Here is another pub rudeness song, a post I made years ago, before I learned HTML, so I will repost with proper line breaks. --Larry

Another rudeness story and a song, if you sing it, please acknowledge the fact it was written my myself, Larry Otway.

I have to say, it came out of an event where pool players were shouting during singing, and when I invited them to shout and make noise during ceili tunes, and not the singing, it led to a near fist fight. The bar was, at first less than helpful; however, they did come round very nicely and changed the room for the session.

However, after being held out as the aggressor for telling pool players to keep the noise down, I left the bar, returning an hour latter with the following, it can be sung to the tune of England's Motorway ("Remember, lad, he's still your dad though he's working far away."). So in fairness, Jack Dempsey's is trying to be ballad friendly. But the song expresses some modern truths, I hope.
Remember, if you sing this to raise a glass to my dad, a miner, singer and novelist, and a union man, who sang in the most improbable places while alive and sinning.

THE JACK DEMPSEY'S PARTIN' GLASS

Dad why don't you sing a song, the way you used to do,
When granddaddy was still alive, and playin' along with you?
Those songs you sung, I miss so much! I wish I'd learned them all.
It been so long since I heard you sing, I barely can recall.

I'm sorry, son. In this ol' pub, it's just too bloody loud.
They've got a new pool table and they've got a different crowd.
The fellas who stop in here now are the new working class,
A-workin' at computers all day sittin' on their ass.

They aren't good honest miners like your granddaddy and me.
I don't expect that the most of 'em ever toiled upon the sea.
They never fought the workers' fight. They never faced the gun
That the bosses used to try and make us fear and run.

I think their heads are filled with junk, like micro-circuitry.
Ah son, the world has gone to hell. It's just a misery;
And if the pool is not enough, there's the bloody ol' TV.
With so many yaboos now, there's no room for you and me.

And when the yaboos want some fun, they play their bloody noise,
Shovin' all them hard-earned bills in the juke box, brilliant boys!
That's why pub owners love them so, 'cause when they want to dance,
The silver and the paper bills come pouring out their pants.

It was not very long ago, there was a drink for free
For the ones who brought the tunes to a pub like Jack Dempsey;
But now we're treated just the same as the fellas at the bar,
And the loudmouth pool players, they are treated best by far.

And if you ever want to know just how this came to be,
Remember that the unions came from singers just like me;
But union folk don't own the pubs or program the TV.
Corporate culture's meant to keep you dumb as dumb can be.

All the best, Larry