Reed: a quiet one for the road

AS USUAL, Oliver Reed created a scene. Chaos descended on the small Irish community where he was buried yesterday, when hundreds gathered outside the high iron gates of St James's Church in Mallow, County Cork.

His funeral was expected to attract the infamous, the louche and, above all, the downright indestructible, but during the service at least, they kept a low profile. Instead, it was the ordinary people of Cork who turned out in full to pay their last respects. Local police were surprised by the numbers.

Meanwhile, the usual suspects were expected to attend the wake, which Reed's brother, Simon, vowed would be "the mother of all parties".

"Rest in peace? I don't think so tonight, anyway," he added, to laughter and applause from the mourners, a sentiment Reed would have toasted.

Some years back, he lamented: "Gone, all gone. Flynn, Burton, Bogart. Richard Harris doesn't any more. Who's going to captain the 2nd XI if I fall down?"

There weren't any obvious contenders among the rather grizzled-looking, grey-haired survivors who did show up at the church, among them the snooker champion Alex Higgins, looking drawn and sombre, and film director Michael Winner.

Around 500 people hung around outside the church hoping to spot other former hell-raisers, in particular Peter O'Toole, Keith Richards and John Hurt. The actor's adult son and daughter from his marriage to Kate Byrne and his relationship with dancer Jacquie Daryl were also expected. The scene inside the simple single-spire church was a striking one, due mainly to the degree of sobriety, considering those who were present.

Reed was buried in the tiny cemetery under a beech tree and within view of O'Brien's Bar in Churchtown. The modest, whitewashed pub was well stocked for the occasion - its cellars full and 50 barrels of beer lined up outside. The rest of the village, swarming with camera crews and reporters, had been freshly painted and filled with flowers.

After the service, guests retired to a marquee in the grounds of Reed's country pile, set in 20 acres of idyllic countryside. There they did what he had managed to do for the best part of half a century: drink, drink and drink some more.

Reed lived at Castle McCarthy with his third wife Jacqueline Burge, who married him in 1985 when she was just 21. He died a fortnight ago from a heart attack in a Valletta bar. Reed was in Malta preparing for a role in a new Steven Spielberg production, The Gladiator.

Loud and outrageous, his style went far beyond parody. "Buy these working class pigs a drink," he would roar, slapping pounds 50 down on the bar. He famously addressed American feminist Kate Millet as "Big Tits" and, typically, his door knob at Castle McCarthy was penis-shaped. He would often refer to "my mighty mallet" with its celebrated tattoo of a pair of bird's talons. The deed, he said, was done in Los Angeles by the Chinese wife of a Mexican tattooist following a bet with a mercenary soldier.

Asked how he wanted to go, he replied: "Somewhere near Cork, after having a heart attack, due to laughing too much at a bad joke."

After his death, his body was returned to Ireland and lay for a week in a funeral home 10 feet from another favourite watering hole, Mary Jo Fitzgerald's Welcome Inn, where Reed's portrait hangs. He was one of its rowdiest patrons but also much respected, mainly for his involve- ment in local fund-raising. He volunteered immediately when asked by a local radio station to help to raise pounds 90,000 for a handicapped girl born with no limbs. Reed stayed in touch and always remembered her birthdays.

The burial was delayed so his wide circle of friends could fly in. As his coffin was loaded into a hearse at Cork Airport, it was, unwittingly, placed beside an ad for a well-known brand of stout which read: "Last call - Have one before you go."