“How’s your father?” asked Fintan the flute player who up ‘til now had said nearly nothing.

“Wha’? ... eh, yeah, we had some earlier,” replied Spud a bit confused.

Then he turns and whispers to me, “Jaysus, this guy was introduced to me oul’ fella’ once at a session about three or four years ago and every time he sees me now he says ‘how’s your father?’ and I never know if he’s asking about me oul’ fella’ or if he’s talking about shaggin’ or ganja or wha’, Ha Ha!”

I had a good laugh at that one. “Jaysus, I’ll tell you what though, I could do with some ‘how’s your father’ tonight.”

“Do you mean shaggin’ or ganja?” he laughed.

“Both would be nice, how do you know him?”

“Who? me father?”

“No, Fintan, ye gobshite.”

“Ah, we had a couple of sessions in Ballina at the fleadh a few years ago. I was only startin’ playin’ and he looked after me and got me a few pints an’ all. Nice guy, just never fuckin’ says anthin’.”

Just then, Dave arrived.

“Where were you all this time? We thought you’d gone home.”

“No, I met these couple of mates from school. I hadn’t seen them in yonks so we had a couple of pints. We were just around the corner there, what’s the craic?”

“Fuck all. We’re just finishing up here, then I’ve to play in O’Shea’s in an hour or so, are you coming?”

“Mmmm, dunno, will you be able?”

“We’ll see. I’ll be able for something, though for what remains to be seen. Spud’s coming too, aren’t you Spud.”

“Suppose.”

We finished up in Kelly’s and headed off to O’Shea’s. This would be my third session today and I was starting to feel the worse for wear, but the craic was on. We managed to drag along the three yanks and Spud and Dave followed suit. Sunday night was one of my longest running sessions and it was with Tony Gear. ‘Hayes’ was his real name but we called him Tony Gear ‘cos he loved to smoke and was always going ‘would you happen to be in possession of some gear?’ or ‘obtained some prime quality gear over the weekend’. The word ‘gear’ stuck out so much ‘cos he rarely used slang and generally spoke like he’d swallowed a dictionary. Years ago he listened to himself and decided that he liked neither his accent nor his vocabulary and promptly decided to change both. The ‘Session Shakespeare’ we called him.

There were a couple of hours between the end of the last session and the start of the next, so we took up the musician’s table and got some pints in, just to tide us over between pints.

“Are you guys are trying to get us drunk?”

“We’re not havin’ to try too hard. Yiz seem to be doing pretty OK by yizerselves.”

“We’re visitors to this country, and all you guys do over here is try to get us drunk so you can molest us,” said the prettiest one, not seeming perturbed in the slightest by this truism.

“We’re trying to get ourselves drunk first and foremost.”

“Yeah, I’d rather molest me own liver than either of you.”

“Well, gee, that’s not a very nice thing to say.”

“Yeah, the truth hurts baby, Ha Ha!”

“I don’t think I like you.”

“Ah ye’ do, but you just don’t know it yet.”

“What? Jeez you guys, you’re all so … I dunno.”

“We’re the voice of reason. That’s why all the cops in America are Irish ...”

“Well, not ALL of them.”

“... we Irish are the thin blue line holding the fabric of American society together. Keeping all the gangsta rappers on their toes, beating back the savage American hordes, fighting the good fight, heh heh heh!”

“Well, lemme tell ya, there are plenty of savages on the force too back home.”

“Even in Kentucky?”

“Not really, in Kentucky we have red-neck cops, the Irish cops are in New York or Boston or Chicago.”

“Colonel Saunders was a red-neck?”

“No, he was a proud military man with the highest level clearance who sold secret chicken recipes to the Ruskies.”

“Yeah, that’s the great thing about America, they gather up all the lame brain psychos and stick them in the army and then fabricate lots of wars so they can keep them all permanently off American soil ...”

“Yeah, either that or they elect them president, Ha Ha!”

“... leaving them free to gang rape local women in places where they don’t have laws to deal with that kind of thing.”

“Jeez Louise, I can’t sit here and listen to you bad mouth our great nation like that.”

“Fine, sit over there and we’ll shout the abuse over to you, Ha Ha!”

“Ah don’t mind him, we’re only kidding. This is the hazing ritual all foreigners get here. It means that we like you. If you weren’t here we’d be abusing ourselves ...” oops!

“HEH Heh Heh Heh! Good man Foy! Tell it like it is.”

Just about then Tony arrived. Tony was a tall thin gentle man who always seemed to make slow deliberate movements. He was a few years older than any of us and carried a certain air of dignity about him. He’d get wrecked drunk sometimes but never make a tit of himself. His countenance demanded respect and he usually got it.

“Good lord, we have a fair sized gathering here this evening already.”

“How’s it going Tony, I brought a few mates along to pad it out.”

“I see you have been partaking of the juice of the grain again, Mr. Foy,” he smiled, he was used to me.

“Indeed and I have, some resin of the oul’ cannabis plant too.”

“I hope you’ll be able to give a good account of yourself later.”

“Like I said I brought some friends to pad it out so we should be OK.”

Introductions were made and seats allocated. Me and Tony had our usual seats. We’d been playing here for a couple of years so we pretty much had seats moulded to the shapes of our arses.

“How do you do?” he said to Spud.

“Ha Ha! How do you do too? Very well, thank you. Nice weather we’re having, Ha Ha!” he turned to me, “more tea vicar? Ha Ha!”

“Oh yes please, another gallon or two wouldn’t go amiss.”

Tony wasn’t amused at the piss being taken out of him but cheered up when more pints were called for.

“... oh, and say hello to our readers, Tony.”

“Hello, dear reader,” he said, smiling politely, “I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance.”

The girls were removed to the next table leaving ours as a ‘musicians only’ table. Brian and Dave positioned themselves so that they could theoretically be sitting at either table depending where the action was happening.

Jacko came in and took his arse-moulded seat. Jacko sang and played guitar, mostly Dubliners’ songs. He was a bit of a tosser but a nice fella’ all the same.

We got ourselves set up and started off. I immediately realised that I was far too pissed to play well and that I’d have to slow down on the oul’ pints if I was to make it through this session in an upright position. Fuck, I wasn’t usually this drunk ‘til the end of the night. I struggled through the first set but the sound was great. We started off with ‘The Bird Set’, ‘The Skylark’, ‘The Bird in the Bush’ and ‘Jenny’s Chickens’ as we did every week for the last two years. It was a tradition at this stage, so at least I knew them backwards. We finished that off and Tony stood up and gave his ‘welcome to the session’ speech. Session played in the traditional style blah blah, adequate floor space for dancing, blah blah, if you’re not inclined to sing then we suggest you simply remove your shoes and hum, blah blah, request are accepted only on the occasion of them being written on a ten euro note, blah blah. Same bloody speech week in week out, with the occasional heckle by the musicians present, “You’re humming even with your shoes on,” “here’s a tenner, sit down and shut up.” But Tony was used to us and wasn’t rattled in the slightest. Brian started off a couple of tunes on the flute, a couple of flashy ones to impress the ladies and with that kind of inspiration he was flying and the session was buzzing. We were now onto the second of our three free rounds and the air was thick with drunken good humour. Even Tony and Jacko who had some, well, a lot of catching up to do were in great form.

“Up ye boya! Good man Brian, ye bollix ye.”

“Thanks, ye poxy cunt, Heh Heh Heh.”

“Any time, you pea-brained flute-sucking twat, Ah Ha Ha.”

“Pleasure’s all mine, ye festering smeg sandwich.”

“AH HA HA HA!” That was a good one, festering smeg sandwich.

About this time a big foreign tall streak of misery in a suit came over to Spud with the words ‘The Wild Rover’ written on a ten euro note. A special request.

“I’m very sorry mate, but I don’t know it,” said Spud. Jacko avoided making eye-contact.

The poor guy began to sing it, ‘ No, Nay, Never, Clap Clap Clap Clap, No, Nay, Never, No More’.

“Oh yeah, Will I Sing the Wild Rover, No, Never, No More, yeah, I know the song but I don’t know the words.”

This guy didn’t give a fuck about the words, all he wanted was the Clap Clap Clap Clap.

Then Dave got involved, “Do you know that it’s illegal to deface legal tender in this country? You could be charged for writing on that note.”

The guy started laughing. Despite Dave’s top class poker face, he knew well he was being wound up.

“I wouldn’t mind if it was a half decent song, but this?”

Spud came back on line, “I’ll tell you what, I’ll sing you a different song you might like, what’s your name?”

“My name is Gerard.”

“From?”

“Salzburg.”

“OK, stick your tenner in the hat there and I’ll do a special number for ye.”

Spud stands up.

“Good man Spud.”

“Ladies and Gentlemen, I’d just like to sing a song and I want to ask for your attention for a minute or two. Yiz’ll also have to sing along a little bit, does anyone know how to sing?”

The pub was silent, someone coughed down the back. Spud was visibly swaying and had one eye half closed. Brian and me were holding onto each other trying not to break our bollixes laughing.

“All you have to know is Do Re Mi Fa So La Ti Do (hic) ... We got a special request from this man over here, Gunter from Strasbourg in Germany, so I decided to sing a song from the German tradition, or by a German family anyway ... Anyway here goes anyway ...

By this stage everyone around the table was in knots, and it was to get worse. Spud began, to the tune of ‘Doe, a Deer, a Female Deer’.

“Dough, the stuff I buy beer with,
Ray, the guy I buy beer from,
Me, the guy I buy beer for,
Far, a long way to the bar,
So, let’s have another beer,
La, la la la la la laaaa,
Tea, no thanks I’ll have a beer

And that brings us back to Dough, Dough, Dough, Dough.”

Then he started again, this time a little faster. None of us had heard this before and neither presumably had the audience. Everyone in the bar was cracking up and by the third time round they were all singing along like proddies at Christmas mass.

Spud finished off the third round with a big Homer Simpson ‘Doh’ and raised his arms slowly like Barbara Streisand at the end of a four hour set. He finally gave way to the swaying and fell back into his seat. The crowd went wild, whooping, laughing and cheering. “MORE! MORE!” More pints were called for and we took a breather.

“Fair play Spud, ye BOY ye.”

“Great stuff.”

When Brian stopped laughing his face was all red and wet, “What did you say about yer man? Gunter from Strasbourg? Heh Heh Heh! In Germany? Heh Heh Heh! Ye tit! His name is Gerard from Salzburg in Austria, Heh Heh Heh! and Strasbourg is in France.”

He could hardly get the words out and so started off again with his uncontrollable fit. His eyes bulged and he folded himself in two to stop his sides hurting. The laughing became contagious and before it died down it started up again. We hadn’t realised the extent of Spud’s geographical fuck-ups so now we all started laughing again like stoners on nitrous oxide.

Dave put in his erroneous two cents, “... and the family Von Trapp were Swiss not German, Ha Ha Ha, they were being chased by the Nazis for fuck’s sake, Ha Ha Ha.”

Spud was amused at his own mistakes but also embarrassed. He stood up, grabbing the tenner with ‘The Wild Rover’ written on it and headed for the bar. We saw him buy a pint of Guinness and bring it over to where Gunter was sitting with his two mates. He came back and sat down.

“There, I bought Gunter a pint and apologised for calling him Gunter.”

“And for saying he was German.”

“Yeah, and that and the rest.”

“What did he say?”

“Oh, he said he doesn’t drink, so I just said ‘listen I’ll leave it there as a souvenir’ Ha Ha!”

“I’d like to see him pack that up in his suitcase and bring it back to Germany.”

“Ah no, he was fuckin’ delighted, he loved the song, Germans love that sort of thing.”

“HE’S NOT FUCKIN’ GERMAN, Heh Heh Heh.”

“Of course he was delighted, you bought him a pint he didn’t want with HIS money and kept the change.”

“Oh yeah, the change,” he emptied his pocket into the hat on the table and we all started gearing ourselves towards the next set. I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to be honest, but fuck it ... ye know?

Half way through the session Brian stopped to rosin his bow and never returned. He was talking to ... Whatshername, one of the American girls and seemed to be doing OK so we left him to it. By this stage things start to get a little blurry, patches of memory fade in and out. I remember being in the jax and some guy asking how we can play so drunk and I said we can’t, but it’s traditional and that the union would take away our cards if we were ever caught playing sober. I think the guy was foreign and I get the feeling that he half believed me. I remember Tony going home, then I remember us going home, walking through the streets with pints in our hands, singing the dirty version of ‘The Fields of Athenry’. There was a bunch of us, me, Brian, Spud, Dave, three Yankee women and two guys I’d never seen before, and the next thing I remember I’m in bed, it’s morning and I’m in my clothes ...

OH FUCK, ME FIDDLE!!! I jumped up but there it was on the table, surrounded by money. I must’ve got paid. Imagine! I picked up one of the notes and fell back on the bed laughing. It had ‘The Wild Rover’ written on it.