Now that religion is part of the entertainment business, thanks not just to Father Ted but to the antics of Messrs Casey, Comiskey, Connell, Big Ian, Woytila, David Icke and their acolytes, it seemed essential to check out the current stadium tour by the bones of St Therese.

And so I find myself trundling into Monaghan town on a bright sunny Saturday morning recently. Surprisingly, the town is not exactly en fête. In fact the most colour is provided by the Gardai “no parking” bollards. More flags are flying from MaCarren’s Pub than any other building and nobody I speak to seems to know when the gig is due to get going. Even the latest copy of the Anglo Celt tells me nothing and there are no clues at the foreboding St McCartan’s Cathedral overlooking the town, although a man is busy vacuuming the lawn in anticipation of the coming visit.

In McConnon’s pub the discussion is about who stayed late last night and with whom, and it’s there I ascertain that the shindig will start just outside the door in the Old Cross Square where the saint’s Bonemobile is due to arrive at 2 pm, just two hours away.

Deciding to foil the anticipated 20,000-strong crowd I start my vigil outside the Free Presbyterian Church at about noon. Only two hours to go and there’s nobody else here.

Well not quite nobody. A bloke is talking animatedly on a mobile phone while at the same time walking speedily up and down the street, eventually covering more miles than Sonia O’Sullivan. He’s not at all happy with his family and he’s loudly guaranteeing them he’s going to win the Lotto that night and when he does he’s going to put his name in the paper and not give them a single penny, so there.

Two cops arrive and after bouncing up and down on their heels for a while, disappear again. At 12.45 a man arrives with a megaphone, but says nothing. He’s followed by a man wearing bicycle clips, but no bicycle, and looking very self-appointedly officious.

By 1 o’clock there are a few people scattered about the square enjoying the sun. A few pass by carrying bunches of flowers, but none are for me. A Marley Bus drives past, but I doubt if it’s heading to Babylon.

At 1.20 a platoon of the FCA arrive and by half past one there are about 100 fans, mostly elderly and children scattered about in semi-curious clusters, apart from three teenage girls immersed in a debate about religion liberally sprinkled with expletives. The debate ends when one girl admits, “I don’t believe in God, like, but I sometime pray, like.” To which one of her mates asks pointedly, “Well who the fuck do you pray to, then?” On that philosophical note the discussion moves on to higher matters, like what they might like to do to some of the choicest of the local lads.

At 1.40 a band arrives and sporadically strike up some appropriately war-like Irish folk ballads, but strangely omitting such obvious gems as ‘When The Saints Go Marchin In’, ‘Dem Bones, Dem Bones’ and Van’s ‘Did You Get Healed?’. Megaphone man at last gets to do his thing, but his sole announcement is lost in a squall of feedback, just like a real rock gig.

By five past two the late Saint Therese is now the late late Saint Therese, but the oompahing band are suddenly silenced in mid-oomp with the arrival of the Bonemobile, a lacklustre version of the sort showbands use to use.

The crowd, now about 200, shuffles forward to get their first glimpse of the coffin. It’s eerily small, less than five feet long. The priests and a batch of altar-boys of both genders arrive in their nice freshly-laundered frocks and with everybody in place the parade begins to trickle up the hill, lead by the band and followed by the clergy, the Bonemobile, the FCA lads and some of the local worshippers, passing one house which has set up a small shrine in its front garden.

Up at the cathedral there’s a bigger crowd waiting outside, including schoolkids dressed in uniforms and marshalled by what must be their teachers. When the Bonemobile arrives the coffin is carried up the steps by the FCA men. The presiding priest mumbos his jumbo and the coffin is brought inside where there is a large congregation already gathered.

Such unfortunates as myself left outside push forward and eventually everybody gets in, especially the five-year-old little fucker with the Beckham haircut who’s spent the last twenty minutes kicking the ankles off me. There’s some more mumbo-jumbo inside and people eventually move around to pass the coffin.

The active worshippers seem to break down into a few basic groups: the casual sightseers, the recreationally pious and those of serious mien. Outside, the merchandise stalls are doing slow business, selling the kind of cheap tat you wouldn’t even get at Knock. After much searching I find a few real gems, including a microdot of cloth which is alleged to have touched the bones, a St Therese Visor Clip and, a real find this, a St Therese Fridge Magnet. They set me back a whopping £5.50 but they must be worth at least ten pence each.

Back in the town life continues as before. Customers in McConnon’s Pub are still debating what time people left last night.

Saints come and go, but somebody has to get the next round in.

While for me this was a momentary diversion and a chance to visit the friendly town of Monaghan for the first time in years, for others there is more serious business afoot, and some of them can be found in Corr’s Corner Restaurant.

A middle-aged man wearing pioneers pins, fáinnes and a whole forge full of steel on his lapels, looks at my jacket and when he makes out the legend “The Four Of Us” remarks with a knowing smirk, “Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, right?”. When I say “No, a rock band from Newry, actually,” he looks perplexed and very disappointed. Probably a Therapy? fan.

I fall into conversation with Jamesy (not his real name). He’s from Fermanagh and he came here today because his life has reached a nadir. His wife lost both her legs in a car accident, one of his sons is in jail in the North “for a sex-related offence” and his seventeen-year-old daughter is pregnant with her third child “out of wedlock”. He says he finds it easier to talk about these things to strangers than to his friends or neighbours.

“My daughter lost it totally after her brother got all the publicity after his trial. She drinks heavily and doesn’t care about anything any more. The father of her latest baby is a Protestant and I’m at my wits end. I came here today to pray that maybe Saint Therese will sort out this mess.”

While talking to me his eyes alternately fill with tears and blaze with hope. I can’t help feeling that this man’s dilemma represents the nub of this unholy business. On the one hand you harbour deep misgivings about those who are leading him on like this, but on the other you can see how it’s given him the strength to keep on keeping on. When I leave him, tears are streaming down his face and I feel more helpless and useless than I’ve felt in a long time.

When I talk to Fiona, a retired teacher from Donegal, I get another take on the occasion. “I’ve spent about half of my life savings travelling around to each of the places the relics are visiting,” she explains. “I can’t really explain why. I can’t say I believe in any of this but for some reason it makes me feel good.”

I tell her she’s like one of the Deadheads following the Grateful Dead, but the point, and the pun, are both lost on her. When I explain she laughs good-naturedly, “I suppose your Deadheads were looking for something that wouldn’t interest me!”.

And so it’s time to leave. Monaghan is back to normal remarkably quickly and to all intents and purposes it’s just like an ordinary Saturday afternoon.

As for me, it was a day of mild diversion tinged with Jamesy’s sad tale. Maybe such tours will become a regular feature of Irish life, the bones of dead people being trundled around the country. After all we need something to take our minds off the end of Glenroe and our relegation from the Eurovision Premiership.

So I’m now looking forward to the visit of St Andrew. Unusual for a man of his time, he had two heads, one of which is on show in Amalfi in Italy and the other in Patras, Greece. So why not put the two together for a double-bill – a real double-header?

After all, anything would be better than the Grateful Dead.