A wee while ago rabble teamed up with Boomtown, the UK’s maddest festival for a very unique competition.
We basically got all you eejits to do enter a wee essay competition about your maddest festival buzzes. The winner got themselves two tickets to the festival. Versions of the stories were used in a roll-the-dice, rabble board game that took pride of place as our centre spread in rabble #4. Thanks to all who took part. And a special thanks to Dara Lynch and Thomas McCarty who broke their balls to sort out the centre fold.
If you are too lazy to get off the couch and find a copy of rabble, then download a high-res JPEG of the centre spread here.
WINNING ENTRY: Pair of auld Rubbers
By Chris Duff Standing around the newly unveiled Rory Gallagher statue on a beautiful Ballyshannon morning when i struck up a bit of banter with to lovely older Dublin ladies. After a bit of to and fro i let the ladies in on the secret of the festival, Basically how everyone is having a auld rub of Rorys brass balls for luck. They were skeptical but after i nudged a few randomers and asked them to back up my bullshit while winking the ladies become convinced and at the same time start giving Rory a double handed hand shandy, the jammy bastard. At which point i point at my 2 soon to be ex buddies and shout DIRTY BITCHES!!! and was pretty quickly joined by the whole group that was gathered around. The girls stood there smiling awkwardly but let me walk away fairly unscathed. Now I can barely stand from my laughter and stumble over to my pal Helen and i’m lying on the ground and laughing so hard i’m brimming and proudly shout “Ya wanna see what i just made these 2 auld ones do”!!. Next thing i know” SLAP”!! Such a clatter i get a cross the cheek. I’m now looking up rubbing my cheek looking at the ladies and one of them just shouts “Who you calling a auld one”
Obviously being a dirty bitch is better than being an Auld one. Needless to say i banged the 2 of them. (Not Really)
That’s not a teddy bear…
By James Redmond
At something like that you’re sure to see a fair few odd things – hordes of over head inflatables flying through the air in an arena rave, folks in fucked up costumes and some unpleasant bouts of messiness.
It’s the second night of the festival, and the chalet was being duly thrashed by the mates, so an adventure out-doors was in order for some head space.
The mate was sharing a bucket filled with random booze with me and we were well gone.
Bleary eyed in front of us we see three lads with what looked like a teddy bear on a stick. Delirious and proud looking, a roving tribe with this totem they’d endowed with special powers by the light of the moon.
The memories a bit weak, but I started at the mate “that’s fucking real, that’s fucking real…”
He’s like “Real? What the fuck are you talking about ya sap?”
My stomach turned and I said “Smell it man, smell it.”
He leaned in closer. His facial grimace told me the stench had gripped him too.
They’d a dead, bloodied badger impaled on a stick, held aloft. Entrails hanging out.
Now that was grim. Especially when your brain is a little bit distorted with what ever array of enhancements take your pleasure.
And no one believed us til we got home.
I found pictorial evidence on the Bangface that some lunatics did indeed have a dead badger out on parade.
It really wasn’t a smelly old teddy bear we’d been scared of.
And I never found out where they got it.
Don’t meet your Heroes? Don’t meet your fans!!
By Chris Duff
At some bleeding festival, can’t remember which one, the one with the tents and the music and the drugs. And DJ Yoda is absolutely wrecking it on stage and i am absolutely wrecking it in the crowd. I decided to start spreading the music and I pull out me phone, beat me way to the front, give some head a buzz and hold the phone up. Yoda spots this and obviously likes the cut of me jib and waves to 2 lads near him and tells them to bring me up on stage. As the lads are walking me up I realise me phone is dead. I then get greeted by a smiling Yoda obviously thinking he is making a big fans day. “Alright mate, what’s up” he says. Call it nerves but more likely call it the drugs but all my gurning mouth can muster is “Here man ya see all them wires” and I point to his decks “yeah” he says “Ya don’t have a skinny Nokia charger in there do ya”.. And fuck me if looks could kill. He quickly gets the same to lads to fuck me straight of that stage nearly as quick as I had got on. I swear fames gone to that cunts head.
Not the best planned adventure.
By Cabbage McCafferty
The year was 1996. The date was the 12th of July and most of the rational members of northern Irish society made a mad dash for the borders. Myself and a group of mates decided we’d head to Bundoran for the weekend, or Bun-snort as we fondly referred to it.
Now this wasn’t quite an official festival, so much as unplanned mayhem and debauchery. A group of 17 year old convent girls fitted right in. To say it was planned was an over-statement. We grabbed a old tent, bulk bought buckfast and stuck out our thumb. Five hours later, which involved a tractor and a ford van driven by a guy who turned out to be my second cousin five times removed agus cans of beer, driver and all, we arrived at our final destination. Of course Bun-snort was now well jaded from years of psychologically disturbed ‘nordies’ descending upon it at this time of year and we were booted out of one campsite after another until we found refuge in the grounds of what looked like an abandoned orphanage. We promptly pitched the one tent under a colony of bats and headed off into town. Much drinking, snogging and puking prevailed until we found ourselves wandering around a shut up Bun-snort at 6am with the horrific realisation that we had bought four bottles of buckfast each but no water, food, sleeping bags or even toilet paper. At the point of drinking sea water (I kid you not) we finally persuaded a chip van that was closing up to sell us hideously over-priced cans of fanta. We returned to our tent to learn an important lesson about bats, guano and the holy stink it makes. Thank-you fanta you saved my life and I still can never drive past the small island along the beach without thinking of pirate Mick and his bandanna which quite possible covered a bald patch, ya durty auld git!!
By Kilian Redmonk
So we were strolling back to the main stage through the tents when this boyo came tearing along ahead of his, like he was full of the divil.
‘Not a bother’, says I, just before he trips over a tent cord and and starts to fly.
The phrase he garbled as he rocketed through the misty air was something like ‘fuckincuntinbastardin…’ before the vomit erupted and projectiled ahead of him: a shallow arc it cut prior to splattering on the boggy soil.
This newly formed puddle was but gathering its bearings, delighted to be free of the young mans overworked festival fuel tank, ecstatic to breathe fresh air, finally, to gaze wonderously at the blue (grey) sky.
Its wildest dreams realised, it was suddenly decimated as Captain Tourettes attempted a face-first emergency landing.
I swear I could still hear him cursing, vomit bubbling around his cheeks as we fell over with the jokes of it all.
By Freda Hughes
After a weekend long festival the decision to stay on til Monday has, I’m sure, presented itself to many of us. For performers and organisers this can often be the real night of mania and letting your hair down. . . the witching hour so to speak.
In my case it was no different. After a night of mirth, merriment and generally being mad-ou-revit, as we say on Blanch, a few of us took an aul wander in the beautiful scenic setting, complete with lake and forests, beyond the festival site itself. It was during this expedition that my love of eerie scavenging reared it’s head once more.
Along the paths on which our adventures took us I found (and collected) the bones of sheep, birds, rabbits and other unidentified things. Eventually while resting to roll a smoke near the roots of an up-turned tree I decided it was time to get creative.
The creature that ensued was like nothing of this world, but perhaps embodied the spirit of demented festival goers world wide. With it’s horns made from ribs and face comprised of a sheeps skull and birds beak it cut quite a terrifying dash in the middle of this quiet, unadulturated forest. It’s body was bedecked with leaves and ivy and, unless someone has moved it in my absense, it still resides in the forest propped up on the roots of an upturned tree just waiting for the next rambler to discover it.
We all love our post festival creature comforts, some of us just interpret that a little differently from others 😉
Knickers and Chickens All in a Twist
By Iris Swift
Two stories from the most recent festivals I’ve been to spring to mind…. The first being from Life festival this year…some poor young wan had clearly had a few too many disco biscuits and decided to run around starkers except from wearing a t-shirt (twas lovely weather i spose!). So the security find some stranded clothes and manage to persuade her put her thong back on (with a helping hand of course). But both parties seem to have gotten a bit carried away and the next thing ya know the security man and the naked byour are lobbing the gob rolling around in the bushes. True romance!! The other story I had to add just because it’s funny! Chronsstock had some resident chickens that didn’t want to give up their field it seemed so poor oul Tommy ended up trapped in a tent with them whilst sleeping…and there was chicken shit a plenty in most of the other tents!!
By Alba Tross
Hello! Many terribly embarrassing things have happened to me at festivals. However, this one time a few years ago, I struck it lucky through no effort of my own. It was sometime in July during a hazy and magnificent summer of my youth. Friends were widespread and many, problems and responsibilities were few and far between. The weekend of the witness festival had arrived, many of my friends were making the trip but money was tight, like it always was. So I decided that on the Friday I would head up to visit a friend of mine in Dublin, head to the festival on Saturday and only but a day ticket – maybe blag my way into the campsite and try and slip back into the festival on Sunday. Pfff, no biggy, if it worked it worked, if not, ah well.
Anywho, so before boarding the bus from Galway on a glorious July evening, I nipped into a mate who gave me a lovely container of mycelia. I hoped on the bus and away I went. The journey was long and I got bored. At Kinnegad I reckoned there was about half an hour to go, so I nibbled on a few of the mushrooms. I nibbled a few more and didn’t notice the heavy heavy traffic. Before I knew it I was headed down the rabbit hole while trapped on a bus of regular people. Bugger. Anywho, through many sketchy moments and scarey visuals, I managed to keep it together until i got to Dublin where I was met by a friend of mine and looked after for the following 12-14 hours. I forgot everything I had, left it all on the bus. I really did the dog on it, I mean fooked. I couldn’t be left alone in case I tried to cross that road. it was great – mates arte great, they kept me in one piece while I explored the ether and everything amongst it.Time travel was involved. So, Morning time came round and feeling like I could handle it,I boarded a bus for Fairyhouse armed with 12 cans of dutch gold in two plastic bags, and almost enough money for a day ticket and some tobacco. Food and water would have to wait. THe sun was high, the smell of youth and fresh-cut grass was intoxicating, even more so than any or substance doing the rounds.
On arrival at Fairyhouse, and being very much disconnected from reality as it’s normally perceived, I was overwhelmed by the sheer volume of people and the size of the operation. So much so that I couldn’t figure out where the gate was. A weird logic kicked in and I figured that the gate was somewhere along the outside perimeter (duh) and so I walked around it knowing that through the purple haze of a now prolonged session, I would find the entrance, pay my way, and catch up with mates who could nurse my weary head for a few hours til i got a second wind. So around I went. No entrance could i find. But I did find a narrow gab, just about the width of my own body. I’d never broken into a festival before, and I certainly didn’t know much about it. But fuck it, I if I could squeeze through there with my cans, I could save myself the 50 pounds. So I gave it a go. I turned sideways and and went in shoulder first. The gap was too small, so I forced a bit more. And forced. I realised that the gab was opening, and moving inward. Great. The gap swung open. the gap was a gate that I had just forced open. Was I feeling the dregs of last night shenanigans? No, it was a gate alright, the gate to backstage at the mainstage. I was in. I was in for free, backstage, with 12 cans, 12.5 grams of tobacco, 50 quid and a melted head. Sweet. Nobody had noticed me, nobody seemed bothered. I wandered round the area, sipping a can in the sweltering sunshine. After some time I got lonely. I decided that as nice as backstage was, it was better out front with your mates. I called one, and we met outside the big wheel. I spent that 50 quid on more booze and revitalizing, though over-priced hot dogs. We were all very happy, and I told my story to everyone I met.
PS. I also hitched a lift to the GArden party festival once, Soulwax stopped and picked me up – but that doesn’t really fit in to this story.
waterbottles and watermelons new zealand
By Mikey Timpson
so here it goes was a show ina new zealand massive reggae fest massive line up, lauryn hill headlining along with steel pulse sly and robbie etc etc … it was the best of weather in summer nz…. we decided to sneak in some vodka in watermelons and bottles of water … we had needles to inject the waterbottles with the vodka so the seal still seemed intact (gud idea hey of course we emptied the bottles first )….So the mornin of the fest we decide to get on it at 6 in the morn gud idea at the time … but as u know it since we were gettin quite happy the needles were breakin as gettin them tru the plastic was tough … so one of my mates goes hey mikey get some more needles i was fucked solid at 9 in the morn …. first chemist i go into tought i was a junkie cause i was so paro drunk and stoned lookin left and right ,up and down …with a big fuckin grin on mah face … long story short took 5 chemists to finally get some more needles ..at the last one i was sober enough to have a chat with the guy in the chemist about the jazz he was playin … BUT FUCK ME WOT A MISSION afta all that the security didnt even check mah mates bag where all the waterbottles was, muthafucks hahaha the watermelons was the finest refreshin fruit i had ever tasted in all my days mmmmm so juicy ..moral of the story dont break ya needles or buy enuff needles ….boom… no hold on they were breakin cause of the fuckin watermelons not the bottles hahaha my bad
right place right time
By Ruiri Shelly
I was at the ep a few years back queueing for a drink at the Bacardi bar, I was getting bored and decided to walk to the top of the line and said directly to the bar staff ” I need 2 bottles of Bacardi for the VIP bar!” the guy looked at me confused? dandered a bit. Now the staff at these things are hired for the weekend are not sure who is who, so I decided to reassert myself ” come on time is money, 2 bottles of Bacardi stat!!!” they duly handed me the 2 bottles! I cracked a cheesy grin and pulled a legger, bumped into a mate who had a bottle of 7up and another who had a hand full of mint and boom instant cocktails! next thing I was getting pulled off the stage at Iggy Pop by a guard and noticed a dominatrix type chick with a peaked cop style hat wrapped in barbed wire standing behind the barrier, grabbed the cops hat and yelled “hat swap!” switched their hats and she melted back into the audience and the cop went ballistic threw me into the holding area as I landed another cop asked me what i was doing I faked breathing issues (well I was out of breath from laughing) and composed my self and the other guard let me out. I wonder where the hat is now?
‘Sticky’ situation at Féile ’95, Cork.
By Kav Bcfc
Myself and a ‘high’ly enthusiastic bunch of friends were outside the first set of gates to Páirc Uí Chaoimh, for what was going to be THE most memorable concert of our lives, the modfather Mr Weller, followed by the amazing Stone Roses. As we attempted to drink every orphaned drop of liquor abandoned at the entrance we were accosted by the Garda Síochána. They swooped upon us before we had a chance to say ‘hide the hash.’ They lined us up along the side of the road and began their search, by which time we had gained the attention of several hundred revelers.The hash had been cleverly concealed in my trainer, I know, I know, I am a genius. Not discovering anything in our pockets we all breathed a sigh of relief, until we were asked to remove our foot wear, my hairy nought began to twitch involuntarily. As they went along the line they came to me, I took the trainer off which had no hash inside and the garda then asked me to remove the other one, my heart began to race. I removed it and felt the cling filmed hash sticking to the bottom of my 3 day, cheesey, sockless foot. He checked my empty trainer and they proceeded without arrest. Everyone in our group looked down along the line at me as if to say ‘where the hell is it?’ As they left I felt the need to divulge my magic skills to the ever growing crowd, and my bemused friends. Peeling the hash from my foot I removed the cling film from the hash and rolled a whopper joint to the cheers of the admiring crowd and my back patting amigos. We entered the gig and witnessed what was to be my best musical experience to date, Weller followed by thousands of white hatted fans bobbing up and down to the Shtone Roses!! HEAVEN ON EARTH!!
Virgins do not exit vehicle!
By Aideen McFadden
Betsy, our 1979 Chevy, almost died 15 miles from the festival! We had to spend the first night, 5 of us cuddled up in fear outside a garage in Gerlach. Once we finally made it to the desert and joined the mighty queue of RV’s, westies and art cars, all we wanted was to be in there, ASAP! I was the only one with a will call ticket. We’d have to join another queue! so I got on my bike, thrilled to be free of the van after the long sleepless night. I didn’t get far. Two security guards grabbed me, interrogated me, swiftly duck taped a big plastic sign to my back and informed me that I must not exit my vehicle! I cycled back, totally bewildered, to the laughter and abuse of my friends and like a good little Burning Man virgin I did what I was told. Then a sand storm hit. That stupid prank probably saved me from losing my friends and old Betsy before I’d even entered the city.
By Francis Keane
At Electric Picnic 2011, me and my mates found a big yellow chemical bio-hazard suit wrapped up laying underneath a tree. Later that day, as we entered the main arena I put on the bio-hazard suit. The night began as I started distressfully running around screaming “get out of here quick, we are all going to die!!”. Later on I started walking around through the crowds grabbing people while saying “we need to evacuate the area!” while making my through the crowds to get to the front barrier of stages. By the end of the night I would randomly fall over, as if dead, then one of my mates would come running up to me shouting “no Francis, not again! We need to get you out of here, quickly!” while dragging me along the ground by one of my legs. We eventually had to stop doing this though …after getting a lot of attention by the paramedics.
My New Toy
By Orla Maguire
It’s very very early on Sunday morning at Vantastival 2012. . After a long night questioning reality, I stumbled back to a friends tents to stock up on supplies. Upon arrival, I was greeted with this awesome rubber pigs head. A person I had met during the night and I then messed around and played with this thing for a while.. Then I turned it over and noticed the insides in the back of its head.. It took us a while to realise that it was actually real. Our reasoning being that because it had a flower in its mouth, it was obviously fake.. Oh how we were wrong. I ran to find hand sanitizer, but nobody believed me, so I had to settle with baby wipes. Should never have forgotten that hand sanitizer… At least now I have some photographic evidence. I really wish it hadn’t been real..
always bring a torch!
By Tara McFadden
so, i was standing in the middle of the crowd at chemical brothers at electric picnic when i get a call from my best friend in hysterics.. should i say her name? hmm.. maybe nooot. the convo went something like this: ” “eeeeeeeeeeeehuhuhuhuhuhuhuhuhuhuhuhuh” ‘what!” “eeeehhuhuhuhuhu” WHAT!? i cant hear you, hang on, ill call you back.” knowing she was abviously in some kind of hysterical state i found a quieter spot..; no easy feat let me tell ye! “whats wrong?” “im lost!!” “wha? what do you mean yer lost? where?” “im lost in the tents!!” ” can you see the shop!” ( there is always a shop!) “yes! yes i can see the shop!” “ok, ill meet you there.” on piece of advise: never park far away from the entrance to the festival!! = bad plan so i ran back to the tents and: the shop, there she was, freezy cold with a t and shorts on! what! ” i went back to the tent to get clothes and got lost!!” “ah here, follow me” suprisinly in my drunkenest of states, im very good with direction and armed with my torch we both stumbled back to the tent. chemical brothers were starting in ten minutes.. calculation: 10 minutes to put on clothes + another 20 to get back to main stage: including possible toilet stop on the way then, 15 mins to role.. (cos im so bad at it!) suddenly: “YO, DEA AGENTS” someone randomly shouts we peg it into her tent, joint and all, terrified… but meh, continue to smoke chemical brothers: 30 minutes into their gig, still in the tent…. oops, stoned… “sure we’ll never make it now!” “yeah we’ll have missed half of it by the time we get there!” so i try ( why are yoooouuu so clean.. eh EH) didnt have a clue! haha good times
Last Strain To Clarksville…
By Shannon Duvall
After a particularly long and epic acid trip the first night of Glasto 2007, my boyfriend and I were keen to keep the dream alive throughout the rest of the fest. There was just one problem: it was 07: the very first year that hallucinogens had been changed to Class A drugs in Britain (we had smuggled our own LSD over in a shoe) That meant all the lovely, dippy ladies roaming the hills with baskets of psychedelic goodies were nowhere to be found. Try as we might, the best we could come up with was some hastily scored “mushroom chocolate”, which we broke in half scarfed with wild abandon. Hours later, feeling awfully squirmy but still not tripping, we were lying in the tent as the weird, rainy dawn was breaking, when I was suddenly overcome with the powerful urge to poo. I made my way shakily to the toilet and unleashed. Coming back, my stomach was hurting something fierce when the strangest, most frightening thought occurred to me: Is it possible to poo too hard? Could you be so mad out of it that you actually ruptured your innards and wouldn’t even know it? Terrifyingly convinced this is what I’d done, and with nary a sound mind in the vicinity, I went fleeing from the tent in search of help, panic-stricken, and managed to flag down a medic truck. When they dropped me to the medical tent I was met by a kindly old doctor who was genuinely concerned for me. “I THINK I’VE STRAINED TOO HARD!” I practically sobbed, frantic, expecting to expire from internal poo leakage poisoning at any second. Needless to say I was met wth a set of VERY unimpressed eyes, some snickers from the surrounding staff, and a jab of saline in the ass cheek “to keep me hydrated”. I was then left on a cot to writhe and ride out the very nasty pseudo-trip for the next 6 hours. I almost missed The Who.
Stay Away From Poppers
By Patrick McKenna
So during a very wet Glastonbury, when the whole festival was wearing highly flammable waterproof clothes, we found ourselves squashed into the middle of the dance tent, sheltering from the rain.
The music is pumping and the guy in front turns round and offers my friend his open bottle of poppers. She say no, and pushes his arm away managing to spill the whole bottle over his arm. The same arm that was holding a lit cigarette. The poor guy’s hand goes up in flames!
The whole crowd jump back in panic, fearful the’r waterproofs will catch alight. The guy screams in panic, when out of nowhere and in slow motion, an arm reaches over from behind, grabs his wrist and plunges it into a pint of warm frothy festival beer.
Fire out, beer wasted….good times!
We need a stand-alone bath like in that flake ad.
By Xavan Zlintex
I was at Tribes Gathering earlier this year with a bunch of crazy friends. By the time Sunday evening rolled around we had had snow, rain, sleet, sun, warmth and everything in between. We were standing and sitting around our beautiful camp-fire with a pot of amazing soup on the simmer beside it. A kind man had given us a leather couch earlier in the day. I was absolutely flying, as I tend to be at a festival. In mid conversation, it struck me that the only thing that could complete our cozy, wood-burning scene would be a stand alone bath in the only empty space around the fire. My friend Stephen immediately said “I know where there is a bath”. My response was a dismissive “F88K 8FF”, I wasn’t going to fall for that bull. When he repeated it and then explained that it was down in the woods where we had been looking for the fairy fort earlier in the day. I knew he was serious. I knew we had a mission. We trundled off to the woods, through various fields with our freshly opened cans and sure enough there was a metal bath out in the woods. We uprooted a tree stump for fire wood, threw it in out new camp bath and heaved our way back to the cheers of our festi-family. Our scene was complete. We had a filthy camp, a delicious field-home-made soup, a leather couch and a stand alone bath. Why I wanted a bath to be there I’ll never know. Ask and you shall receive the bathiful bounty of the forrest.
You Know What You Should Do?
By Tommy Rash.
Myself and Mickey Banana were at the Willie Week in Milltown Malbay a few years ago. For those uncultured swine who are unaware of the nature of the Willie Week, it is possibly Ireland’s most renowned yearly celebration of traditional Irish music, which occurs in a small town on the west coast of County Clare. For a week and a half the one street town becomes an unholy clusterfuck of wonky proportions hitherto unforeseen. The eternal sessions in each pub along the main strip end up pouring out onto the street to the delight of farmers, middle class Dublin numpties, Ennis dirtbags, English crusty knackers, the police, as well some of the world’s most highly regarded musicians.
After a day spent partaking in just such wobbliness, culminating in a huge session with middle aged women dancing on tables, a gang of us decided to head down to the camping spot by the sea.
Apparently we were some of the first to arrive, as there was only us and a small gang of teenagers at the picnic benches. We exchanged greetings and were in the midst of casting our personal judgements on this year’s festival when up saunters a rather cocky young man who bore more than a passing resemblance to Rick Asley, complete with black polo neck sweater.
As it transpired, he had been at the same after-hours session as us, the one with the women up on tables and the whole place going bananas.
“Deadly craic, wasn’t it?”
“Ah it wasn’t the best…”
Was his unimpressed response.
“Did you not think it was good, no?”
“I’m from West Cork, pure Crème de la Crème down there…”
By this point we were already exchanging glances and suppressing the natural urge to snigger and chortle.
“Yeah, I grew up in a venue…”
By now Mickey was wondering if the poor young chap would notice if the Dictaphone made an appearance to record this momentous exchange for posterity.
“So do you play a bit of trad yourselves?”
He asked, in that strange way people ask a question not because they want to know the answer, but because they can follow it up by talking more about themselves.
“Mmmm… I don’t but my friend Mickey here plays a bit of trad guitar.”
“Oh yeah? I just started playing guitar there three weeks ago… piece of piss.”
Mickey was simultaneously turning away to hide his incredulous delight and rummaging in his pocket for the aforementioned Dictaphone.
It only got better.
“Hey guys… You know what you should do?”
“You should go drink driving; we do it all the time down in West Cork. You haven’t lived till you’ve gone drink driving.”
Was he taking the piss? Was he trying to impress us? Was he trying to impress the teenage girls we had been talking to? God knows, but one thing is for certain, his next pronouncement was monumental.
“Guys, you know what you should do?”
“You should go for a ride. I’m just back from one. It’s a pure fuck ‘em and chuck ‘em scenario round here.”
Words of wisdom from the West-Cork rich kid. Why the FUCK had we not recorded that conversation?! Ah well… the party kicked into full swing as one of the cars blasted out some whopper tunes and the car park transformed into a full blown céilí. We managed to track down Rick Asley again, this time with the Dictaphone in hand, but alas no nuggets of solid wisdom were to be found this time, as is Murphy’s Law.
He did however surface again under more dubious circumstances at around six in the morning. The céilí had long finished and now there was a live trad session under way in the sand dunes. Up pulls a silver four-wheel-drive SUV and out jumps Rick! He and a couple of friends proceed to unload a full drum kit from the jeep and assemble it beside the musicians, who all offer each other wary looks as Rick begins to join in with the tunes, playing the drums with jazz brushes. Crème de la crème indeed…