We divvied up the hat money and the lads got sorted from the barman. Instruments were packed away and slung over shoulders. Then we waited five minutes for Dave to finish yapping with the maid behind the bar. He was in good form and as he was holding the merchandise, he was in no rush. Little progress was being made with the maid but Dave enjoyed buttering up barmaids for months before going in for the kill, like a cat around hot milk.

“He might as well go home and butter up his own cock,” said Brian, “the only blow he’s going to get today is in his top pocket and he’s fuckin’ dawdlin’ with that cow. ARE YE RIGHT, DAVE, ye cunt.”

“She’s a fuckin’ ride that one,” proclaimed Dave when he emerged.

“Are ye makin’ progress?” I asked.

“I am.”

“Ye are like fuck.”

“I fuckin’ am, in about six months I’ll have her smilin’ at me and evertin’, Ha Ha Ha.”

We headed down to the Liffey where we were in open space and could see for hundreds of yards in all directions. There weren’t too many around, it being Sunday lunchtime. We crossed the road and leaned against the wall. I leaned over and spat into the Liffey for no good reason other than it stank. The path on this side was too narrow for strollers and with the stinky Liffey behind us and the smoggy road in front of us we felt comfortable sparking up in broad daylight.

“Nice few tunes this morning.”

“I wouldn’t’ve come in if I knew Mick was on,” said Brian.

“Ah, Mick’s alright.”

“Ah, he just gives me a dirty look every time I open me mouth.”

“Decent hat as well, fair play Spud,” I said jangling my pocket full of small change.

“It’s a skill,” said Spud proudly.

The joint came my way. I took a couple of blasts, and whoosh! I could feel the blood moving through my veins, tickling the inside of my skin, a nice feeling, by and large.

“What’s the plan, Brian?” I asked.

“Are ye on for a few more tune-eens and pint-eens? … or do I have to ask?”

“You don’t and I am.”

“I’m going for a bit of a nose bag, then I might drop into Kelly’s,” said Spud.

“Who’s on in Kelly’s?”

“Fintan Doyle and that crowd.”

“What is it, ballads or tunes?”

“It’s a pound-a-pint.”

“Shurly you mean euro,” said Dave in a pretty good Kerry accent.

“I do,” replied Spud in the same.

“Well then it’s settled then, boy.”

“Who’s on for some grub first? The munchies are kickin’ in,” asked Spud.

“Not me, I just had the breakfasht,” I said.

“Yeah, a liquid one,” said Brian with held breath and lungs full of good Moroccan smoke, “who wants the last of this?”

“Let’s go to McDonald’s for a big-fuckoff-burger.”

“Sure that’s only more liquid food,” I said, “pre-digested crud.”

“Yeah,” said Brian doing the wanking gesture, “with the special sauce, Heh Heh Heh!”

Spud and Dave went off for a sandwich or something cheap and carriable that would be paid for in small change while me and Brian went ahead to get some seats. But really, who were we kidding? Musicians always got seats.

“What happened to Paul?” I asked.

“Oh shit, I’ll call him.”

For call, read SMS, ‘whr r u? were in kellys come on dwn’.

“Do you know these heads playin’?” I asked Brian.

“Don’t know, maybe.”

We went into Kelly’s and had a gander. I’d never been in Kelly’s before. It was nice enough I suppose, overwhelmingly dark-brown and dirty-wooden, with about five different small rooms either up or down a couple of steps. The session was at the front, near the door and beside the bar. There was an oul’ fella’ with a guitar and a pint at a table with a ‘Resvered’ (sic) sign on it. We asked if he was playing and he answered in the affirmative so we grabbed a couple of stools and I went to the bar for a couple of creamy lovelies. The place was fairly full for a Sunday afternoon, especially for a place with no pub-grub. The ones that were there were mostly tourists or hardened drinkers on an extended Sunday morning pint-up. Three youngish American girls came in and asked if we were going to play some music. We also answered in the affirmative and got them to sit near us.

“Where are you girls from?”

“We’re from the states.”

“Go’way!!! Which part?”

“Kentucky.”

“Oh, I know Kentucky.”

“Really? Have you been there?”

“No, but I’ve tried your chicken. It’s pretty good.”

“Oh yeah, doesn’t that come with the special sauce?” I sniggered.

“You mean Kentucky Fried Chicken? No, that doesn’t have sauce, but we got the coating ...” then all three in unison, “... with eleven different herbs and spices!!”

“Actually, Foy here is a bit of a gourmet chef. He has his own special sauce.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, he whips it up himself every night. Maybe he’ll give yiz a taste later if he’s lucky, Heh Heh Heh!”

“Dublin Foy’d Chicken, Ah Ha Ha Ha.”

Just then the rest of the crew came in. There was commotion as seats were arranged and instruments were plonked down or swung around. The punters held onto their glasses in case the unthinkable happened. Me and Brian held on with both hands. Then to make matters worse Dave and Spud arrived back glowing with full stomachs, and they brought Paul with them. Apparently Paul and Dave knew each other from somewhere. Well, Paul knew Dave and Dave at least pretended to remember Paul.

On the way to the pub Paul had spotted Dave walking down Dame Street. He stopped him and asked him the time, Dave told him, to which Paul replied “Thanks, Dave.” Dave was a bit shocked at this and is all like “Who the fuck are you?” Paul explained their tenuous connection and Dave goes ...

“Oh yeah, you had longer hair, didn’t you?”

“No.”

“You had a face-lift, changed your name and got shorter?”

“Yeah, that’s me. Do you remember ‘Hairy Molly’?”

“Ah, for fuck’s sake, say no more.”

Myself and Brian knew ‘Wild’ Billy Hickey from way back when we used to do a Wednesday night out near Chapelizod, a disastrous gig that thankfully only lasted a few weeks. The gig ended when Billy went for some bodhràn player who was talking during a song and bit him on the cheek, bloody mess, cops were called and everything. Though that was very much out of character, it must be said. Billy seemed to be the head honcho here, so at least we could mooch in on the session without waiting politely for an invitation. He was a real old timer, a fine singer but a moany old cunt of Olympic proportions who I’d never seen once with the merest sign of having drink taken despite gargling to beat the band ... literally.

“Jaysus, I’m sick of this poxy place and playing for bloody tourists.”

That was Billy.

“Did ye get a pint for yourself, Foy? I hope you didn’t pay full price for that. I’ll bring it back up to the bar and get you a refund if you did, get ye yer pound back.”

“Ah no, you’re grand Billy, sure it’s all euro these days anyway.”

“Yeah, I’ll never get used that. They charged us a pound-apint here for years an’ now it’s one bleedin’ euro fifty, miserable bastards, pain in the arse.”

Brian and Paul were chatting to the Americans, trying to fry some chicken you might say but the lads were tuning up so I got my fiddle out and rosined it heavily.

“Are ye playin’ much, Billy?”

“Am I shite, I was playin’ local this morning, here this afternoon, and one on Wednesday and that’s enough for me. I don’t want to be boring the arse off meself. Is he a friend of yours?”

“Yeah, this is Spud. Spud ... Billy Hickey.”

“How’s it goin’.”

The tunes started up at the usual leisurely pace. There was only myself, Fintan the flute player, two guitars and a mandolin. Billy let Spud take the tunes and he sang the songs, as it should’ve been. Billy sang his usual Luke Kelly repertoire and was in fine voice. The Americans were buying Brian and Paul pints so I gave Brian a shout and played ‘The Hag with the Money’ into ‘Will You Come Home With Me’, but he didn’t get it.

Tunes

Banter

Tunes

Banter

Song

Tunes

Banter

Song

Billy roared out ‘Scorn Not His Simplicity’, hushing the house an’ then we took a piss break. I went to see how the lads were getting on.

“How’re yiz gettin’ on, lads?”

“These girls beat up some guy in Waterford.”

“We didn’t beat him up, we fought him off.”

“He couldn’t keep his hands off me. He was as drunk as I don’t know what.”

“As an Irishman? Heh Heh.”

“He was practically raping her.”

“Oh ay, Waterford’s the place for a good oul’ fashioned public raping.”

“Another couple of pints and yiz’ll be beatin’ up these guys too, so you’d better keep an eye on them.”

“Oh we are, don’t worry.”

“Watch out for his pecker.”

“His PECKER?? Oh my GOD!!!! Where did you guys hear THAT?”

“We do get American TV over here.”

“What’s a pecker?”

“A dick.”

“Oh yeah ... then what’s a woody?”

“A WOODY?? Jeez Louise!”

“That’s a hard-on.”

“... then what the fuck is Woody Woodpecker?? Ah Ha Ha Ha.”

“Heh Heh Heh, good point, Foy.”

“Hey yeah, Woody Woodpecker, what the fuck is that? Hardy Bone-Dick?” We all had a good laugh at that.

“Where’s Spud? He disappeared about twenty minutes ago to the jax and didn’t come back, and what happened to Dave? I haven’t seen him since we arrived.”

“Dunno, he came in and disappeared, they’re probably having an oul’ toke somewhere.”

“Hmmmmm.”

Just then a bagpiper came into the pub in full Scottish regalia, playing … yes, you’ve guessed it, ‘Scotland the Brave’. Bagpipers seem to know only the one tune. He stood in the middle of the pub and piped and blew for all he was worth. The pub fell silent, or at least I think it did. The bagpipes were primarily invented to scare the bejaypers out of the enemy on ancient battle fields and consequently are bloody loud. Playing them in a confined space has the same effect as letting off a French banger in a tiled bathroom (I speak from experience on this matter). Glasses were cracking, dogs howling, drunks ‘WooHoo’ing and ears bleeding left, right and centre. The piper’s partner, also in the traditional dress of the Scot, went around the punters collecting for some charity or other. “HE’S PROBABLY COLLECTING FOR THE DEAF,” I said, but no-one heard me. One of the Yanks was shouting something into Paul’s ear. The poor guy was in pain from trying to hear and didn’t seem to be having too much success.

Just then, Spud sprang up like a ballerina from a music-box and started buck-lepping and pirouetting in front of the increasingly nervous piper, doing a fairly loose interpretation of a highland fling. ‘Fling’ being the operative word, arms and legs were being flung everywhere. He looked like a puppet being mastered by a very inexperienced, very drunk puppeteer, and would’ve looked more at home at a Nirvana concert than a Scottish ceili. The piper had had enough and slowly backed himself towards the door. By the fourth round of ‘Scotland the Brave’ he was gone and we could hear him stopping playing outside and his pipes groaning like a corpse letting go of its last wind. His partner also exited the building and the deaf people of Ireland were either a few quid better off or the money would be spent in the next pub.

Spud came over, beaming and sweating. My ears were ringing and Spuds lips were moving. They seemed to mouth “that was fuckin’ great, are yiz finished? I’ll get me guitar.” A round of drinks came down for the band and Spud returned and sat down. The session was picking up.