboy builders getting on to their local planning office like a shot.

Before you know i t, people everywhere will want it and by 2030 the ‘grave out the back’ will have become de rigueur for modern housing.

Martin is probably unaware that when it comes to graves, there are a couple of interesting sidebars in our canon. On Christmas Day, 1966, Tim Hayes was buried alive in a coffin in Cobh, Co. Cork. Nobody thought it foolhardy, except Tim’s mother, who gasped: ‘I’ll die 100,000 times while he is down there.’

After a hearty turkey and ham dinner. Tim, with great sangfroid, climbed into the coffin and was lowered into the grave.

When he re- emerged into the yard, one hundred hours later, a great cheer greeted him, the returning hero.

Tim cl aimed a new world record.

Just a year later, Tim’s record had been eclipsed by Mick Meany, a bartender, who worked for Butty Sugrue, one of most outrageous and colourful characters in London Irish history.

A former strongman with Duffy’s Circus, Butty did well as a landlord and had two pubs, the Admiral Nelson and later the Duke of Wellington in Shepherd’s Bush.

A great man for self-promotion, he regularly stopped the traffic with stunts like pulling a Red London Bus with his teeth. It was great publicity and more notoriety for Butty.

Butty was from Killorglin, Co. Kerry, as was my Ma.

In the late Seventies, I got a gig, singing for a week, in The Duke of Wellington pub in Shepherd’s Bush.

Butty was like one big roundy muscle, small and squat and giving off a sweaty odour.

THE first night was an incredible ordeal. The f ew punters that came i n the front door, ignored me and the only thing that was consistent all night was the sight of Butty glaring at me, putting a hex on me, until finally he came to me and said ominously, ‘I won’t be needing you tomorrow night.’

In the morning I approached Butty and daringly asked that even though I wouldn’t be ‘singing tonight, would he be paying me for the previous night?’

The coincidence of shared small town beginnings in Killorglin of Butty and my Ma, cut no ice with Butty.

There was menace in his eyes and when he spoke it was a feral growl.

‘If I were you,’ sez Butty, ‘I’d get outta here quick as you can… you’re lucky to be getting away with your life.’