There is a tradition in non conformist religions that when a person dies it is beholden on the Minister who conducts the funeral to say something good about the recently deceased.When I was a mere whippersnapper of a lad around the age of eighteen an uncle of mine passed away. Then as now, a service was first held in the deceaseds house before moving on to the internment. These services took place amid as many people as could be crammed into the parlour, living room, passage, and kitchen. In small houses the intensity of the occasion was increased tenfold by this gathering. This I thought was rather unfair on the immediate family as they were under enough stress without having to cope with the prying eyes and ears of a multitude of people who wanted the service to end as quickly as possible. However, just when you thought things couldnt get any worse there were occasions when they did. This was largely due to the selection of the Minister in charge.Ministers came in all shapes and sizes. The majority were sympathetic to the needs of the bereaved and would more often than not conduct a short low key service to spare the mourners any unnecessary grief. Not so one Carmel Jones. Jones was from the old school. He would deliver a service as though he were playing to the gallery. His voice would bellow with exhortations to the LORD a word he could hold and expand for a full five seconds. There wasnt an emotion he couldnt tap into at will and increase its intensity. The effect of this skill was to send some close mourners off into faints and levels of grief that would challenge a cult deprogrammer. And so it was in my uncles funeral that he started his mesmeric machinations.I, my cousin Tony and his father Gareth were situated in the passage of the house when the service started. It wasnt long before we got fed up with Carmels act and so we started talking amongst ourselves. I started to relate a tale about a man called John Treorchy who lived over the mountain in Hirwaun. He was a hated man and no one had a good word for him. When he died speculation was rife as to what the Minister would say about him, compelled as he would be to say something good. On the day of the funeral hundreds turned out for a man who in life couldnt have expected more than a grave digger and a preacher to bury him. As the wind and rain blew everyone strained to hear what the Minister would say about this most reviled of men. Well" the Minister said We have come to bury John Treorchy. Ill say this for him. He was a good whistler.Back at the funeral I was attending I hadnt realised that everyone in ear shot had listened to me and the effect of the tale had released some tension as everyone was trying desperately to stifle laughter. The harder they tried the more they wanted to laugh. The upshot was that we had to get out of the house as fast as possible which we did. Outside people were sympathetic as about fifteen men walked out hiding their faces and wiping their eyes. I remember an old woman saying to her friend. Duw. That Carmel Jones really knows his stuff.