Walking down a Galway street at 2 in the afternoon, I reflected on how many pubs we had been to in the seven days that we'd been in Ireland. Our other two travelling parteners had already decided that seven nights in a row was too much, but Col and I couldn't refuse a session with five other friends that we'd bumped into by chance the night before.

Arriving at the meeting place, we were dismayed to learn that we weren't allowed in (for reasons that escape me now). Having got psyched up for a drink, we decided to duck into the pub next door...our mates were sure to find us because, judging by the entrance, it was only a little place. Walking through the doors, I think my jaw must have hit the ground. This place was f***ing huge, it had its own library for shit sake. I looked at Col who had a shit chomping grin on his face, and realised that I was grinning like an idiot as well.

We positioned ourseleves on a balcony overlooking the main bar, with all its old ship wheels and fishing nets hanging from the roof, and beautiful wooden banisters. Deciding we had struck the mecca of pubs, we wrapped our laughing gear around the rim of a Guinness, and proceeded to solve the worlds problems...as you do!

A number of big Gs later, I ducked off to 'break the seal' in the little boys room. Mid-way through shaking hands with my little friend (no comments please) I heard a voice behind me say "Is Dat a Roogby Joomper?" My first reaction was to glance down at Mr Happy, who iswell known for getting bouts of Stage Fright...especially when strange voices from behind are questioning my dress sense! Mr Happy seemed happy to continue relieving me of Guinness waste products, so I responded "Yes...why?"

"I collect Shirts" came the voice "I'll buy it off you" (I'm not going to try writing in a Southern Irish accent anymore). Mr Happy had completed his duties so I tucked him away until he was needed next...or someone took his interest; and turned to face my questioner. A stocky, rough-ish looking face with eyes locked on my squadron rugby jumper met me. I informed him, whilst washing my hands, that the top had sentimental value and I didn't want to sell it.

This chap, however, had other ideas and followed me back to our perch...much to Col's amusement, who's face seemed to be saying "you've never brought a bloke back before, petey boy". I quickly explained the story to him, and turned to face this chap, who was busy explaining that his name was Donnelly O'brien, his nickname was DOBS, he was in charge of the Galway mafia, and he would get me a t-shirt from the bar, in addition to thirty quid, just for the, now much prized, "roogby joomper".

I finally gave in, and a short while later DOBS returned with a shit chomping grin, wearing his new roogby joomper, and holding thirty quid and a t-shirt from the bar. He insisted I go for a drink with his friends, so I left Col with the others, who had by this time turned up and were all very amused by the trade that had just occurred.

Now, I had taken DOBS' claims about the mafia with a grain of salt, but after most of the bar had bought me a pint, and signed my shirt, I started to believe that maybe DOBS was a rather well known chap. Col and the others had by now joined us downstairs (probably hoping to get amongst the free drinks and t-shirts, of which I now had three!).

To cut some of the proceedings out (which consisted of free drinks...shirt signings...and many laughs) it was now about eight at night, and I mentioned to DOBS that I wouldn't mind playing a Guitar. Col's face went grey...he had already heard my reportoir on just about every night and at every pub (which all seem to have a guitar), and had also heard pink floyd in the car every time it was "pete's turn to choose the tape". DOBS, however, loved the idea, and knew just the place.

SO, we bid Col and the others farewell amongst much backslapping from DOBS and his friends, and I headed off with DOBS to find a guitar. The pub we arrived at was a real "locals, local". The faces were rather hostile as I walked in, their eyes seemed to be saying "what's a fookin' tourist doin' here". DOBS had soon explained who his new best mate was, and a short while later there was much shirt signing and beer buying occurring for the young Aussie.

In the back corner of this samll, narrow pub, was a circle of about 10-15 people. They had around six guitars, a flute, and an Irish drum. DOBS sat me down and asked (ordered?) someone to give me a guitar and let me play. I played one of my own songs, and the girl with the flute picked up the progression and played a harmony, the guy with the drum played a soft back beat, and the rest of the circle sat with approving looks on their faces. It was f***ing MAGIC...there is nothing like the bond that forms through the language of music...it is both immediate...and strong.

The cirlce took turn to play tunes, and the rest of the pub seemed rather disinterested in the magic that was occuring in our dark little corner (except for the appearance of DOBS once in a while to hand me another drink...or bringing someone to sign the shirt).

__________________
Only the very safe,
Can talk about wrong and right.
Of those that are forced to choose,
There's some who will choose to fight.