SWEET SORROW

Alan Cochrane on why there’s no need to fear the reaper

Although regular readers may remember that I recently waxed lyrical about the joy of weddings (other people’s, of course), the social gatherings where I appear to spend most time these days are funerals and memorial services. And before I go any further, am I the only one to suggest that the latter are increasingly replacing the former, with funerals now often restricted to close family only?

The relentless march of Father Time is of course the reason my black tie is always close at hand these days. Hardly a week passes without my emails telling me of another old friend or comrade who’s passed away, and because I work for The Daily Telegraph I am also an occasional contributor to its world-famous obituaries column. It never ceases to amaze me how much comfort the bereaved get from seeing a report of their late loved one’s life on that page.

I’ve recently attended two funerals, could have attended at least two more, and at time of writing am due to attend what’s expected to be a very well-attended memorial service. There can be little doubt that such occasions are now the places to keep up with friends and acquaintances, especially for those of us who have reached, how shall I put it, a mature age.

The first of the two funerals I attended was a surprising affair, in as much that I was genuinely shocked, in a pleasant way, to discover that it was non-religious. We were saying goodbye to Angus Macleod, my old sparring partner as Scottish political editor and subsequently Scottish Editor of The Times. I would have bet a considerable amount of money that old Angus was of the Wee Free persuasion, so many jokes and jibes did he make over the years about the ‘backsliders’ of the established Kirk. Imagine my amazement, then, to discover that his farewell service was conducted in a crematorium chapel not by some stern hellfire Hebridean minister but by a jovial humanist preacher.

It was an incredibly joyous occasion, with family and friends uniting to regale us with often hilarious tales of a complex man and smashing journalist. A wake, or ‘ purvey’ as they call it in Glaswegian, followed in a posh hotel where his friends got to meet the family we didn’t know he had.

The second funeral was of Lord Mackie of Benshie, a giant in every way of Scotland’s political firmament, and whose send-off was as traditionally Scottish as Macleod’s was not, to the extent that we sang the Auld Hundred, the 23rd Psalm and Abide with Me in a packed Kirriemuir kirk. We had an excellent eulogy from Lord (David) Steel, George’s protégé, but the old man’s life, times, foibles and sterling qualities were brilliantly and emotionally recalled by his daughters and grand-daughters. George was then ‘planted’ in Kirrie’s magnificent hilltop cemetery, with its views of the parks and dykes of Strathmore, before we repaired to the Town Hall for some lavish refreshment.

My point here is that with families and friends spread so widely nowadays it is often only at funerals that people can keep in touch. I accept, of course, that for most people the loss of a loved one is an overwhelmingly sad event but equally the fact that others share in the grief is surely a great consolation.

Those who have lived a full life invariably leave behind a rich hoard of anecdotes, giving rise to a lot of black humour. Angus was always the Private Fraser of the Scottish hackpack, forever telling colleagues that ‘we are all doomed’ and the Old Kirk in Kirriemuir echoed with laughter when we heard of George Mackie’s advice to an aspiring young politician: don’t jump from one foot to the other while addressing the public ‘as if you’ve shat your breeks’.

At one of the funerals I couldn’t attend, the principal mourner said in his eulogy that this was the first time he’d ever said anything nice about someone like the dearly departed ‘who’d always put Irn Bru in his whisky’.