Shane Hegarty's encyclopaedia of modern Ireland.
These days there's some fine entertainment to be had from pulling up a pew at the back of a First Holy Communion service. They have developed quite the reputation for pomp and drama. It is reported that the children now arrive in all manner of vehicles: horse-drawn carriages, stretch limousines, helicopters, amphibious vehicles and Red Arrows jets. Kids swoop in on hang-gliders; they formation skydive into the church grounds.
First Holy Communion season has always produced boys in bad suits and worse haircuts, and girls who have magically transformed themselves into controlled explosions of silk and wool. Somehow, though, a ceremony already without parallel in its garishness has exceeded itself in recent years. Now they spend a week getting fake tans, make-up, false nails, eyelashes and highlights. But enough about the boys - what about the girls?
In order to be fully prepared, a girl's hair must reach three aisles in each direction, her dress must resemble an EU doily mountain and her purse must be encrusted with three kilograms of jewels. If a single person in the congregation is not blinded by their radiance, it has all been a failure. Apparently, it is standard for there to be some kind of stand-off at the church door, as each little princess attempts to be the last to walk in, so she can make the kind of grand entrance previously reserved for 19th-century monarchs.
And once the religious bit is over, it's time for a party that must feature the Russian State Circus and be attended by every person the family has ever met, from distant cousins to estranged fathers to people they met during that week in Majorca six years ago and never actually liked anyway. And it is here that the kids rake in the dough, with the going rate now being a Fabergé egg or a minor Picasso.
Those who frown on such behaviour blame new money, a la carte Catholicism or parents who feel they must make up for the time they don't spend with their children. Whatever the reason, ultimately it would appear that the manifestation of this mix of parental guilt, new-found riches and religious obfuscation is for people to affect the manners of a Mob family.
So even if you have no child of Communion age, or have not been invited to anybody else's big day, it's worth going down to quietly snigger at the absurdity of it all. To go away shaking your head smugly at the vulgar pageantry. Until it's your kid's turn. Then it will be time to book a hovercraft.