Thankyou Morti, you were missed. And so there is more.

Despite Alanww's protestations the morning came, the sun rose and the window finally stopped rattling from the snoring of Greg and Alan. The air was thick and slightly green from the noxious gases emmitted from various parts of the human body. I myself just thought it was a bit foggy.Breakfast was served to a (mostly) group of people with eyes like battling dogs bollocks!! Cllr managed to view his breakfast and saw the oil that should be poured on troubled waters,promptly saying "euch I'm gonna peu....." (We had it later for lunch when it had cooled down a bit) (Ulster fryup must be Gaelic for dripped in dripping and left to swim) and an assortement of weary looking heads munched up and down like yoyo's in a toyshop.People decided to do their own thing, but only after Skip had been presented with his birthday present by the lovelly Hil (can't spell;my guru always said!)

To his delight his birthday cake came ready packaged, but the only problem was that he had to open all the packages and make it himself.(Considering the state of him, he decided to rise to this-but I have it on good authority that he rises to many challenges, but I've never seen this myself you understand)He told me later, that he hadn't had as much fun opening something since he tore open his first condom. Said he'd rise to that as well.(He is a man of great experience and can even give you the address of a lap dancing club in Cannes)Amongst this rabble and hotspotch of lowly musicians, head and shoulders above the rest-well, he, is tall, stands Mooman and the lovelly Lady McMoo. Who as model citizens, responsible parents stayed sober, never touched a drop of the demon drink, behaved impecabily, showed superb musicianship and patience when dealing with the rest of the peasents.(Sorry, did I mean Richard and Pat? Oh sod it, stick them in with the rest of us)

So sober'ish at last, Noreen who, none the worse for wear of the night before, well that's what SHE said, though I have my doubts! Skipjack and I set off for a drive round. What the rest of them did, you'd have to ask them-but I wouldn't believe their lies!

Returning to Friday for a brief pause whilst we drive round the Ulster countryside.

The hostel, ideally placed facing the lough is an excellent place, no one to disturb us, we could make merry into the early hours of the morning. I was only awakened by the opening and closing of several doors from the landings below us, but I have no further knowledge of that.The really excellent Fib has done us proud and the Citern player with excellent taste in instruments (I am sorry to not remember your name)was just one of the local people who made us truly feel as though we'd lived there all our lives.

Some points of information for future tourists; there arn't many sheep around the area, except one flock that were being cunningly hidden in a field of very long sprout stalks. If I find out who told the farmer to do this, you're dead. By the time we had sped past them, it was too late and the moment had passed in the flicker of a bloodshot eye, despite Skip and Noreen telling me to turn the car round and they'd find "something to do" whilst I "observed" the sheep.

The ferry makes a great background noise for field recordings and it is a pity that the singers were so poor that they couldn't hum and sing in the same key as to set a resonant frequency response-Micca will put a ditty onto the cat. (Shouldn't say that really, as from what I've been told, he put more than his ditty into-sorry, onto the Cat on Sunday morning. No wonder she said "she was full of it"-Cold I mean!!!) Neither could us musicians? well that's what someone said we were trying to be, tune our instruments low enough to cover the throbbing of the engines, except Skipjack, but he uses his bass notes to cover his other wind driven noise making equipment.

Saturday afternoon lunch was served by the lovelly Fib and Co.Lunch was the tradditional Irish dish;Soup in a basket. Really, Irish stew. Absolutley delicious. Three varieties (all in one bowl-Only teasing) though I believe that's what some tried to do, as the serious musicians (including Skipjack-it was his birthday) recorded a ditty called the "Duck in the canal"? or something like that. By the way, if you do get to listen to it, I'm the one playing out of tune and the wrong notes, Richard is playing the right notes, and Skip is the one pretending to be the ferry hooter. There was enough stew left for us "professionals" (well, we had just made a recording) to grab several bowls full and delicious it truly was.

Then onto the music and Mrs Dunnigan's. Jude stole all the ashtrays (I think she put them in her handbag) and the guiness flowed as freely as water from a morning spring and lovelly it was. Considering there were so few of us I don't think the landlord need have shouted "better ring up Dublin for a new lorry full, there's a hoard of piss artists arrived". But undeterred by this (you couldn't be an artist and piss there because the toilet had no roof and graffiti was washed of as it was written. (Though I beleive some were trying to write their names as they wee'd like small boys do)A toilet with an astromonical observatory I've never seen before-might fit into a song!

We played and played all day and all evening, and half the night, some played with each other, some played with semselves. Skip, Moo, Noreen and myself found ourselves outside, then inside "Fiddler's green" at about 23.00hrs.(Try doing that in England!) Where we played and played again, much to the amusement of the crowd. They welcomed us like long lost brothers. When we played, they said they wished we has stayed lost.Actually we had the most brilliant evening, early morning. Playing until about 02.30. Frank the landlord, did his spot, great voice. Then we played some more. then we were lucky enough to meet a potential new member (he might sign up as Bun or something like that-talk about bloody excellent player and singer)The crowd went wild for him and then they let us play again until everyone was sick of us and went home. Skipjack managed to drink enough to water the desert the next day, he played so fast you couldn't see his fingers move. Often they didn't and he missed all the notes of several or more tunes leaving Richard, Noreen and me to fill in for him.One guy, who was quite merry told me I was playing chords he'd never even seen before, but that was because my fingers were hitting all the wrong frets and not the strings.We finally went home. As we arrived, the singers got up and walked out pretending they were going to bed or something. We played and sung some more.04.00 came and as the sun was starting to rise over Norway, we decided we'd go to bed. well some of us decided we try and go to someone elses bed-so I've been told, but I wouldn't believe everything I write, even if I've written it. Skipjack wispered lovingly in my ear he was going to shag me, but the lousy git was so pissed even his birthday cake couldn't rise and he lay face down on the bed-so that buggered that up! (Of course Alanww was peeking again. I think he's a pervert!!!)

More later-me wrist is aching from all the action of the weekend, and me fingers are on fire at the ends from all the playing-no that's not right, it's me cigar burning them.