There was a guy who used to come to the hoots, usually fairly late, after the taverns (pubs) closed. He was generally already pretty well lubricated when he got there. But as we were swapping songs and such, he would sit there in the middle of the floor and drink one beer after another—and fart! Generally before we adjourned, a couple of guys would have to pick him up and practically carry him to the bathroom before he up-chucked on the living room carpet.

Because of him, we had to start keeping the location of the hoots a secret.

I guess that made us "elitest."

Don Firth