Message from Granny Frass: Shameless at the Wake…

Some wakes honor the dead. Some reveal the living. And some, well… some are just a bloody disgrace.

Well now – I’ve seen some carry-on in my time, but what went on at that wake… Jesus, Mary and St. Joseph on a motorbike. If I’d had a body, I’d have thrown my good shoe at half the room.

Do they think we’re not watching from up here? That the dead don’t talk? Pet, let me tell you – we see everything. And what I saw at your poor father’s wake was a circus of shamelessness.

The lies. The scheming. The smug faces pretending innocence. The bloody neck of them.

Your lad showing up like that? That poor boy didn’t know what side was up (or did he? That’s another story!), God love him. And there they were – sitting back and letting it happen like it was some episode of a cheap soap opera. Bully and Fanny pulling strings behind the scenes, delivering shocks for their own entertainment and acting the saint while doing it. I could smell the hypocrisy all the way up here.

And the rest of them? Clutching their pearls, pulling their faces like slapped arse’s and pretending to be oh-so-shocked when you spoke his name. As if they didn’t know. As if they hadn’t seen the lad standing there. Spineless, the whole lot of them. Not one of them with the guts to call out the mess for what it was. Sitting there sipping tea and whispering like a coven of dried-up hens.

And Bully – don’t get me started on that man. Making his moves, playing his little games, all for what? Control? Drama? His own smug satisfaction? I hope that shiny new truck of his breaks down in rush hour and he has to push it home with a flat shoe and a sour face.

They disrespected your father’s memory with that carry-on. A wake’s meant to be a place for truth, for setting things down, for remembering a life – not staging surprises like some poxy talent show. No decency. No shame. Not a speck of respect between them.

I’ll tell you this, pet – you did the right thing speaking up. I was bursting with pride up here. Watching you call them out, watching their faces drop like stones in a pond. That’s the kind of backbone this family’s been missing for years.

And I’ll haunt anyone who says otherwise.

You remember this: it’s the ones who squirm when truth’s spoken that have the most to hide. Let ‘em twitch. Let ‘em whisper. You’ve got bigger things to do than worry about the opinions of gobshites.

So from me, up here with a porter in hand and a cigarette I can’t get told off for – well done, pet. You rattled the cages. Keep going. The truth has a way of setting a lot more than just hearts free.

Granny Frass x

Message of the Day:

If life’s feeling a bit mad lately, don’t panic…
Some days you’re the lighthouse…
Other days you’re the shipwreck…

Either way – you still get to watch the gobshites scramble when the tide goes out.

Stay weird, stay loud, and if all else fails – blame it on Mercury Retrograde, the moon or your dead Granny.
She won’t mind.