A cold, sharp wind blew down Harcourt Street, along St Stephen’s Green and into Grafton Street, where it gradually began to turn the Lord Mayor’s nose red. “Are we early or are they late or what?” he asked unhappily as he headed for shelter.
The Mayor was early. The funeral of Thom McGinty – the Diceman – arrived on schedule at the top of Grafton Street at 10.30 a.m. His sisters Marie McGinty and Pauline Pearson, and two of his closest friends, Helen and Anne Sexton, prepared to lead the way down Grafton Street carrying one of Thom’s famous white facemasks on a board surrounded by flowers.
“Thom would have loved all this,” said his mother, Ms Mary McGinty. “The crowds, the media, all his friends. He’s getting a great reception.” And now here came the Lord Mayor, in glittering chain, to sympathise and shake everyone’s hand.
McGinty’s father, Tommy, suffering from a fractured spine, stayed in the car as the procession headed down Grafton Street, a large crowd building up behind the coffin. A one-man-band complete with drums, cymbals and gaudy decorations began his own tribute at his own tempo, singing in a subdued voice.
“I looked over Jordan, and what did I see? (thump) Coming for to carry me home . . . (thump, thump) A band of angels coming for me, (thump) coming for to carry me home . . .” (thump, crash).
As his voice faded, a man pushed his way forward and handed one of Thom’s friends a large bouquet. “From the flower sellers, Chatham Street,” the card read.
By now, Grafton Street was deathly silent, the only sound the footsteps of what had grown to about 2,000 people, following McGinty on his last journey down his favourite stage.
It was here the Scottish-born actor made his name, advertising the Diceman shop by standing motionless for hours on end. Later, when admirers blocked the street and the law gave him trouble, he perfected a slow walk to avoid being charged with loitering.
McGinty was writing his autobiography before his battle with AIDS came to an end last Monday. He recalled how the shop initially hired him for three weeks. He kept the job for more than three years, unflinching as people poked and prodded to see if he was real. “For some reason or other, women of all ages were very keen to pinch my bum,” he wrote. “If I did it to them I’d be had up for assault.”
He had stood still for so long, but now in a fitting tribute, Grafton Street stood still for the Diceman. When the coffin reached Bewley’s the crowd burst into sustained applause.
Relays of pallbearers included the musician Gavin Friday, the cabaret artist Alan Amsby (“Mr Pussy”) and the actor Olwen Fouere. They brought the coffin to the end of Grafton Street from where it was off to Glasnevin cemetery, McGinty’s facemask staring out from the back of the hearse.
There artists Charlie O’Neill, Susan Kennedy and Mick O’Dea and McGinty’s manager, Mr Aidan Murphy, remembered their friend for the crowd which packed the small crematorium chapel. McGinty had asked to be cremated, and his ashes to be scattered in Baltinglass, Co Wicklow, where he believed he was conceived.
He had chosen the music too. McGinty’s coffin slid slowly behind a curtain to the sound of Marianne Faithful’s and Mick Jagger’s “Sister Morphine”.
“It’s going to be hard to imagine Dublin without Thom,” said Mr O’Dea. “He never had to consciously decide to leave the theatre and go out to the people, because that’s where he started. That’s where he got the buzz – that was his life. He was very much an artist of the people.”
Read the original article from The Irish Times archive here.
Selected by Joe Joyce; email fromthearchives@irishtimes.com
