There are four things you need to know:
1. My uncle died in January 2005.
2. He was a drunk.
3. So were most of his friends.
4. We're Polish.

So here we all are in the funeral home in Brooklyn, New York. Everything is very Catholic, and very somber, considering he died of cancer at about age 50 (and because it's a funeral, you sick twunts). The priest, also Polish, is significantly late because it's the time of year he blesses people's houses. By this time, some of my uncle's more impatient but cautiously religious friends have secretly begun to drink the nips of whisky they brought along in their coats. I say "secretly" because my mum is tough, hates drunks, and would bust them in five seconds.

The priest arrives and the prayers begin. Now, I have to applaud the priest. He was fresh off the boat from Krakow but his English grammar isimpeccable. The only problem? His accent. It's thick. Impenetrably thick. Chop-his-voice-with-a-meat-cleaver-but-only-make-it-halfway-through-before-getting-stuck thick. But the drunks sitting in the back don't realise that we are aware of this, and one of them bellows:

"SPEAK ENGLISH!!!"

at the top of his voice.

If her brother hadn't been lying in state in the front of the room, my mother would have ripped the drunk man's bollocks off with her bare hands. And I think the priest would have absolved her on the spot.

My mum's great.
( KersaI Missive Free Michael Shields! with Monday's Liverpool Echo, Fri 12 May 2006, 6:25, Reply)