You told yourself you were going to lay off the sesh for the winter. It’s june, and you’ve been on the yokes every weekend since November. They may not be able to replace your serotonin, but the Session Pixies can offer some advice for all those trivial demented conundrums you find yourself in.

Dear Session Pixies,

Something’s wrong with me. Ever since I came up on Sandymount Strand on my me feiner, going there on the promise of some carry on, spending the night on a rock spattered with seagull’s shit and plugging away at a bag of dee until eleven the next morning staring away into the horizon, (like can you even see the sea there?), that now a week later I’ve these weird drony whale noises echoing about in my head going non stop. Will they ever go away? It’s non stop. I’ve even given one of the whales a name. Ben.

Warmest regards,

Cormac. Carrickmines.

Dear Cormac,

We’re with you. You’re not sure whether to check yourself into John of God’s or for us to do it for you. That’s fine. We called ahead. They’re on their way. Alternatively, you could always rip those poxy ear phones out and stop continuously listening to shit ambient Spotify come down playlists while crying about Free Willy to everyone on the top deck of the bus.

Dear Session Pixies,

I’ve been meaning to take you out on a certain point. Like, for a while there I couldn’t get you fuckers out of my head. Now listen I’m what you’d call a serious sesh head. Like a serious fucking sesh head. Out of the top drawer sesh head. Like 10 years hammering it so much that I have my own routine at weddings, pubs, clubs, gaffs, fucking wherever you name it this routine is the bomb at getting out of them sticky situations that serious fucking pissheads like me get into when you know every fucking cunt’s face in the greater South William St area but can’t on a daily basis remember their names. You’ve got to be preemptive. You’ve got to get them on the defence. You’ve got to stick it to them and say ‘Alright mate, fuckin’ story’ and you’re fucking set. They’re like ‘all righ’t and the fuckin anxiety is out the window. Spared me the mortsos more times than I can tell you. So what I’m saying is why the fuck don’t I know you?

Warm regards,

Fintan (Raheny)

Dear Justin,

We’re pixies mate. We only exist on paper.

Dear Session Pixies,

We’re first year nursing students in UCD and we’re such big fans of you guys. You’re so cute there with your little hats. We keep a cut out of your column on the fridge door and we even started something called sesh soc where we go to random gaffs and wreck them with a rake of tesco vodka and Deadmau5’s bating from the laptop. Last week Siobhan (mad bitch) even made what she calls sesh soup and we’ve been selling rakes of it on campus. We’ve put it in a jam jar and attached it. Can you guess what’s in it? Mad stuff altogether. We’ve been waiting for Siobhan to get off the water tower since Wednesday.

Your biggest fans,

Sarah and Louise (Portlaoise)

Dear Sarah and Louise,

Yiz are fecking mad altogether. Don’t have a fuckin notion what was in that. We were thinking there some whiff of petrol off it. Nitroglycerin anyway. Tell that girl Siobhan if ever she gets off the water tower she’s a fucking natural. Give her the Nobel Prize.

Sincerely,

The Session Pixies.

P.S Keep her lit.